A 19TH-CENTURY CAMERA MEETS A LIVING GIANT

by Dwayne A. Magee, CGCM

In an age of pocket-sized, all-purpose, high-tech cameras with preview screens, instant images, and infinite retries, Michael Barnes chose to take a photograph the hard way. And not just any
photograph, this was a rare and historic opportunity.

Instead of a cell phone, he carried with him a 125-year-old camera and pointed it at one of the largest moving machines ever built: The Union Pacific Big Boy.

He would get exactly one chance.

When 600 tons of steel came thundering down the line, Barnes stepped back in time and stepped up to bridge a century in a single frame.

The camera – a Kodak Favorite 8×10 plate camera – came to him almost by accident. He was picking up enlargers and darkroom equipment from a friend when he noticed it sitting in a box. He knew nothing about it beyond what he could see: it was old and looked like it was in a bad way.

For most people, it would have been a display piece, or maybe something someone could use for scrap or spare parts.

For Barnes, it was an opportunity.

“I knew nothing about it.” Barnes says. “But I decided to bring it back to life.”

Rebuilding the Past
The camera wasn’t rare because it was luxurious. Quite the opposite.

Unlike the ornate studio cameras of the Victorian era, this one lacked brass embellishments and decorative flourishes. It was functional, plain – even disposable by the standards of its day. That may be exactly why so few survive.

But its simplicity was also its strength.

“There was nothing really challenging about rebuilding it,” Barnes explains. “The construction is simple. It was just a matter of taking my time.”

For Barnes, that may have been the most challenging aspect of the entire project.
“Typically, I’m not a very patient person,” he says with a smile, “I want things now.”

Not surprisingly, the project stretched on for months. Measurements had to be exact, custom bellows had to be fabricated by a small workshop in England, and the glue, a specially sourced, vintage style, hide glue, was slow to dry.

“Use of the correct adhesive mattered,” Barnes explains.

“The period-correct glue dries with a brown tone and blends invisibly into the camera’s joints.

A modern adhesive that would betray the restoration.”

Piece by piece, day by day, the camera slowly returned to working form.

A Photographer Formed by Process
Michael Barnes’ relationship with photography began early, when his mother handed him a Kodak Brownie at the age of eight. The sense of wonder that camera instilled in him never left, even as technology accelerated around him.

His collection today spans decades and continents – from folding cameras of the 1920s to 35mm classics such as the Leica I Model A, widely regarded as the first commercially successful camera of its kind.

There are rarities, too – including a wartime Japanese camera of which only a handful are known to exist – and even Soviet-era “spy cameras” purchased from Ukrainian sellers during the early days of the Russian invasion, a small gesture of support that unexpectedly yielded undeveloped family photographs inside one of them.

But the restored Kodak stood apart.

“It’s the biggest camera I’ve ever owned,” he says. “And the one that gives me the greatest feeling of accomplishment when I see the result.”

Choosing the Impossible Shot
The idea to photograph Big Boy came with a built-in problem: motion.

Glass plate photography is slow. Exposures stretch into seconds. In the 19th century, subjects were often physically clamped into position to remain still. Movement wasn’t just difficult to capture – it was nearly impossible.

And yet, when Barnes learned that Big Boy – built in 1941 and now the largest operating steam locomotive in the world – would be passing near him, he knew immediately what he wanted to try.

“I just decided to photograph it on a glass plate.”
Not because it was easy.
Because it wasn’t.

One Shot
The day of the photograph offered no excuses. The conditions were ideal – soft sunlight, positioned perfectly, minimal wind, and an ideal location. But the margin for error remained absolute.

With an 8×10 plate camera, each image is singular. There is no rapid reload.

No second attempt. Once the plate is exposed, the moment is gone.

Barnes worked methodically.

He selected his position carefully, balancing safety with composition. The 300mm lens – designed for portraiture – forced him closer than he might have preferred. The
aperture, set wide open, created a shallow depth of field. Focus had to be pre-determined. Timing had to be exact.

“It’s a slow, methodical process,” he says. “There are multiple steps that have to be completed in the right order.”

And then, the moment came.

A two-second exposure. A mental count. A closing shutter.

And a train that never stopped moving.

Chemical Magic
The image didn’t exist – not yet.

Not until Barnes carried the glass plate into his darkroom, a guest bathroom adapted for another era. Under the glow of a red safelight, the photograph began to emerge in a tray of chemicals.

“I can see the image developing,” he says.

What appeared wasn’t perfection – not by modern standards. There were flaws. Imperfections. Evidence of the process itself.

But that was never the point.

“I don’t look at it as a recording of an event,” Barnes explains. “It was an artistic project.”

A 19th-century camera. A 20th-century locomotive. A 21st-century moment.

All held together in silver and glass.

What Endures
After the shot, Barnes sold the camera.

“The project was finished. I did what I set out to do.”

The proceeds funded another long-desired piece of equipment, a medium-format camera from the 1970s, and a new exploration into tri-chrome photography – an early color process built from three separate black-and-white exposures.

“What can I say,” he admits. “The tools change. The curiosity doesn’t!”

What remains is the lesson the camera demanded from the beginning: patience.

“There’s no rushing it,” Barnes says. “If you don’t do each step carefully, you’re not going to get the image you want – or quite likely, no image at all.”

In an age where images are instant and infinite, that kind of discipline feels almost radical.

But then again, so does capturing a moving train with a camera built before the invention of the automobile.