I’m holding a roll of film in my hand that just got ejected from my camera. There are three more at the lab. Another two canisters with monochrome emulsion waiting to be exposed through the new yellow filter.
I can’t remember most of the shots that I’ve captured, except for some that I keep on thinking about, picturing how they may turn out.
Do you remember how you felt when you went on your first date? All those emotions, before, during, and after the moment you meet with an intention to fall in love. That’s how I feel every time I go to the lab to get my scans back.
I often shoot with rangefinder cameras. Always on film, no light meter.
No matter how well you know your emulsions, whatever is captured is in ether until developed. I love the fact that there’s a certain unpredictable nature; there’s no sure way of telling how the colours, the grain or the shades will turn out.
The anticipation of the reality of what I have captured on film is the reason I fell in love with it.
For every moment that conspires to reveal a scene to be captured, for my freedom and joy of choosing the focus of my photograph, for the gut feeling that tells me “it’s time” when I press the button — I’m grateful.
All of that, combined into one unified emotion is what I experience every time I bring the camera close to my eye. That is why the act of taking a film photograph is a gift to me.