Photography, for many, begins as an accidental love affair. A moment of inspiration, a well-timed click, or an unexpected result draws us in and starts a lifelong journey with the medium. My earliest memories of photography weren’t shaped by technology or gear, but by the emotions captured in printed photographs—the warmth of family gatherings, the quiet beauty of landscapes, the intimacy of unguarded moments. That tangible magic was embedded in the medium of film, something I came to realize only much later.
When I first began photography professionally, digital was already the default. Film was seen as a relic, a cumbersome process reserved for those with time, patience, or nostalgia. Yet I was surprised to encounter so many people who would reminisce about their early photography days with film. They would tell me, with genuine emotion, how they fell in love with the medium in their youth but slowly drifted away when digital cameras became the new standard. Their stories were filled with the kind of reverence typically reserved for lost art forms. To them, photography was not just a visual craft; it was tactile, chemical, and deliberate.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand the emotional depth behind those stories. I appreciated their sentiment, but my workflow was entirely digital, and I saw no reason to change. Digital photography was efficient, flexible, and forgiving. You could take hundreds of photos in a single session, delete the ones that didn’t work, and make infinite adjustments in post-production. Why would anyone return to a medium that was more expensive, less convenient, and bound by physical limitations?
But something lingered in those conversations. A sense that I was missing an aspect of photography that went beyond image quality or technical control. I was curious, not yet committed, but willing to explore.
The Turning Point: A Mamiya in New Zealand
Years ago, during a trip to New Zealand, my partner Eli borrowed a friend’s Mamiya 7ii. He had heard about the legendary sharpness of the medium format camera and wanted to experiment during our travels. I didn’t expect much from it at first. To me, it was just another camera—bulkier, slower, and much less familiar. But when I saw the photographs he captured, something shifted in me.
The images had a richness and depth I wasn’t used to seeing in digital photos. The tones felt organic, the colors had a soft elegance, and the grain added a subtle texture that felt more artistic than imperfect. But more than the output, I was drawn to the process itself. Everything took longer. Composing the shot, adjusting the settings, winding the film, and being deliberate with each frame—it all required patience, care, and mindfulness. Watching Eli work with the Mamiya made me realize that film wasn’t about convenience or speed. It was about presence.
Each photograph was a commitment. There was no screen to preview your image, no second chances to recapture the moment. It demanded trust in your skill, your eye, and the process. And for the first time, I began to understand why so many photographers had trouble making the jump to digital. It wasn’t just about technology. It was about identity. Film, to them, was photography.
That trip planted a seed. I wasn’t ready to switch at the time, but the idea lingered in my mind. Every time I picked up my digital camera, I remembered how the Mamiya felt in my hands, how focused Eli had been while using it, and how magical the images turned out.
Learning the Language of Film
My first step into film photography wasn’t dramatic. I started quietly—buying a few rolls of film, borrowing a camera, and sending the rolls off to be processed and scanned. It was clunky and unfamiliar at first. I didn’t know what stocks to use, how to meter properly, or what to expect from the results. But each roll taught me something new.
The moment I received my first scans was unforgettable. They weren’t perfect. Some shots were overexposed, others under. My compositions were sometimes off, and I hadn’t fully grasped how each film stock would render colors differently. But despite the imperfections—or maybe because of them—the images had a character I couldn’t replicate with digital. They were flawed, yes, but they were also honest. I had to accept what I captured, learn from it, and try again.
Over time, I developed a rhythm. I began to understand the quirks of different film stocks. Kodak Gold offered a nostalgic warmth, perfect for sunny afternoons and casual walks. Kodak Portra had a soft, cinematic quality ideal for portraits and cityscapes. Black and white film introduced me to light and shadow in a way color never had. I learned to anticipate how each film would behave, how different lighting conditions would influence the mood, and how to shoot with intent.
Eventually, I started scanning my film. At first, it was simply a way to save money. Outsourcing scans could be expensive, especially when shooting regularly. But the more I scanned, the more control I had over the final image. I could fine-tune the contrast, preserve the film’s natural tones, and learn how to bring out the best in each frame without over-editing.
This part of the process reminded me of baking—a hobby I deeply enjoy. Like film photography, baking is precise, slow, and demands patience. Every stage, from measuring ingredients to setting the right oven temperature, affects the outcome. You can’t rush it. You must trust it. And when it works, the result is deeply satisfying. Film photography was starting to feel the same.
