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We had created the Pen FT, the world's first half-size TTL SLR
camera, but…
After creating half-size cameras, Olympus commits to the
development of a 35mm SLR.
We decide to create a camera better than Leica, one that easily takes
close-ups of flowers or pictures of documents.
The advancement of the SLR was the culmination of development
efforts by Japanese camera manufacturers.
A true system SLR should be compact and have impact.
To create products that will capture the hearts and minds of users, you
first need to break through the technology barrier.
The path to a compact SLR would require the efficient use of
underutilized space.
The MDN Prototype was the first Olympus SLR designed to be part
of a full-featured system.
The compact, lightweight OM-1 brings relief to the shoulders of
photographers everywhere.
My philosophy was the source of my enthusiasm for development.
While I was developing the OM, others were worried about the future
of 35mm compact cameras.
Sifting through 100 ideas while breaking through the barrier of
accepted wisdom
With a camera you can carry with you everywhere, you'll never miss
that once-in-a-lifetime moment again.
A caseless, capless camera would be small enough to fit in a breast
pocket.
The XA was designed to match the preferences of both male and
female users.
The XA was the first camera to win a Good Design Award, thanks to
the appeal of its capless design.
My relationship with Olympus is like the relationship between the
Monkey King and the Buddha.
Japanese manufacturers were happy to support us because the half-size camera was
made in Japan. This attitude of helping each other was a driving force for Japan's
industrial development. Fuji and Konishi both produced half-size mounts, and so did
Agfa. Only Kodak refused, which meant we couldn't sell our cameras in America.
However, the executive in charge of exports to America refused to accept this. He told
me that we must meet our quota, and the only way to do that was to make a 35mm SLR.
I thought we could simply restart the existing 35mm SLR development project, but it
wasn't that easy. I had started out using a Leica, and my enthusiasm for photography
was such that I had even had pictures published in magazines. So I told the sales people
that I didn't see any gap that needed to be filled, and that there was no need for me to
make the camera. They replied that the new camera could be just the same as those
made by other manufacturers, but I thought exactly the opposite. I wanted to make
something that didn't exist. They said it was fine to make something that was the same
as existing products. They even said we could buy it!
However, Japan was about to enter its period of rapid economic growth and
manufacturing was seen as a crucial activity, so my attitude was unthinkable in that
context. Manufacturing know-how was vital. By outsourcing production or buying in
products from other manufacturers, companies risked losing their know-how. There
were even movies about industrial espionage.
Yet the sales people were happy with that approach. They said it would be quicker. I
asked them if a user would choose a Nikon or a Pentax or a camera sold by Olympus
that was the same as these cameras, for I would certainly have bought the original
products. But the sales people said that it was fine. I was completely perplexed!
index | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | We decide to
create a camera better than Leica,
one that easily takes close-ups of flowers or pictures of
documents.
The Leica that I was using before I joined Olympus was truly
an excellent camera - it was almost perfect for snapshot
photography. But there was a problem. These days when we
want to copy documents we simply go to a convenience store,
but back then the only way to make copies was to photograph
documents. I needed to copy some material for my graduation
thesis, and because I saw myself as an expert with the Leica, I
tried using it to photograph the papers. It didn't work, because
I didn't have an accessory that allowed me to take
photographs at a distance of 30 to 40 centimeters.
So I borrowed an early Pentax SLR camera and used that to photograph my documents.
There was nothing the Leica couldn't do, be it close-ups of flowers or copies of
documents. But these tasks were extremely difficult. With an SLR it was simple. I
thought that if I was going to get involved in development, this was the field for me.
However, Pentax SLRs were big and heavy, substantially bigger and heavier than the
Leica. The designers had worked hard to reduce the size, but still they were bigger than
the Leica. For someone like me who always carries a camera around, this was a real
nuisance.
index | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | The advancement
of the SLR was the culmination
of development efforts by Japanese camera manufacturers. If you wanted a normal
SLR, you could go and buy it. But what was missing?
Another problem was the aperture. To see through the finder, you need a bright lens, so
the aperture should be open. However, when shooting, the aperture should be at F8 or
F11, rather than fully open. So the aperture had to be open when looking through the
finder, and closed when shooting. We used to call this the “wink aperture.” There was a
SLR lens manufacturer called Zunow, and they made a wink aperture system for this
camera.
The development of the modern SLR was the culmination of efforts by Japanese
manufacturers. The SLR emerged as a superb camera for the non-half-size market: it
could take close-up and long-distance shots, and it had many advantages. In one sense
we aspired to make SLRs, yet I didn't want to make something that you could already
buy in a store. I had my philosophy. What should I do? I researched the problem, and I
thought about it from the perspective of my own experience.
