Vintage Cars, Film Cameras, and Not Photographing the Crash – Guest Post by Jacob Downey

The Vintage Sports Car Club, a club for people who own or appreciate sports cars built before 1931, combines several great loves of mine. Its founding principle seems to be that cars should not languish in garages as collectors items, but be driven, and driven hard. It's a bastion of British eccentricity with a healthy dose of old-world charm thrown together with some truly wonderful cars.

In late January I went to the birthplace of British motorsport to watch the VSCC winter driving tests. Driving tests are a series of challenges partly focused on speed, partly focused on ballerina-like precision. In no other form of motorsport would you see a slalom, a speed reverse bay park and a hill climb all in one event, but at the driving test it's all part of the competition. Of course the vintage nature of the cars adds another level of difficulty - try doing all of that with a crash gearbox, no power steering and manual brakes on only two wheels. It's a challenge, and whilst few cars breach 50 miles-per-hour it's a uniquely thrilling event.

I brought my tried and tested Nikon Nikomat, the venerable long nose Nikon Nikkor 50mm f/1.8 and a new-to-me Nikon Nikkor 105mm f/2.5. A bold combination of manual exposure and manual focus for fast-moving motorsport, but then this is film photography. We’re not here to make life easy for ourselves. Plus, I don’t own any automatic cameras. It could've been worse; I had to spend the morning talking myself out of bringing a TLR. The film I used was an eclectic mix including Velvia and Tri-X, and one slightly wacky roll of Kodak Aerocolour.

I spent the morning photographing these motorsport giants of yesteryear being put through their paces. I watched long extinct marques such as Frazer-Nash, Riley, Lagonda, Austin and Wolsey all being flung around tight slaloms and barrelling up a 1 in 4 hill. I saw sports saloons leaning hard into corners, I saw flames spitting from Brooklands exhausts, I saw people lying under cars rapidly reattaching bits and pieces, I saw people driving 90-year-old family cars like bats out of the proverbial hell. All in a days driving at the VSCC.

Toward the tail end of the afternoon I was watching one of the tests, featuring a slalom just before the back straight. First up, a rather genteel run from a nine horsepower Jowett, followed by a faster MG, followed by a positively flying Frazer-Nash. Next up was a sporty Austin 7 in bright gold. From the start you could tell the driver was going for it, leaning into each corner, tires squealing, engine buzzing like a wasp. And then on the turn out of the slalom to come up the back straight I saw the Austin cock its rear wheel, and then, almost in slow motion, roll completely.

It's odd what you notice in the moment. For me in this moment, it was the sounds. First, breaking glass as the windscreen hit the concrete, then the crumpling of bodywork, and then silence soon broken by radios crackling for the fire crew and race doctor.

It was a slow crash, but with nothing to protect the driver, high speed isn't a requirement for disaster. I remember quite distinctly looking at the wreckage and thinking there wasn't a single place in the car which seemed safe, a place where the driver might have found protection from the worst of it. Every option looked terrible. I think most of the spectators were wondering if they'd just seen a crash that was going to change someone's life, or worse.

I'd been photographing quite contentedly up to the crash. I was even reasonably convinced that some of my photos might be halfway good. As the car rolled, I was there, camera in hand, exposure dialed in from the previous shot. Unfolding in front of me was unquestionably a photographically interesting moment.

I didn't take the photo.

I think sometimes as photographers we're supposed to idolize the killer instinct. From the last actions of Robert Capa to the famous Decisive Moment that we're all supposed to be chasing. There's a reverence for the "get the shot whatever the cost" mentality. I don't mean to condemn that mindset. It has unquestionably brought us some of the world's best photographs. But I do wonder why it seems that this has become, for some people, the definitive photographic trait to which to aspire. There's a place for that mindset, indeed we'd be worse off if nobody had it. But surely there's room to embrace other ways of photographing.

The words the of French photographer Willy Ronis feel closer to the mantra by which I want to live my photographic life. "I never took a mean photo."

Does this limit my artistic range? Potentially. But does taking a mean photo increase it? I'm not so sure, in both cases execution rather than ideology probably makes a bigger difference.

