For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an intimate relationship with light: the way it filtered through my bedroom window as a child, the purple twilight of an Indian Summer, its ability to saturate feelings, illuminate moments and crystallize time.
I was eight the first time I looked through a camera. It was my father’s old Minolta 35 mm. We were in Montana, in an apple orchard at dusk. I still remember that feeling of excitement as I peered through the camera’s foggy lens: The world within a window, that ghostly apple orchard, framed within a single square.
Like most people passionate about photography, I was swept away by a desire to collect time. I wanted to archive every moment, capture every aberration of light. The feeling was rapturous. Snippets of life, frozen in time.
With my father’s clunky 1980s Minolta dangling off my shoulder, I spent my teenage years wandering through city parks, loitering about cafes and climbing onto rooftops with a desire to capture the world around me, to write a story with light. I absolutely relished the experience.
Today, I still carry his camera around, and I still shoot with it. These very photos were captured through its lens. In an age of digital imagery, I find an irreplaceable aesthetic to film. I don't believe I will ever be able to let film go, as long as there is light for it to capture.