vintage lens photography Archives

Let’s settle this debate once and for all—with a mix of history, optics, and a dash of vintage obsession.

The “Afghan Girl” Lens: Myth vs. Reality

The iconic 1984 photograph by Steve McCurry was shot with a Nikon FM2, Nikkor 105mm f/2.5 AI-S lens, and Kodachrome 64 film. This specific AI-S version (released in 1977) features a 5-element/4-group Xenotar-type design, optimized for sharpness, color fidelity, and improved close-range performance with Nikon’s multicoating technology.

But here’s the twist:
My beloved Auto-era 105mm f/2.5 (officially AI-converted by Nikon) is not the “Afghan Girl” lens—yet I love it even more.

Why the Auto-to-AI Conversion Matters

In Nikon’s golden era (when Leica was their main rival), Auto lenses were built like tank engines: all-metal construction, buttery focus rings, and optical formulas designed for black-and-white film. However, they lacked compatibility with later Nikon SLRs due to missing aperture indexing (AI).

Nikon’s official AI conversion service (now rare) transformed these classics into hybrid gems:

Mechanical upgrades: Added AI coupling for accurate metering on modern film/digital bodies (like my D700/D800).
Cost efficiency: Back in the day, converted AI lenses cost barely $20–30 more than unmodified Auto versions.
Pure nostalgia: That factory-modified serial number feels like a seal from the Nikon gods.

Auto vs. AI-S: A Tale of Two 105mm Lenses

Let’s break down why my “non-Afghan Girl” Auto-converted lens steals my heart:

1. Optical Soul

Auto (Pre-AI, Sonnar design):
- 5 elements/3 groups (1959–1971).
- Single-coated for softer contrast—perfect for rendering creamy bokeh with a painterly glow.
- Lower sharpness at close distances but delivers a “vintage haze” that digital lenses can’t replicate.
AI-S (Xenotar design):
- 5 elements/4 groups (post-1977).
- Multicoated for punchier colors and clinical sharpness (ideal for McCurry’s Kodachrome).
- Linear aperture control for seamless shutter-priority modes.

My take: The Auto version’s lower contrast isn’t a flaw—it’s a time machine. Portraits feel like they’re wrapped in 1960s film grain, even when shot digitally.

2. The JPEG Test (Zero Editing)

[Insert your unedited JPEG example here]

Shot wide open at f/2.5, the Auto-converted lens delivers:

Tonal subtlety: Skin tones avoid the “plastic” look of modern lenses.
Bokeh alchemy: Backgrounds melt into watercolor washes, not busy “nervous” swirls.
WB accuracy: Nikon’s vintage coatings handle mixed light like a seasoned film lab technician.

Why Bother with a “Non-Afghan” Lens?

Character over clinical perfection: Modern AI-S/Zeiss lenses are technically superior, but they lack the Auto’s imperfect charm—like preferring a vinyl record’s crackle to a sterile Spotify stream.
DIY history: Using a factory-converted AI lens feels like driving a restomod classic car—vintage soul with modern reliability.
Collector’s thrill: Finding an official Nikon AI-converted lens today is like unearthing a mint-condition first-edition book.

Final Verdict

Is my 105mm f/2.5 the “Afghan Girl” lens? No.
Is it better? For my style—yes.

While McCurry needed the AI-S’s precision for Kodachrome’s unforgiving palette, my AI-converted Auto lens gives me something no algorithm can replicate: the joy of shooting through a 60-year-old optical formula, tweaked just enough to dance with digital sensors.

I shot a utility pole once, stabbing up into a blue sky so loud it practically buzzed. My Zeiss Jena 35mm f2.4 did the work—a scrappy little lens, older than my best boots, with a vignette that sneaks into the corners like a cat curling up for a nap. It’s not perfect. It’s better than that.

This thing’s a DDR relic, a Flektogon design with a heart sharp at f2.4 and edges that soften like a half-remembered song. At 35mm, it’s your go-to for wandering—wide enough to catch the world, tight enough to keep it personal. Slap it on a mirrorless body (you can snag one for under $200), and it loves a bright day, painting colors bold and true. That blue sky? The vignette showed up uninvited, darkening the frame’s rim, nudging my eye to the pole’s rough spine. I tried wiping it out in Lightroom—sky all flat and bright, pole like a textbook sketch. Clean, sure, but dull as dishwater. The shadow had been doing the heavy lifting, giving the shot a little swagger, a little depth. I let it stay, but dialed the shadow back—not all the way, just enough.

Then there’s this other shot: a winter tree, naked as a promise, with a bird’s nest perched like a secret. Same lens, same f2.4. The vignette crept in again, but here it felt like a bully—squashing the air, crowding the nest till it looked trapped. I ditched it in post, and bam—the sky stretched wide, pale and chilly, letting the branches breathe. The nest popped, fragile against the sprawl. No shadow needed.

Here’s the trick: this lens doesn’t shove vignette down your throat. It’s loudest under a blue blaze—light hits the glass hard, and the edges duck out. On a gray day, or stopped down to f5.6, it’s more a murmur than a shout. You decide when it plays. Wide open at f2.4, it’s got that creamy falloff; crank it tighter, and it behaves.

The Zeiss Jena 35mm f2.4 isn’t for the pixel-polish crowd—grab a Sigma Art or Zeiss Milvus if that’s your game. It’s for tinkerers, the ones who’d rather dance with a quirk than iron it flat. Pole got the shadow. Nest got the sky. Both got the shot.

Tag: vintage lens photography

Is My Nikon 105mm f/2.5 AI-Modified Lens the Legendary “Afghan Girl” Lens?