Embracing Imperfection and Reclaiming Joy
Last year, a friend of mine was selling his Mamiya 6. It was in excellent condition, and I didn’t hesitate. I bought it. Owning my film camera completely changed my experience. No longer was I dependent on borrowed gear or constrained by someone else’s preferences. I could shoot whenever I wanted, however I wanted. And most importantly, I could make mistakes freely.
Having the Mamiya 6 took the pressure off. Digital photography often comes with an unspoken expectation of perfection, especially in professional contexts. You’re expected to deliver flawless images, composed with intention and edited to technical precision. But with film, I allowed myself to experiment. To wander around the city without a plan. To capture moments that felt personal, not performative.
Chicago became my canvas. I roamed through neighborhoods, followed the shifting light between buildings, and waited for quiet moments that might go unnoticed in the rush of daily life. I experimented with angles, played with reflections, and embraced photos that didn’t quite turn out how I expected. Some were too soft. Others had light leaks or strange color casts. But instead of seeing these as failures, I saw them as part of the medium’s beauty.
One of my favorite images came from an early shoot with the Mamiya 6. I had taken a photo of a downtown train station. When I scanned and corrected the image, I forgot to flip it horizontally. It ended up being mirrored. But rather than discarding it, I kept it. That small mistake gave the image a surreal quality, and it reminded me that imperfection can be its kind of artistry.
Film photography has reintroduced joy into my creative process. It’s a slower, gentler approach that prioritizes observation over production. I’m not chasing likes or optimizing for algorithms. I’m simply photographing for myself—for the love of the process, the texture of the grain, the magic of a well-exposed frame.
The Emotional Texture of Film
Film photography, at its core, is about emotion. Not just in the images it produces, but in the experience of making them. With digital, the workflow is efficient and optimized. It’s fast, responsive, and easily integrated into modern creative pipelines. You can experiment endlessly, try different settings, shoot in bursts, and review instantly. But that same convenience often flattens the emotional experience. You become more focused on outcomes—on reviewing, editing, and posting—than on the experience of capturing the moment itself.
With film, everything slows down. Each frame is limited, each shutter click intentional. There is a brief moment of tension just before you take the photo, and a lingering sense of wonder afterward because you won’t see the result right away. That waiting becomes part of the experience. You learn to savor it.
I’ve found that shooting film deepens my emotional connection to photography. I notice more light, color, shape, and movement. I don’t rush to capture something; I study it. I walk a little slower. I look a little longer. I trust my instincts more. When the image finally returns from the lab or the scanner, it feels like opening a time capsule. You remember where you stood, what you felt, and why you pressed the shutter. There’s a quiet intimacy to the process that digital often misses.
I remember one afternoon wandering through a quiet neighborhood in Chicago. The sun was casting long shadows between buildings, and I noticed a group of windows reflecting the sky in soft pastel tones. It wasn’t dramatic or flashy. Just peaceful. I paused, framed the shot, and took a single photo. Later, when I scanned that roll, that image felt exactly how the moment had been—subtle, still, reflective. That kind of emotional match, between what you saw and what the film captured, is what I’ve come to cherish.
Film doesn’t always deliver perfect results, but it often delivers emotional honesty. That’s a trade I’m happy to make.
Trusting the Unknown
One of the most challenging parts of transitioning to film photography is learning to trust the unknown. With digital, you have immediate feedback. You know if you got the shot, if the exposure was right, or if the composition works. With film, you operate on instinct and practice. You expose, wind the roll, and move on, hoping that your settings were correct and that your moment will be preserved just as you remember it.
This uncertainty can be intimidating, especially at first. There were plenty of times I doubted myself. Was the lighting too low? Did I load the film correctly? Would the lab damage the negatives? Would my scanner mess up the colors? Every step has a degree of risk. But over time, I’ve come to embrace that risk. It forces you to be more deliberate and more forgiving.
Mistakes happen. One roll I shot in bright daylight came back completely blown out because I had forgotten to adjust my ISO. Another time, my scanner introduced strange green hues into a series of portraits, and I couldn’t fix it without losing the softness of the original image. But with each mistake, I learned something. Not just about film, but about how to stay calm, how to troubleshoot, and how to move forward.