Ultimately, I realized that the real reason why I couldn't get enthusiastic about
conventional SLRs was the problem of their weight and size. This is a major difference
of 35mm cameras compared with the Leica. The half-size camera that I made was also
the result of my efforts to create a smaller camera.
I also had to reduce the size. However, my ideas were not accepted without a struggle.
Japan had entered its high-growth era and Japanese companies were growing
dramatically. Technology was being used to create new functions, and this led to the
introduction of new products. Companies wanted their products to be heavier, taller,
longer and bigger, and it was a time of growth in shipbuilding and steel. My idea was to
make something smaller, and if we couldn't do that, we should simply buy products
from other manufacturers. Yet from a sales viewpoint, there would be problems if the
camera was simply smaller without providing anything new.
They told me that something that was just small would have no impact and would not
be viable as a commercial product. It took the whole of 1967, from January to
December, before they finally understood my concept. At a planning meeting in
December, my superior, Mr. Sakurai, said that it was time to go ahead with my idea of
creating a smaller camera. It had taken a year to break through the barrier of accepted
wisdom. We had finally reached a decision, albeit through coercion.
The designers said that they wanted more specific figures, so I told them that the camera
wouldn't feel smaller unless the size was halved! It was simple to say “reduce it by
half,” but that was an extremely difficult goal. People would complain about the size
and weight of SLRs without thinking, but the people who designed those cameras
worked hard to make them as light and small as possible, and produced the SLRs that
were on store shelves in those days. As you might expect, people said it was
unreasonable to demand a half-size reduction.
The heaviest SLR in those days was the Nikon, which weighed about 1.4 kilograms.
Half of that is about 700 grams. I also wanted to halve the total volume, which meant
reductions of about 20 percent in both height and depth. Those targets brought screams
from our design staff - of course it was unreasonable! They told me it was impossible,
and it was! I realized that I had set unreasonable targets when I dismantled a camera. If
we made it smaller it would be weaker. And a weaker camera would not be suitable for
the full-featured SLR that I wanted to create.
Around this time the Japanese government was talking about relocating Japan's capital
functions away from Tokyo. This gave me the idea of relocating some of the core
functions in the camera. But where could we put them? The area beneath the mirror was
furthest away from the core functions, but it would be extremely difficult to move the
functions there. It would have been simple with today's electronic technology, but
everything was mechanical back then, and all the mechanisms had to be connected.
My first idea was to find underutilized areas in the camera and relocate some of the
functions to those areas. However, those spaces were underutilized for a reason! We
couldn't connect the functions. We found that by using a central drive shaft running
from the top of the camera to the bottom we could transmit the driving force, even in
those underutilized spaces. However, some functions, such as shutter speed adjustment,
couldn't be moved. To relocate the shutter speed control, we would have had to put the
dial on the bottom of the camera, which would have created many problems: the
photographer would have had to turn the camera upside down to adjust the speed, and
the dial would have been inaccessible when the camera was on a tripod. However, there
was space, and we had reached a decision that functions should be relocated to that
space. It was not difficult to move the strength controls. The problem was the linkage
between the shutter speed and other controls. The method that we devised to move
things from the bottom of the camera to the top was to place the shutter dial on the front
of the camera. That was the only solution, and so that is what we did. Only the OM had
a shutter speed dial in that location.
You use your left hand to set the aperture, shutter and
distance, so this position is actually more ergonomic.
That's how we created the camera. We decided to put
the shutter dial on the lens mount, and then the
underutilized space suddenly became as busy as the
Ginza!
It's difficult to break through the barrier of accepted wisdom. However, we were able to
make so much progress with the design because originally there was nothing in the
underutilized space in the camera. In the upper part of the camera there was a battle for
spaces measured in tenths of a millimeter. In the lower part there was nothing, which
meant that while the camera itself would be smaller, its parts could be bigger and
stronger. So the concept of using underutilized spaces was our first step on the road to
developing a compact SLR.
However, every manufacturer had tried to develop smaller SLRs, and I was asking the
production staff to do something that others had been unable to do. It was a challenge
for the designers as well as for those in production. They wanted us to add 1 millimeter
here and 3 millimeters there. There was a battery compartment in the bottom of the
camera, and we wanted to insert packing to make it at least splash-proof, if not
waterproof, but there was not enough space. When I yielded and gave them 1
millimeter, they immediately produced a design. They were so happy! People were
competing for millimeters of space. For example, we had used a millimeter for the lever
on the side. Then the lens people said that they produced a design that would eliminate
the need for that millimeter. It was really annoying. I told them to go back to the
dimensions that I had originally approved, but they said they couldn't. They said the
battery compartment was fine, but that we couldn't revert to the original dimensions.
