Fifty years ago, the Alinari telescopes

“What am I and what is the world? Why do I exist and why does the world exist?” wondered Leon Tolstoy in his essay “The Confession”, in which he frantically searched for the meaning of life. The experimental sciences responded, the Russian writer always says, in these terms: “Study the infinite, infinitely complex changes that occur in the infinity of space and time and you will understand your life.”. He was not satisfied, and continued his research in other directions. Did I ask myself a similar question then, when my passion for astronomy was born? I very much doubt it, of course, but it could have been so: I think I remember that the pull towards the sky, the stars, the planets and everything up there, above me, magical, mysterious, was born precisely from a vague thought of that kind. All of it could not be separated from us. Perhaps man had his genesis in some mysterious point of the universe?… In any case, whatever I had thought, I wanted to know as much as I could, I had to get ever closer to those splendid mysterious lights, to that extraordinary spectacle, and my eyes could not see that far! I too wanted to discover all the secrets of space, including the dramas that the sky had experienced and will experience, which I had read something about in specialized magazines found in the municipal library.

From pure desire, however, it was necessary to arrive at realization: this would be offered to me, a little later in time, by the company Ing. ALINARI of Turin, to whom I will always be grateful: without their telescopes perhaps I would have had to put aside my curiosity and abandon my dream!

 

It was the late 1950s, a time when Italy, having emerged from the war in a disastrous way, was eager for rebirth and growth. A great fervor was in the air: factories were reopening, work was resuming, and many new businesses were springing up. The social, political, and even religious transformation that was taking place was clearly evident even to a child like me in those years, attentive to everything around him: the change was palpable. Television had arrived in Italy, for example; not everyone could yet afford it, but the more fortunate among us went to watch it, and this already allowed us to broaden our horizons. All that fervor became even more intense in the 1960s, the years of the "economic boom": Italian society was even more electrified, it was changing radically; everything around us was a pleasant novelty. In that atmosphere, small groups of amateur astronomers congregated around the only astronomy periodical: "Coelum," founded in Bologna in 1931 by Guido Horn D'Arturo. It was a godsend for my budding passion: I read it voraciously, and I was interested in any topic it covered. My excitement was truly overwhelming, something new unfolding before my eyes. The opportunity to move from dream to reality arrived in the fall of 1956: the newspapers had given great coverage to an astronomical event: the "great opposition of Mars." My curiosity grew ever more intense and powerful.

At that time, my family had moved to the southern outskirts of Milan: the surrounding area was filled with vast meadows and, what mattered most to me, dim lighting. The perfect setting for enjoying that dark, star-filled sky not only increased its allure, but also fueled my desire to delve deeper.

There was, however, a major problem to address: there were no affordable telescopes! As far as I knew, the only commercially available ones were those from the German company Zeiss and others made in Japan, both extremely expensive and unaffordable. However, luck smiled on me; in fact, by chance, I had come across a DIY magazine from August 1956, inspired by certain American magazines that taught how to build anything from a radio to objects of all kinds. Leafing through it, I saw a very detailed, well-crafted diagram for the construction of a small telescope suitable for observing Mars (fig. 1).

 

Sold by the company Ingegner ALINARI of Turin: great, but for me, at that age, it was impossible to imagine building the instrument of my dreams on my own. But at the end of the article, there was another pleasant surprise: the parts were available from the company itself, at a very reasonable cost. It was doable, I thought, but shyness played a cruel trick on me: I didn't have the courage to ask my parents to buy me what I needed... I thought they would deem it useless, or not yet suitable for my age, and I gave up. However, I decided to try building it with simpler components: a total "do-it-yourself" project, in short! I had bought a biconvex lens for presbyopes from an optician, a 4 cm diameter aluminum tube with a focal length of 1 meter from a hardware store, and the two small lenses needed to build the eyepiece: all of this, of course, while trying to copy the instructions found in the magazine! Well, despite all my good will to obtain something appreciable, the result was… terrible! “My” telescope worked badly from both an optical and mechanical point of view, but the enthusiasm of having managed to glimpse the craters of the moon and the satellites of Jupiter, albeit in a truly confused way, still made me touch the sky with a finger! The following year, in 1957, a magazine came out on newsstands, I still remember the name of the title: “Beyond the Sky”, which dealt with science fiction and astronautics, but also, sometimes, astronomy: it was very useful to me (fig.2),

Furthermore, among its pages I also found a small advertisement referring to that famous telescope (fig.3)

 

I had seen the diagrams for this one the previous year, again from ALINARI, whose prices—a very important aspect for me—were still the most affordable on the market. I had requested the company's catalog, which promptly arrived: it was well illustrated, with a series of telescopes and accessories (fig. 4).