Film trains you to let go. To accept that not every frame will work. That sometimes the image you thought was perfect turns out awkward, and the image you barely remembered turns out stunning. It’s a reminder that photography, like life, is full of surprises.
That trust has carried over into other parts of my creative process. I find myself less obsessed with perfection and more interested in process. Less focused on performance and more on presence. Film has taught me that not knowing is not a weakness—it’s a space for growth.
The Ritual of Process
Something is grounding about the ritual of shooting, developing, and scanning film. It’s not just about photography—it becomes a practice, a routine, a rhythm. Each part of the process has its texture and tone.
Shooting film is quiet. You listen to your environment, observe patiently, and make decisions slowly. The act of advancing the film, checking your exposure, and pressing the shutter feels ceremonial. You are not just taking a photo—you are marking a moment.
Dropping your film off for processing or mailing it to a lab is like sending a message to your future self. You are saying, “This mattered. I want to remember it.” And when the negatives return, there is a joy in handling them. Strips of moments, captured in light and chemistry, waiting to be decoded.
Scanning has become one of my favorite parts of the process. It’s not glamorous—it requires patience, precision, and a fair amount of trial and error. But there’s something deeply satisfying about watching the image emerge on screen. You tweak the settings, adjust the tones, and bring the photograph into digital space while preserving its analog soul. Each scan is a translation, not a replication. You’re interpreting the negative, not just reproducing it.
This ritual has grounded me in ways I didn’t expect. It reminds me that creativity is not always about speed or volume. Sometimes it’s about returning to a slower pace. To repetition. To intention. The process itself becomes meaningful, not just the product. That’s something I rarely felt with digital photography.
Rediscovering Personal Work
As a professional photographer, it’s easy to fall into the trap of only creating for clients. Your creative energy becomes tied to deliverables, deadlines, and expectations. You begin to view photography through the lens of performance—what will please the client, what will sell, what will stand out. That mindset can slowly erode the joy of photography. It becomes work, not wonder.
Film gave me a way back to personal work. To creativity without constraints. When I shoot film, I’m not thinking about markets or metrics. I’m not aiming to impress. I’m just observing the world and responding with my camera. It feels pure, honest, and deeply personal.
I’ve used my Mamiya 6 to document quiet walks, family visits, weekend trips, and solitary moments. Nothing dramatic. Just life as it unfolds. These images may never be published or shared widely, but they matter to me. They remind me why I picked up a camera in the first place—to notice, to remember, to feel.
One roll I shot entirely on a walk through Chicago’s lakefront is still one of my favorites. The light was soft, the sky overcast, and the wind was just beginning to stir the water. I didn’t take many photos. Maybe 8 or 9. But each one felt intentional. When I scanned them later, I felt like I had preserved not just the view, but the mood. That’s the power of personal work. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.
Film photography has become my space for personal rediscovery. A reminder that photography doesn’t have to be performative. It can be quiet, simple, and just for you.
Finding Freedom Within Limitations
In an age where everything is designed to give us more—more megapixels, more dynamic range, more storage space—choosing film photography can seem counterintuitive. Film is defined by its limitations. A 36-exposure roll is generous. You can’t review your shots. You can’t adjust white balance after the fact. Yet, within those constraints, I’ve found a surprising sense of freedom.
There’s a clarity that comes when your choices are limited. You become more focused, not less. With film, I no longer fire off 10 variations of the same composition. I don’t second-guess a subject from every angle or obsess over framing to the point of paralysis. Instead, I think carefully. I compose slowly. And then, I commit.
This discipline sharpens your instincts. It forces you to study light more seriously, to anticipate motion, to understand how your camera behaves. It builds confidence—not just in your technical skills but in your creative vision. You learn to trust yourself again.
Oddly enough, working within limitations has made me more experimental. I’ve shot in uncertain lighting, tried unconventional compositions, and pushed film stocks beyond their comfort zones. The unpredictability of the results invites play. You stop chasing perfection and start seeking feelings.
And when something doesn’t work? That’s okay. The cost of failure is small compared to what you gain in learning. In digital, mistakes can be buried. With film, they are etched into every negative. You face them. And you grow.
This freedom—to shoot with purpose, to embrace risk, to accept the outcome—has been one of the most valuable parts of this journey. It’s redefined how I see photography. Not as a chase for flawless images, but as a process of thoughtful expression.