So the camera we have now is a millimeter taller than the dimensions that I first
approved! That's how we did things.
Mr. Sakurai, who was my manager when I was designing the Pen, was now head of the
sales division. I heard later that the head of the development department had telephoned
Mr. Sakurai and suggested that if the production people were having so much difficulty,
perhaps we should give them a little more leeway on the dimensions. Apparently Mr.
Sakurai agreed. I was summoned to see the person we knew as the godfather of
development, and I spent two hours arguing vehemently about the need to make the
camera smaller and lighter. I was convinced that that was what he wanted to hear. So
the head of development telephoned Mr. Sakurai again and told him that the dimensions
couldn't be changed after all!
This sequence of events seems to have started when the head of production in the
factory reported that it would be extremely difficult to reduce the weight to 700 grams,
which was about half the weight of a Nikon SLR, and asked if a compromise might be
possible. After all, this was an SLR. By the time you add exchangeable lenses and all
the system components, the photographer's bag would weigh six or seven kilograms.
Photographers carry several cameras, which is no problem if you're in a car, but it's a lot
of weight to hang from your shoulder. So we needed to halve not only the weight of the
camera, but also the weight of all the system components. Then the bag would weigh
three kilograms instead of six. That's a big difference. We wanted to reduce the size and
weight of the body, and our target was a 600 gram body.
Once we booked a hotel in the French countryside as the venue for a party to show our
appreciation to photographers. The hotel was on the Cóte d'Azur on the Mediterranean
coast. We invited photographers from around the world as a way of showing our
appreciation. The only invited guest who didn't attend was Don McCullin, a famous
news photographer.
You've probably heard of Robert Capa. Well, Don McCullin followed in his footsteps
and has gained such a reputation that an exhibition of 200 20th century photographs
would need to include at least a dozen by him. On the evening of the first day of the
party, he telephoned to apologize. He said he would be unable to make it that day
because he had been stranded at Heathrow Airport because of a strike.
The next day he telephoned again. When we asked him where he was, he said he was
telephoning from his home in London. He had made it as far as Paris but had been
unable to buy a ticket to the Cóte d'Azur because all the planes were full. He had
considered staying in Paris but was unable to find a room and had been forced to return
home. On the evening of the third day, we all returned exhausted from a day's cruising
to see Don McCullin arriving at the hotel. We told him that only one day remained, but
he said he didn't care about that because there was
something that he wanted to tell us.
I spoke earlier about the relocation of capital city functions to underutilized areas. At
that time electronic shutter technology was still in its infancy, and there was a large
electromagnet in the city center. Of course, this was the result of huge efforts, and I
admire that hard work. However, it would have been easier to relocate functions to
underutilized areas. With the OM-1 and OM-2, we all had this idea from the outset.
To understand what an electronic shutter does, let us imagine that we have a bucket
here. The shutter opens, and light pours in and accumulates in the bucket. When the
bucket is full, the shutter closes. The bucket is a capacitor, which converts light into
electricity and stores it while the shutter is open. SLRs also collect light, but they can't
pour into a bucket because the mirror flips up, causing everything to go dark. Really the
shutter should remain open while light is being collected, but no light reaches the finder,
which remains dark. So the amount of brightness before it goes dark is stored in the
bucket, which is emptied after it becomes dark. This is known as a memory formula.
You store the light before looking through the finder. The amount of energy is
calculated, and the result is used to close the shutter. Pentax was the first to develop this
system.
Where does the light go after the mirror is raised? It hits the film. I was trying to collect
the light that hits the film directly into the bucket. It seems obvious now. If you use the
light that is hitting the film, that's direct photometry. However, I was told that I would
need to adjust all of the light hitting the film because film comes in various colors. So I
collected film from around the world, and after examining perhaps 50 different types I
realized that film is indeed produced in a wide variety of colors. However, when I
measured the reflected light, the variation was only 0.1EV, which gave me confidence
that we could succeed.
The opportunity to create a camera that was not available on the market was perfectly in
tune with my philosophy. With direct photometry it was possible to measure even
strobe light, and you can be as close to the subject as you like. With autofocus systems,
you can't take close-up shots at 30 centimeters. The new system worked fine at 30
centimeters and even 10 centimeters. When we announced it at Photokina, there were
around 300 journalists from around the world at the venue.
Before I went up to speak, there were about a dozen strobes lined up, and shutters were
clicking. The strobes on both sides all flashed at the same time. The resulting images
were clear all the way to the far background. This would have seemed impossible in
those days, and everyone was impressed.