When I got my scans back from the lab I was pretty happy with what I’d got. There were plenty of duds (aren’t there always?) but there were a few in there that I was really happy with, one that even made it into my top twenty. And yes, there was also a large gap in which for twenty minutes I, along with everyone else, held my breath and hoped. Despite this, possibly even because of it, I was happy with what I’d got.

Incidentally the driver was fine. How, I don't know. Whether he jumped or was thrown clear or was just plain lucky. After twenty minutes of lying on the ground surrounded my marshalls and paramedics, he stood up and walked away. I have no idea how, but he did.

And if you live in Britain, if you like old stuff and hobbyists and a healthy dose of eccentricity, then get yourself along to a VSCC event. They're completely mad in the best possible way. You might even get some good photos.

Our guest posts are submitted by amazing photographers and writers all over the world.

Today’s Guest Post was submitted by…

Jacob Downey, an amateur photographer living in South West England. After re-discovering both photography and film in early 2019 he's been working his way through a steady stream of rolls since then, usually filled with architecture, industrial heritage and seaside towns.

For more stories and photography from the community check out the many series we’ve published over the years below!

**Featured Photophile **– we shine a spotlight on amateur photographers whose work we love.

Photographer Interviews – in-depth discussions with professional and established photogs doing great work.

Female Photographers to Follow– get inspired by a monthly series focused on the beautiful and unique perspectives of female photographers.

Five Favorite Photos– a hand-selected examination of the oeuvre of our favorite famous photographers.

Follow Casual Photophile on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

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The Photographs That Wouldn’t Exist – Travels with a Digicam

Taylor Swift performed at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee, for the first time in 2004 when she was 14 years old. There, she was discovered by Scott Borschetta, who would go on to found Big Machine Records and publish her debut album.

We didn’t know that standing in the line outside the door of the small cafe, which is situated in a strip mall between a barbershop, a salon, and a laundromat. My friends, Jose, Megan, Zully, Angela, and I were line-dancing in a Broadway Street bar when we heard this small place held acoustic performances every night. Tickets were sold out, but a few were given each night to non-ticket holders who got there early enough.

Standing in line, we took turns making funny expressions for my fifteen-year-old Kodak digicam (a portmanteau for the compact digital camera; the use of this word peaked in 2004). I found the camera online for twenty dollars at the beginning of the year. And now a few months later, I was using it as my sole camera on a six-day-long Spring Break road trip down the East Coast, from Connecticut to Tennessee and back. Me, four friends, eight megapixels, one Mini Cooper, and a dream.

Angela and Zully outside of the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee.

I have “serious” cameras. The ones that do great at high ISOs, give pretty colors, have fast autofocus, and make old men look at you in envy. I have an iPhone, which gives several different lens options, also works as a cellphone (multipurpose king), and fits in my pocket. I have a film camera - a rangefinder that is small and hurts my wallet a little bit with each click.

I chose none of them for this trip. The fancy camera? Sure, it is small enough with my prime lens to not kill my shoulder on a strap. But it isn’t fun. It takes me away from being a participant in the trip and places me firmly into the role of photographer. And in my experience, my friends take that camera seriously and work to maintain a good appearance in front of its lens. It would just feel weird to carry it everywhere. So, no.

The iPhone is too slow. Sure, it’s always on me, but by the time I get out of my pocket, use my face to pass the lock screen, and open the camera, I might as well have written a diary entry about whatever moment just happened. Because it would be gone by then. And it’s too familiar and not fun at all. Every photo I take on it is a few clicks away from social media. Which can be scary to the people in front of its lens, whether it's the zoom, the standard, or the fish-eye. So, also no.

The film camera. Well, manual focus probably wouldn’t be the easiest on the run for me, plus we would be in a mixture of low-light and bright conditions, meaning I would have to put a lot of thought into what film I would load and shoot through it quickly before I shifted light conditions. And film ain’t cheap. I’m in college, remember? I’m broke! So, no.