My attention had focused on one of these, the cheapest, a telescope described as astronomical and given the name "SATELLITER Direct-Reflex," the standard model. I finally asked my parents for it as a gift; I couldn't wait any longer! I remember very well the moment the telescope was delivered to me; in that cardboard box, wrapped in newspaper sheets, was "my" first astronomical telescope. (Fig. 5)

Inside, a very simple tabletop tripod was installed, consisting of three metal rods, a rubber support with three holes for inserting the rods, and a fork with rubberized ends that fit into two holes drilled into the telescope's PVC tube (probably construction materials). The standard model came with a simple 45 mm diameter biconvex lens, but with a 25 mm cardboard diaphragm to reduce chromatic aberrations, and was inserted into the 80 mm diameter tube with a sheet metal reducer (Fig. 6).

Focusing was done with a single knob and the focuser tube was moved micrometrically via a small rubber tube that acted by friction on the focuser tube; a somewhat crude precursor to the current Crayford.

The focuser tube was fitted with a “Direct-Reflex Box” made of hard, thick rubber with two holes for inserting the rubber eyepieces, which, according to the manufacturer, guaranteed 50x and 75x (fig. 7).

 

 

 

Reflex vision occurred via a mirror that could be positioned at 45° by rotating a knob.

Two achromatic models were also offered with 45mm and 75mm lenses, described as ultra-bright.

The desire to observe was immense, I couldn't wait to get it working; in short, I had finally achieved my dream. I remember very well that I made my first observation by pointing the telescope, through the finder scope (without optics), at the Moon, which coincidentally was in its first quarter. I was struck by how clearly the craters could be seen: a thrilling sight.

I also aimed at Jupiter, but was a bit disappointed, as I hadn't noticed any differences compared to the telescope I'd built myself. The image was dark, but I was fascinated, as I observed Jupiter night after night, by the different positions assumed by its satellites. On subsequent nights, I then pointed the telescope at Orion's sword, but I was greatly disappointed, because the nebula wasn't visible and the trapezium wasn't well resolved: my instrument, the Satelliter, wasn't bright enough to observe faint objects like nebulae. I have vivid memories of it, even though so many years have passed. At the time, I had no knowledge of optics; I didn't realize the importance of objective diameter and optical precision. Bottom line: the instrument was still too basic... I had to get a more powerful one: I had developed a desire to see more and more of the celestial vault, and more clearly. So I wanted to increase the telescope's capabilities! The ALINARI company always came to my aid: it advertised the ’JUPITER 400X – Direct Reflex“ telescope in its catalog as the best instrument in the company, a telescope with great brightness and magnification. This telescope had a 120 mm achromatic objective, a focal length of 1000 mm, and weighed 5 kilograms. (Fig. 8)

In the catalog, the Jupiter 400 was described as the telescope for the demanding amateur, who wanted high magnification, extreme brightness, and a razor-sharp image free of aberrations. I ordered it!

The box arrived quickly, with the instrument wrapped in the usual newspaper. It gave the impression of a "real" telescope, with a gray PVC tube mounted on a cast aluminum column painted metallic gray. It could be fixed to a table or other support, allowing for altazimuth adjustments, and a counterweight to balance the telescope. It was equipped with two 14 mm f/2.0 eyepieces, with a magnification of 75x. The focuser and direct reflex housing were identical to the Satelliter model. An optional 10 mm focal length eyepiece allowed for a magnification of 100x. Three Barlow lenses (also made of rubber with simple negative lenses) were available as accessories in the catalog: F2 with a magnification of 150x, F3 250x, and F5 400x.