So I was always making odd cameras. This must have made life difficult for the sales
people. When you're selling something that didn't previously exist, you need to start
promoting it from scratch. Your message will reach some people and miss others. Some
people will just say, “It's small. So what?”
I'm sure that the design staffs were annoyed by my unreasonable demand to reduce the
size and weight by half. But repetitions of this process eventually led to the creation of
something that photographers want, something that I wanted. If something is not
available to buy, you have to make it yourself. If your way is obstructed by the
technology barrier and the barrier of accepted wisdom, you have to find ways to break
through those barriers. I believe that our efforts to do this have brought Olympus to the
present stage in its history.
It's because of those people that our cameras continue to command high prices, even
though they have become classics. Someone once asked me why the prices have stayed
high even though the products are now classic cameras. I have never designed a classic
camera! With the benefit of hindsight, all I can say is that the cameras turned out well.
When we introduced the OM-2, a new manager was appointed to lead the Marketing
and Planning Division. The new manager had started out working with microscopes. He
was an expert on statistics and would carefully follow trends in numerical data.
The Pen was selling well, and Olympus had a market share of over 60% for half-size
cameras and 36-37% for 35mm compact cameras. That's why we were able to introduce
the OM. Because the entire company was focused on developing SLRs, we couldn't
introduce many new products, and our market share had fallen from 36-37% to around
35%. Normally a change on this scale would not be noticed, but that manager decided
that we needed to do something about the trend. He told me that I should develop
something. He had previously worked in development, and we were chatting about
those times one day when he said that he knew I was busy with SLRs and asked if it
would be acceptable for the sales people to plan a new product.
It is normal for Marketing people to plan new products, and I was indeed very busy, so I
told him to go ahead. So the Marketing and Planning Division manager issued a
directive to sales offices in Japan and overseas. It said that there was a crisis in the
35mm compact camera segment, and that our market share was in danger of slipping
below 35%. The directive said that Olympus needed everyone to help plan a new
product. About two weeks later I received a telephone call from the manager of the
Osaka Branch. He told me that they had all discussed the problem but had been unable
to come up with any ideas. “You're our only hope,” he said. “Haven't you got any
ideas?” There was a similar call from the Tokyo Branch around the same time. I knew
the inside story, and so tongue in cheek I told him that I was too busy to help, and that
they should carry on by themselves. A month later I was summoned by the Marketing
and Planning Division manager It seems that they had all struggled to produce ideas but
they were stuck. “Can't you help us?” he asked.
At the end of the year they said they were ready for me to look at their idea. I had made
a point of not involving myself in their day-to-day efforts, and they had developed
solidarity as a team. Autofocus technology had only just been introduced, and the Juspin
Konica had only recently gone on sale. They told me that they had bought one, tried it,
and found that it was very good. They were eager to make a camera like that.
That was against my philosophy. The camera was already on sale and we would have
simply become involved in a price war. I told them that if they liked that camera I'd buy
them one each. That would only cost about 200,000 yen, compared with the hundreds of
millions of yen needed for developing a new model.
That was not a satisfactory end to a year's work. I told them to go back to the 100 ideas
that they had originally produced. They had crossed out ideas to reduce the number, and
their decisions had been guided by accepted wisdom. When they collected some of the
better ideas from the rejected ones, a different response emerged. However, the results
were still not quite in tune with my thinking, and so I was forced to make a choice and
carry the banner once again.
When I was doing my factory training, I spent two years at our plant in Suwa. Suwa is a
spa town, and there was a public spa next to my lodgings. In winter the place was so
cold that towels would freeze solid, with the temperature reaching minus 23 degrees
Celsius. Even with my window and sliding doors closed, the temperature in my room
would also drop to minus 23, and a vase that my mother had sent me from Shikoku
shattered when the water in it froze. Because it was so cold, the public spa was a
popular playground for children. They would call in on their way home from school,
and the water always became very dirty. So instead of taking a bath after work, I used to
go in the morning before work.
On one such morning the driver of a long-distance truck decided to take a bath while
passing through the spa town. He parked his truck in front of the public spa and went in
just as I was finishing my bath. As I left I could hear a strange crackling noise. Sparks
from the engine had started a fire, and because it was a gasoline-fueled vehicle the
flames spread quickly. The driver came running out stark naked, but it was already too
late. There was no water, so we couldn't fight the fire. It was a once-in-a-lifetime
moment, but of course nobody takes their camera to the bath, so unfortunately I missed
the opportunity.
