Back to a Film Camera

My father's old camera had been sitting in a drawer for as long as I can remember. It is a heavy, fully manual thing with a light meter that only works when it feels like it. This autumn I bought a few rolls of film, replaced the battery, and started carrying it around on weekend walks.

The first surprise was how slowly I began to move. With a phone you take twenty photos of the same doorway and pick one later. With film you have thirty-six frames and each one costs money, so you stand there and actually look. Where is the light coming from? Is that bin really necessary in the corner? Do I even like this picture, or am I just taking it because it is there?

The second surprise was how many mistakes I made. The first roll came back with a third of the frames underexposed, two completely blank, and one accidental photo of my own shoe. But the handful that worked had a softness and warmth that I have never managed to get out of a screen. A friend's dog in late afternoon light. Market stalls in the rain. My neighbour's bicycle against a yellow wall.

I have been keeping a little notebook in my jacket pocket, writing down the settings for each frame. It sounds tedious, but it has taught me more about exposure in two months than years of automatic mode ever did. I now have a rough feel for what a bright overcast day looks like at a given shutter speed, which feels like a small superpower.

There is also the waiting. The lab takes about a week, and by the time the scans arrive I have mostly forgotten what is on the roll. Opening them feels like getting a letter from a slightly earlier version of myself.

I do not think I will give up digital, and I am not trying to be precious about it. But film has become a way of paying attention, and I could use more of that. Currently on my fourth roll. Fewer shoes this time, I hope.