It also featured a removable black metal lens hood, complete with a 60 mm diameter black cardboard diaphragm. The manufacturer claimed that the diaphragm, which could be inserted behind the lens hood, allowed for better observation of the Sun, planets, or very bright landscapes.

Since there was no support, I immediately had a carpenter build a solid tripod to support it (Photo, 9)

and I tried it on a terrestrial landscape with the diaphragm: marvelous, the image was bright and detailed. Removing the diaphragm, however, the image lost contrast and sharpness. I thought this defect was caused by the excessive brightness of the terrestrial landscape, but at night, pointing towards the Pleiades cluster (M45), I realized that the stars were not point-like but appeared surrounded by a diffuse luminous halo. I then tried inserting the cardboard diaphragm in front of the objective and with this trick the image was sharper but lost brightness: I deduced that the telescope, in order to obtain good observations, necessarily had to be diaphragmed. At the time, I was unaware that this result was due to a strong spherical aberration. The objective was indeed achromatic, composed of two glasses of different refractive indexes and glued together, but it had other problems: having no anti-reflective coating whatsoever, a ghost image also appeared during observation (for the planets and the brightest stars). Although the result was once again somewhat disappointing and my observations did not reach the desired optimum, I realized that the joy they brought me was very intense: the Jupiter 400 still represented a great achievement: I could see the Moon, Jupiter with its four main satellites, Saturn's rings and its largest satellite, Titan, up close.

A new window onto the world had opened for me: the Universe had come alive!

 

A FEW YEARS LATER

Years passed and, continuing my observations with the Jupiter, 1964 arrived. When the sky was clear, I waited with a slight anxiety for it to darken, for the evening to fall quickly so that I could see something new appear. Meanwhile, the ALINARI company proposed, in its new catalog, some new products that, as a customer, I received without being asked for anymore. Among these was a telescope that to my eyes at the time appeared of gigantic size: it was the "“NEPTUN 1000 X Direct – Detachable Long-Term Reflex” (Fig.10),

That is, a refractor with the same diameter as the one I already owned, 120 mm, but with a focal length of 2 meters, described as ultra-bright, long focal length, and also dismountable. It also had a potential magnification of 1000x with a 10 mm focal length eyepiece and an F5 Barlow lens (an absurd magnification). To make it easier to transport, the Neptun 1000 could be disassembled and reassembled easily by joining the two parts (one containing the objective and the other the direct-reflex housing) with screw clips that engaged in holes drilled at the ends of the tubes and joined with a normal screwdriver. The supplied eyepieces, similar to the previous models, were an F25 mm with 80x and an F14 mm with 140x. With the F5 Barlow lens (optional) and F10 mm eyepiece, the magnification “would” have reached 1000x! The pipe was always made of PVC but white in colour.

We would talk about this later, when I had the chance, but the novelty that had stimulated me even more was the possibility of placing it on a massive "“altazimuth and equatorial base” in cast aluminum measuring 40x24 cm (Fig.11)

offered in the new catalog and also of a “automatic electric movement mechanism”. It was operated electrically, with a 220 Volt 50 Hz synchronous motor. The mechanism consisted of two plates, one fixed and the other mobile, which were connected to the telescope's column. The manufacturer declared that “The rotational motion lasts for over half an hour, after which the plates must be returned to their original position by manually rotating a knob: this operation takes a few seconds. The mechanism requires no adjustments. With this mechanism, observing the Moon and planets becomes very effective; it also allows for long-exposure photography.” (Fig.12).

In reality, the tracking was a bit crude and imprecise, with a drive chain that easily came loose from the gears. The positive aspect was that the base and the electric mechanism could be used not only for the Neptun 1000 X, but also for my "old" but beloved Jupiter 400 X. All this would finally give me the opportunity to experiment with astronomical photography, which had meanwhile become my new passion.

So I immediately ordered it from the Turin company. It arrived, again by mail, and I tested it that same evening, with the usual thrill: the equatorial inclined plane had a 45° inclination, therefore suitable for our latitudes. Using the synchronous motor, I pointed north, aided by the compass built into the base. A few minutes after starting the telescope, I sadly realized that the chain was coming loose from its gears, thus ruining any tracking!

