I lost access to a wonderful neighbor’s excellent darkroom when I moved to Canada. I resisted digital photography, so for many years I didn’t take any photos, until I could no longer tolerate my inability to express myself through the lens. It took quite a while to find a way to capture images aligning with the way I see the world using digital photographic technology.
But I loved working with film. I loved working in the darkroom. Being in the darkroom was like entering a sacred space: meditative and magical. There was a ritual to it, one that involved one’s hands and eyes, working with things to look at other than a monitor, things to touch other than a mouse and keyboard. Measuring and pouring chemicals into various containers; holding a beautiful sheet of blank silver paper; placing it carefully under the enlarger; focusing the negative until the grain disappeared; waving one’s hands to dodge and burn like some sort of incantation… It was all so timeless. Then, watching the image magically emerge on the silver paper in the first bath — it never ceased to fill me with wonderment. I still miss it.