Learning Technical Skills All Over Again
Switching from digital to film isn’t just about changing tools. It’s like learning a new language. The grammar is similar, but the vocabulary and cadence are entirely different. Aperture, shutter speed, and ISO still matter—but they behave in new ways. Film has latitude, but it also has quirks. Some stocks love light, others crave shadow. Metering techniques need to be adjusted. Color rendering changes dramatically based on exposure, temperature, and scanner interpretation.
When I started scanning my negatives, I was quickly humbled. It’s a skill that sits somewhere between science and sorcery. You’re trying to extract the essence of the image without stripping away the character of the film. Color correction, dust removal, contrast adjustments—they all require a subtle hand. Go too far, and you erase what makes the film special. Hold back too much, and the image may look muddy or flat.
I began researching scanner types, learning about histogram curves, experimenting with color balance, and finding workflows that preserved the natural look of the film while still giving me room to interpret. It was exhausting at first. But also empowering.
Each technical skill I acquired made me feel more connected to the image. I wasn’t outsourcing the magic. I was involved from start to finish. From loading the film, to composing the shot, to developing, scanning, and editing—I was part of every stage. That continuity taught me how to respect each phase and not rush through any of them.
Film made me slow down, not just creatively, but technically. I don’t skim through settings anymore. I read manuals. I ask questions. I make notes. And I apply what I learn in meaningful ways. In doing so, I’ve become a better photographer—not just with film, but overall.
The Dance Between Digital and Film
For all my enthusiasm about film, I haven’t abandoned digital photography. Far from it. My professional work remains digital because it’s fast, precise, and necessary for the demands of client shoots. There’s no room for unpredictability when timelines are tight and expectations are high. Digital offers the consistency and flexibility that modern commercial photography requires.
But instead of viewing film and digital as opposing camps, I’ve come to see them as complementary tools. Each has its strengths, and each supports a different side of my creative life.
Digital is my workshop. It’s where I test ideas, solve technical problems, and execute vision with precision. It’s a space for control and refinement.
Film is my retreat. It’s where I reconnect with the emotional roots of photography. It’s slow, intuitive, and unpolished. It brings me back to seeing, not just shooting.
The two media now exist in a kind of dance. Sometimes, what I learn from film improves my digital work. I’ve become more patient with composition, more thoughtful with color, and more willing to let an image breathe. Other times, digital informs my film shooting—I understand exposure more deeply, I pre-visualize better, and I know when to take creative risks.
There’s no need to choose one or the other. That binary mindset misses the richness each medium offers. Instead, I treat them like different lenses through which to explore the world. On some days, I need the clarity and control of digital. On others, I crave the mystery and mood of film.
This dual approach has made photography more dynamic for me. I don’t feel stuck. I feel equipped. No matter the situation, I have tools that support how I want to create.
A Community of Slow Creators
One unexpected gift of shooting film has been the community that comes with it. Film photographers are, by nature, a patient and curious bunch. We trade tips on exposure methods, compare notes on labs, share scanner settings, and geek out over obscure camera bodies. But more than that, there’s a shared understanding that photography doesn’t have to be fast to be valuable.
In a culture obsessed with immediacy, film photographers move differently. We embrace delay. We value imperfection. We believe in the long arc of practice. That mindset is rare—and deeply nourishing.
I’ve found inspiration in forums, in group exhibitions, and in film walks with local photographers. Conversations go deeper than gear. We talk about intention, process, and emotional connection. We celebrate the photo that took three days to get right. We admire the frame that almost didn’t work but somehow did.
This community has encouraged me to take my time. To reflect. To ask better questions about what I’m creating and why. In digital spaces, I often feel a pressure to produce, to share, to keep up. In film communities, I feel space to pause, to explore, to create without urgency.
That’s not to say one approach is better than the other. But film has helped me find people who care about photography in a way that feels aligned with how I want to grow.
It’s not just about nostalgia. It’s about meaning. About taking something slow and turning it into something real.
The Beauty of Letting Go
In photography—and life—there’s a natural desire to control. We want to shape the outcome, perfect the process, and ensure the result aligns with our expectations. Digital photography, with all its real-time previews and infinite corrections, feeds that instinct. But film taught me something far more valuable: the beauty of letting go.
When I load a roll of film, I don’t know how it will respond to the light. When I scan the negatives, I don’t know which frames will hold emotional weight. There’s always a gap between intention and result. And over time, I’ve come to love that gap.