Which leaves the Kodak EasyShare C813 digicam. Eight megapixels, runs on AA batteries and fits in my pocket. It can be turned off and stored away in my jeans pocket, and, in less than three seconds, be turned on and ready to go in my hands. And most importantly, it is COOL and FUN. Instead of being a “ professional photographer” documenting my college road trip, I am a college kid on a road trip with my friends with a camera. When I bring it out, my college friends are fascinated with its age and the “vintage” look the photographs bring out. And everyone on the trip could use it.

Zully takes a mirror selfie in an antique store in rural Kentucky.

In response to a previous piece published on Casual Photophile about early digital cameras, one reader responded that using one would be a bad move and that memories would be ruined by the subpar quality.

Fair, maybe. But not for me. Sure, a cheap digital camera might not be the best option for fine art. It might not produce glorious 20×30 prints. But that isn’t why I took these photographs. I took these photographs to remember. To have a document to bring out and laugh at with my friends years down the road.

And without my digicam, these photographs wouldn’t exist.

Megan waits to put her new guitar in the trunk. We had to rearrange all of our luggage after she purchased this vintage guitar in an antique store in rural Kentucky. We took the unplanned exit off the highway after seeing a sign for a cool cave.

Zully and Megan nap in the backseat somewhere in Tennesee.

Megan, Zully, Jose, and Angela plot out our next move in the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C.

Angela tries on a leather jacket in a vintage store in Nashville, Tennessee.

Perfume Genius performs in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Megan tries on a cowboy hat at the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Megan, Zully, and Angela practice their line dance in our Nashville hotel room.

The early morning sun engulfs Zully on the pullout sofa a few hours later.

Megan looks down through the sunroof at a rest stop in Connecticut.

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[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

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The Beauty of Pen y Fan on Kodak Portra

A few months ago, my oldest friend Tara asked me if I wanted to walk up a big hill in Wales for the Alzheimer’s Society. It’s a cause that's close to both our hearts, as dementia has affected our families over the years, so of course I agreed and immediately started looking at water bladders for hiking backpacks. How hard could I be, I thought - if it’s for charity, surely anyone can do it? In my haze of spending money on expensive anti-blister socks and pestering friends for donations, I missed the fact that we would be walking up Pen y Fan, the highest peak in south Wales. Standing an impressive 2,907ft above sea level, and used as a training ground for the UK’s Special Forces, I probably should have been a little more cautious.

I’ve known Tara since I was 14 years old, and one of our greatest pleasures in life is egging each other on. We have a shared love of the outdoors too, having spent our teenage years buying illicit wine to drink in parks (that counts as outdoorsy, in the suburbs of Surrey). On a bright, hazy late summer morning, we set off together from Bristol for the hour-and-a-half drive into Wales - over the bridge and up through winding and increasingly picturesque roads towards the Brecon Beacons.

Upon arriving in the small town of Brecon, we met up with Tara’s uncle, also along for the trek, munched on our complimentary pastries and blew on cups of tea as each group of hikers set off in half hour intervals. We had opted for the 13 mile route, a half marathon - estimated to take between six and eight hours. Finally, we shuffled together into our starting group and trotted through the starting gates at 9.30am.

The walk through Brecon itself was uneventful - it’s a typical small rural town, with a couple of pubs, some takeaways and an old concrete bridge over the River Usk, described when it was built as “functional and safe, but extremely ugly.” It might not win any awards for beauty, but it did the job as we tramped up out of the town and towards the base of Pen y Fan.

Our early route took us through lush woodland, just heating up at the start of the day. We followed a route along a small stream, spreading out to sheep-grazed pastures scattered with granite rocks as we started our climb. Our first rest stop (time for a sandwich, toilet break and to refill our water bladders) nestled at the base of the mountain, and I remember thinking “ah, this isn’t so bad!” as we picked ourselves up and set off once more.