The ALINARI company, again in the new catalogue, proposed a “Special Telephoto Camera” for astronomical and terrestrial photography (Fig. 13). It was advertised with “the possibility of taking astronomical photographs even with long exposure times and with the opportunity to make the telescope assume automatic equatorial movement”

I wasted no time in purchasing it. The camera was made of plastic (in fact, it used a simple toy camera that was sold on the market at a very low price) and used 127 format film. The ALINARI company had removed the lens and shutter from the original camera. The camera body had been glued and reinforced with four screws screwed directly into the rubber Direct-Reflex housing. Focusing was achieved through a ground glass inserted into a rubber extension in the Direct-Reflex housing. The image resulting on the film was circular, with a diameter of only 25 mm; the camera had no shutter. The manufacturer recommended using a black cloth or a cap in front of the lens as a shutter, which could be removed and removed depending on the shutter speed (as was done with 19th-century cameras).

The result on the stars? A disaster! The tracking was imprecise and erratic; the stars didn't appear as pinpoints, but, on the film, were traces similar to an electrocardiogram! In short, another disappointment, but, despite everything, as always, I didn't give up too much: the passion was still strong, and the pleasure and peace that astronomical observation gave me far outweighed the disappointment the instruments had caused: with their mere presence, the stars gave me a great spiritual and emotional boost.

It was urgent to find an alternative: I threw away the "telephoto camera" and thought about replacing it with a reflex camera, which I purchased—at the time, there were very affordable Russian "Zenit" reflex cameras on the market—and then had a turner make a fitting to connect it to the focusing tube. With that new camera, and having a shutter with slow and fast shutter speeds, I photographed the Moon and Jupiter's satellites at prime focus.

I was finally satisfied. The first step towards my great passion, astronomical photography, which continues to this day, had been achieved! I also used the Jupiter 400 telescope to draw the craters on the moon, alternating them with photographs (Fig. 15 – 15b – 15c).

The “Neptun 1000” telescope, however, had not met my expectations this time either: everything repeated itself, and disappointments continued to be a constant, but nothing could stop me, not the nights spent in the cold, not the summer mosquitoes on the balcony at home, not the technical inadequacies of the telescopes, nor anything else.

What the sky offered me was priceless! I had focused on Jupiter, but its image wasn't sharp, rather soft, and the same was true for the Moon and the stars. Ironically, the Jupiter telescope, used with its aperture diaphragm, was better! I then decided to create a diaphragm on the new one, the Neptun 1000, which, thanks to its long focal length, I used for solar observations, particularly for sunspot observations. In this case, fortunately, it gave me considerable satisfaction.

These last two telescopes remained essential to my life as a young amateur astronomer, but the era of Alinari telescopes was over, even though that company has always remained in my heart. In the early 1970s, 114 mm Newtonian mirror telescopes burst onto the market, further advancing amateur astronomy in Italy. But that's another story...

Thinking back with hindsight to my pioneering adventure, in which I observed with such joy and passion the Moon with its craters, Jupiter and its satellites, double stars, sunspots, and everything else that could be observed, despite my instruments being modest or improvised on a do-it-yourself basis, I realize how fortunate today's young people are to have at their disposal observation tools that my generation of amateur astronomers could not even dream of.

At the same time, I console myself by thinking how fortunate I was to have a sky so dark above me that I could see, from my home in Milan, even with the naked eye, the faintest stars, and not a celestial vault increasingly polluted by urban lights, as is unfortunately the reality today. Since then, my passion has never waned, my adventure has never stopped, and it continues to give me satisfaction: my love for the sky has always transcended everything else: gazing at the stars through a telescope brought me an almost unnatural serenity, which calmed my soul and soothed my worries when they surfaced. And so it has always been, until today. After so many years, nothing has changed, even though much has changed in my life. The stars go through many vicissitudes, and, eventually, they age. I too, along with them, have gone through various vicissitudes, but, always with them,... I do not age!