Letting go has allowed me to be more present. I no longer review every image seconds after I shoot it. I no longer spend hours retouching minor details or fixing imagined flaws. Instead, I focus on the moment—the gesture, the light, the feeling. And then I move on.
That mindset has seeped into other parts of my life. I’ve become more patient. More curious. More willing to accept what is, rather than chase what could have been. Photography, once a tool for control, has become a practice in surrender.
That doesn’t mean I don’t care about the outcome. I do. I love creating beautiful, thoughtful images. But I’m no longer chasing perfection. I’m chasing connection. And that shift—subtle but profound—has changed everything.
Film permitted me to be imperfect. To embrace softness. To find beauty in what’s real rather than what’s retouched. That lesson alone has been worth every grain, every blur, every frame that didn’t quite land.
Photography as Memory, Not Just Image
One of the most powerful gifts of film is the way it preserves memory. Digital images, while plentiful, often live fleeting lives. They’re captured, posted, and then buried beneath a scroll of new content. Film, by contrast, invites longevity. It asks you to slow down and remember.
Each roll of film becomes a capsule of time. The tactile nature of it—the physical negatives, the handwritten notes on film sleeves, the careful storage of developed rolls—anchors the experience in a way digital never quite has for me.
When I look through my film photos, I don’t just see the image. I remember where I was, what I felt, how the light shifted, what the air smelled like. The memory isn’t compressed into pixels; it expands, breathes, lives.
This depth of memory has made me more intentional about what I photograph. I don’t shoot to accumulate. I shoot to remember. A quiet moment at a window. A walk through a foggy morning. A loved one mid-laughter. These aren’t images I take because I need content. I take them because I want to feel them again.
In a way, film brings me closer to time. It holds it gently, respects its weight. And in doing so, it reminds me that photography is not just about seeing—it’s about remembering. About honoring the fleeting. About holding on without grasping too tightly.
That’s a kind of storytelling I didn’t know I was missing.
The Practice of Slowing Down
Modern life runs fast. Deadlines. Notifications. An endless stream of updates and stimuli. Amid all this motion, film photography has become my quiet rebellion. A way to reclaim time, attention, and space.
When I go out to shoot film, I walk slower. I notice more. I let myself be guided by instinct rather than agenda. I’ve spent entire afternoons wandering with just one roll of film, taking only a handful of images. And yet those sessions often feel more fulfilling than digital shoots, where I take hundreds of photos.
Slowing down doesn’t mean doing less. It means doing with care. It means choosing intentionally, listening deeply, and responding with presence. In photography, that might look like waiting for the right light. Or returning to the same street corner day after day, just to see how it changes. Or standing still long enough to let a scene unfold naturally, rather than forcing it into frame.
This slow practice has taught me to trust rhythm over rush. Creativity, after all, isn’t a race. It’s a cycle. Sometimes you’re inspired. Sometimes you’re quiet. Film honors that rhythm. It doesn’t demand instant results. It invites patience.
And in that space between expectation and outcome, I’ve found a deeper kind of creativity. Not the frantic kind that feeds off pressure, but the steady kind that builds from within.
Why I Keep Coming Back to Film
After all these years with digital and now film, I often ask myself: Why do I keep coming back to film? Why invest in a slower, more expensive, less convenient process?
The answer is simple and layered at the same time.
I keep coming back because film slows me down in a world that rushes. Because it connects me to a lineage of artists who trusted their eyes more than their screens. Because it surprises me. Challenges me. Grounds me. And because it feels human.
Digital is incredible. I’m grateful for it. It enables work I could never accomplish with film alone. But film speaks to another part of me—the part that wants to observe without editing, to create without rushing, to make without overthinking.
I don’t shoot film because it’s trendy. I shoot it because it feels real. Because when I hold a negative in my hand, I’m reminded that photography is not just data. It’s light and chemistry and feeling and time. It’s a way of seeing that honors process, texture, and soul.
I don’t know if I’ll ever use film professionally. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But that’s not the point. The point is that film has become part of how I understand photography. Part of how I see the world. Part of how I stay curious.
And as long as that’s true, I’ll keep loading rolls. I’ll keep waiting for the scans. I’ll keep chasing that quiet click of the shutter that marks not just an image, but a moment remembered.