Of course, this enthusiasm was short-lived, as the climb up the mountain got steeper and steeper. The heat of the midday sun, combined with an increasingly dense cloud of insects following us up the trail, eventually started to wear me down. Looking back at our progress was satisfying as we climbed higher, but the way ahead didn’t seem to diminish at all - each small peak conquered was replaced by another, looming in the distance. I tried to distract myself from thoughts of “I hate walking, why did I decide to go outdoors, what if I can’t go on and they have to airlift me off the mountain” by taking a few photos along the way - I’d brought my old faithful, the Olympus XA4 that I’ve written about previously on Casual Photophile. Loaded with my last roll of Kodak Portra 400, it luckily weighs hardly anything - perfect for hiking.

With some gentle encouragement from my bestie (“Pull yourself together, you absolute walnut”) I managed to get past my fears of being stuck on the side of a mountain, doomed to be consumed by flies, and made it to the last scramble before the top of Pen y Fan. It’s an almost vertical climb up a rock face, during which I definitely heard some of the other hikers swearing under their breath, culminating in some of the best views anywhere in the UK. We sat and dangled our feet over the edge of the world and looked out over breathtaking valleys, a little bit emotional at how far we’d come together, and the reason for the climb.

The summit of Pen y Fan is marked by a National Trust plaque atop a bronze age stone cairn that would have once held human remains. Now, it’s mostly used for selfies - a polite queue had formed of people happily waiting to get their snapshot of the day (the British are nothing if not predictable). We decided in less polite terms that we didn’t want to get to the top of the world and then stand in a queue, so we set off down the other side, for the long gradual descent back down.

After the grueling climb up, the way down was a welcome relief - we rounded the base of the second peak of Pen y Fan, Corn Du, and carried on skirting the mountain until we reached another wide, wonderful valley. Stopping here for a sit down and some bara brith, we watched the other hikers on our trek pass us by. Old and young, fit and not so fit, all out enjoying the last of the summer for a good cause. Our route took us past a glacial lake in the distance, Llyn Cwm Llwch, as we daydreamed about going for an ice cold dip.

As our path leveled out and I reflected on how I’d never stubbed my toes so much in a single day, our boots hit asphalt again. The road back into Brecon at the end of our walk seemed never-ending, and it was after a total of nine and a half hours that we eventually crossed the finish line. Tired and sore, we nevertheless downed our celebratory glass of bubbly and had a lie down in the cool grass as the sun started to set.

I’m hugely proud that we made it, especially since I’ve spent the last two years sitting on my bum at home. We’ve already decided to sign up for another trek in Cumbria next year, and I’ll be bringing the XA4 along then, too - it’s the perfect camera for a trip like this: one you don’t have to think about to use, and that weighs about as much as the can of bug spray I forgot to bring. Next time we’ll be better-prepared (more training beforehand!), but this walk was the perfect end to our summer.

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[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

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Chinatown is Empty – Shot by Yameen on Lomography and Ferrania Film

Nestled in San Francisco’s downtown, Chinatown is one of the oldest parts of the city. Encompassing a distinctive twenty-four square blocks, it's typically filled with the hustle-and-bustle mix of local residents, office workers hunting for a meal or libation, and tourists wandering about marveling at all of the sights, sounds, and shops. All types of automobiles pack its modest one-way streets: city buses, delivery trucks, Ubers and Lyfts more recently. Or so it was before Covid.

For the first year of the pandemic, I avoided traveling to San Francisco’s busy downtown; the last place I wanted to be was among a lot of people. But in March of 2021 with a national vaccine rollout just around the corner and a daily routine of face-masks and precaution, I felt safe enough to pack my cameras and head downtown. And frankly, it was about damn time: I missed this massive part of San Francisco that I had been abstaining from visiting. Somewhat shockingly as a photographer, I’d never taken pictures of Chinatown in any meaningful way before, so I was excited and inspired to finally return. But when I arrived, I found that Chinatown had changed in a mid-pandemic world: It was eerily vacant.