Even if your camera can capture shots of outer space or bacteria, it's useless if you don't
have it with you. I was determined to make a camera that people could carry with them
everywhere. Nowadays we can take pictures with our mobile phones. I wanted to create
something like that, but there were still no digital cameras in those days. For years I
thought about designing a camera that you could carry with you always. I thought about
it for a decade while I was working on the Pen and OM.
If you take a 35mm screen and add a cassette to hold the film
on both sides, you can reduce the width to a minimum of 105
millimeters. However, you can't reduce the height to less than
60-65 millimeters because of the finder. When it comes to
thickness, the lens is the problem. There were folding
cameras with collapsible lens, and I thought that this might be
the answer, but I didn't want to move the lens much because
there were so many interactions with the shutter and the
mechanisms. So I decided to use a short lens that would be
fixed in place. I began by setting the dimensions for my small
camera, which I thought should be about 100-105 millimeters
wide, 60-65 millimeters high and 30 millimeters thick, though I was prepared to allow a
little leeway in these dimensions.
Once I had reached that stage, the task of making such a camera became a major
challenge. A camera was a treasured possession, and people kept them in cases. It was
expensive to make cases. We first used a soft case for the Pen. It was extremely popular,
and Sony asked if it could use the Olympus soft case for its portable radios. However,
something designed to be carried everywhere had to fit in a pocket, the smallest of
which is the breast pocket of a shirt. My idea was to make a camera small enough to fit
in that pocket. I wanted to make it as small as today's mobile telephones. And that idea
led me to get rid of the case. It would be a caseless camera.
If I may skip forward a little, despite my youth I was invited to be the guest of honor at
the wedding ceremony of the son of a camera case manufacturer, whose business was
located in Tokyo's Koto Ward. The wedding was held two days after we had announced
the caseless camera. There were about 650 guests, including many members of the
Tokyo Metropolitan Assembly. When it was my turn to speak, I told them that we had
launched a caseless camera two days before, and I explained with great regret that we
would no longer be using cases.
Another problem was the lens cap. The cap protects the lens from scratching and
fingerprints, but it's a troublesome component. People lose them. The new camera had
to be caseless, capless and small enough to fit in a shirt breast pocket. These were the
conditions for my concept of a camera that could be carried everywhere. Our
determination to meet these conditions led to the XA. It certainly didn't need a case, and
in that sense it was an extremely unusual camera.
I thought about the problem. Though the camera would be capless, that didn't mean
there was no cap. I decided to make the camera capless and caseless by providing a
barrier that would slide across the lens horizontally. If I made the caseless feature the
starting point for the design, the result would be a camera that didn't look like a camera.
The same was true of the capless concept. I was trying to create a camera that would
appeal to males, but I was also trying to break through that barrier. I decided to make
the camera look like a camera when the slide was open, even if it looked less camera-
like with the slide closed. Males would like the camera with the slide open, females
with it closed. This interesting concept became reality with the XA. I am talking from a
design perspective here. The main concept for the XA was that users should be able to
take it with them everywhere so that they were always ready to seize photographic
opportunities.
One of those problems related to the use of plastic. There was intense interest in plastic
at that time, but if you made a product from plastic it looked cheap. I am an engineer,
but I also know a little about design, and I wanted to use plastic in a way that exploited
the characteristics of the material without making the camera look cheap. So we used
plastic for the cover that replaced the cap.
index | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | My relationship
with Olympus is like the relationship
between the Monkey King and the Buddha.
My history is part of the history of Olympus. Since its
early beginnings, Olympus has had a corporate
culture characterized by the creation of innovative
products. However, I have not inherited Olympus
DNA; nor have I been taught about this culture. I
never studied it. I simply love to take photographs,
and if I needed something for that purpose, I would
do my utmost to create it.
Yet when I think about it, perhaps I am an Olympus person. Many of the cameras that I
have developed have been unique Olympus-style products. And there's a reason for that.
I was simply trying to make things that you couldn't buy anywhere.
When the Monkey King boasted that he could fly to the end of the Earth, the Buddha
told him to go. And indeed he flew to the end of the Earth and returned after signing his
name on the wall. When he got back, the Buddha smiled and showed him the inside of
his finger. “Here is your signature,” he said. If you think about it, everything is in the
hand of the Buddha.
I love cameras, and I have willfully proclaimed my determination to create cameras that
have never existed before. Yet when I think about it now, it seems to be that everything
was in the hand of Olympus. I'm sure that Olympus will continue to create unique
cameras, and that those who love Olympus cameras will remain loyal users. Olympus
cameras are a little unusual, but I hope that you will continue to understand and support
those cameras.