I’m working on an alphabet book, making a photo for each letter. Unsurprisingly, some letters were more difficult than others.
Take “x” for instance. My children are beyond the age of having a little xylophone in the toy box. What I did have was an x-ray.
A few years ago, our pug thought it was a good idea to ingest a number of objects he found around the house: a bobby pin, Lego, a rope. It was the rope that caused the problem (and cost us the bank!). For some reason, I held onto the x-ray.
It was awhile before I could remember where I’d put it, but when I did, I taped it to our patio doors and took a few shots. The part of the x-ray showing the object has faded somewhat but remains strangely fascinating:
However, it is the edges of the x-ray that caught my attention. It must have gotten wet, or maybe it’s just the age of the film, but it has developed (no pun intended!) the look of patina that the photographer in me loves:
A box of old negatives prompted questions from my children: “What is that?”
Even though I resisted digital photography (in SLR format, at least), until it was becoming difficult to buy film, it still seems ancient to me now. How quickly I have adapted to having instantaneous representations of my pictures on the back of my camera. And yet, it wasn’t so long ago that I was buying film, making educated guesses about f/stops and shutter speeds, and then holding my breath while the film was being developed.
Digital photography helped me rediscover a passion when my children were old enough to allow me a few minutes to myself. But sometimes I miss the slowness of film, and the more deliberate thought it required. Then again, digital photography has helped me expand my knowledge in ways I never would have imagined.
But I hold onto these negatives; I could never part with this part of my past, this beginning of my photography.