Small joys in what was an otherwise dreary week:
FaceTime with my cousin and the Giants clinching the NL West.
I’m hopelessly adrift in ennui. No job, no school, no friends, no bueno. I’m slogging through Dead Souls, which is a worthy and enjoyable read, but dense like the war in War & Peace.
Today I left the digital XSi and took the Rebel T2 out roaming. The film has expired, so I’m a bit extra excited. You never know what surprises you’ll get from an expired roll.
It felt incredible, but it’s also a sad reminder that I don’t have easy access to an analog darkroom anymore. Every school since high school has had a darkroom into which my troubles and I could withdraw. I did find a studio here that rents darkroom space by the hour, so I’m planning to go there once I have a few rolls to develop, but it’s just not the same as popping into the studio between classes. But, when I really feel like I’m struggling to hold on to what seems like a relic while the digital age progresses around me, I remember this:
The darkroom is my sanctuary. I live for the weight of the camera in my hands; the sound of the film as it advances; the clatter of the canister as it pops apart and falls to the floor; the smell of familiar chemicals on my hands; and the way developer washes over a blank sheet of paper, slowly turning grey lines into an image.
I wrote that in my admissions essay to Berkeley, and the sentiment is just as true today as it was then.
