In one of his books, Ivor Matanle addresses the question of why anyone would shoot pictures with vintage equipment.  I, also, would like to tackle that question. 

We live in the golden age of film.  Every time I try out a new film, I am amazed by the possibilities it offers.  In addition to a wealth of new emulsions, we still have Plus-X, Tri-X, HP-5, and Kodachrome—the master films of the twentieth century.  We can even get new film in old sizes such as 127 and 9x12cm.  This variety of stock affords opportunities to combine old cameras with new film to produce qualities heretofore unseen.  It is probably possible, through experimentation, to find modern film that brings out the best in a particular example of older optics.  (As mentioned earlier, you might find that Fuji’s Velvia does wonderful things with a low-contrast lens such as the Tessar on a Contaflex.) 

In recommending older optics, I am not slighting the new ones.  I know what marvelous results can come from the latest lenses.  However, I also think that contemporary lenses have the same design goals:  high contrast and sharpness, with minimal aberration.  Those are worthy goals, to put it mildly, but their current attainment may not be pleasing to everyone, nor do such goals allow for the individual tastes of a lens designer.  Older lenses give you alternatives. 

Another point to remember:  As digital is pushing in, the prices for older equipment have dropped.  This will not last, but for now you can—on a modest budget—own the very best cameras of past decades.  When you have these cameras in hand, you see why they were so well regarded.  The excellence is still there:  the design ingenuity, the craftsmanship, the fine materials.  You feel confident when you are using them, as you feel when using the best of any technology.    

Some have praised older cameras because they force you to slow down in your shooting.  I don’t see this as an unmixed blessing.  There are times, after all, when you need to shoot fast; and when those occasions are on you, you will be glad for auto-focus and motor drives.  The good side of slowing is the gift of time in which to consider composition and the play of light.  When you are experienced at this--and can recognize good composition and light instantly--then you are ready to use equipment from any era to maximum potential.

Also, I don’t know about you, but I have slumps in photography:  times when I can’t see the shots.  It helps if I simply change cameras.  A new format, a new way of viewing—these can wake up sleeping perceptions.

I don’t want to disavow what is recommended to beginning photographers:  that you should learn the craft by using one camera, one lens, and one type of film.  That is a wise strategy, and it is how I and a lot of other people got past the stage of standing with a camera in hand, wondering what to do with it.  However, after you have been through that drill, there are lessons to be learned from several cameras, several lenses, and several types of film. 

Some would argue that there are no benefits in vintage shooting besides the warm feeling of using equipment from “the good old days.”  In a general sense, I cannot agree.   I am nostalgic about the Argus C4, but not about any other camera.  I am keen on Voigtlanders, for example, but you could hardly say my enthusiasm is nostalgic:  I had never heard of Voigtlander cameras until I was past thirty years of age.  Nor had I seen or handled Rolleiflexes, Speed Graphics, or Contaflexes.  And as for the Maximar and the Avus--they had been retired to disuse before I was born.

I think the benefits of vintage shooting are not only real, but also photographic.  I can only think of two benefits that are non-photographic, and they are nostalgic only in a special sense. 

One of these derives from using a camera that a highly regarded photographer used during his lifetime.  He can be a great artist publicly celebrated, or a family member you admired.  Whichever, as you use his type of camera—or actually his camera--you feel a connection with him.  You know how his hands moved as he worked; what he saw in a viewfinder.  You understand his work better; you feel closer.