Reduced foot traffic due to stay-at-home orders and high rents forced many storefronts to shut-down; hopefully only temporarily, but possibly forever. I was saddened to see so many shops closed, gated, or boarded up. The downturn is tragic by any account, but I find a selfish silver lining: Seeing Chinatown so oddly barren, with only its native residents going about their normal routines, was cathartic. This is Chinatown in a new light, stripped of outsiders (well, myself excluded) and distilled to an everyday “normal” that I’d never experienced before. Even the historically busy open markets of Stockton Street were sparsely populated.

I unpacked my cameras.

Gear-wise, I was well-covered: I brought my trusty Mamiya 7 with a fairly new (at the time) 50mm lens to explore. The wide angle proved beneficial in hindsight, as it allowed me to capture much of the space above Chinatown, such as buildings that stretch high, as well as icons of the San Francisco skyline like the pointed Transamerica Pyramid. For more intimate street-style photography I brought my Nikon L35AF point-and-shoot, a camera I cherish for its on-the-draw autofocus and quality optics. I shot exclusively on color Lomography film (100 ISO for the Nikon, 400 for the Mamiya), with the exception of a single roll of Ferrania P30 black and white that I eagerly loaded into the 35mm camera as soon as I arrived.

Even though I’m a San Francisco resident, I feel comfortably out of place in Chinatown. No one paid me any mind as I began to take pictures. A man sat and read his newspaper on a park bench, never once lifting his head even as I crouched in front of him to compose a shot. Patrons ordered breakfast pastries, either oblivious to my presence or too carefree to acknowledge it. Elsewhere in a public square, students practiced in an ornately-decorated lion costume as I, the only “tourist” present, snapped away, delighted to watch my own personal show. My apparent invisibility allowed me to take the extra time to be more precise with my focusing. I could disregard my typical zone focus approach to street photography and ensure I properly lined up my rangefinder patch.

For what few pockets of people I encountered during my late morning in Chinatown, each scene was full of life and energy. After a year’s worth of pandemic-induced seclusion, re-experiencing Chinatown and embedding myself among its enduring community, safely and with a mask, was exactly what I needed. I found inspiration in shooting Chinatown once again, for the first time.

Our guest posts are submitted by amazing photographers and writers all over the world.

Today's Guest Post was submitted by…

Yameen, a photographer and sifter in the land of fun. Based in San Francisco, California, he is always looking to capture the beautiful, the gritty, the absurd and the unexpected. See Yameen's portfolio on their website here, and on Instagram here.

For more stories behind the images and photography from the community check out the many series we’ve published over the years below!

**Featured Photophile **– we shine a spotlight on amateur photographers whose work we love.

Photographer Interviews – in-depth discussions with professional and established photogs doing great work.

Female Photographers to Follow– get inspired by a monthly series focused on the beautiful and unique perspectives of female photographers.

Five Favorite Photos– a hand-selected examination of the oeuvre of our favorite famous photographers.

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Chinatown is Empty - Shot by Yameen on Lomography and Ferrania Film appeared first on Casual Photophile.

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The Keystone Everflash XR308 and My First Time Shooting 110 Film

We should’ve known better but we didn’t want to. While the entire country was moving south to reach the sea, we joined in and embarked on an odyssey of detours and traffic jams to spend just a couple of hours under the Mediterranean sun. We’d had it with the rain, had it with fresh water. We longed for salt in our eyes and sand in our shoes, counterfeit sunglasses and tourist traps. We were sure we had earned it. But someone or something thought otherwise. After just an hour on the road we encountered our first roadblock.

We were idling between two family vans packed to the brim when a police car bypassed the queue on the opposite lane. Eventually the hand signals of an oncoming driver informed us that the route had turned into a dead end and we had to drive back to were we came from to search for an alternative path to our promised land. As grey clouds traveled over the mountains we looked for a way around them. With our spirits high from wanderlust we put our trust in the front passenger’s navigation skills and went on with our discussion about where we’d eat and what we’d wear at the beach in just a few hours. As we got close to the border the day was coming to an end.

A few kilometers from customs, traffic slowed once again. Understandable, we thought, but we didn’t expect the situation to stay the same after crossing the border. Had we done our research, we would have known. The heavy rainfalls of the last few weeks – the ones we were so desperately trying to get away from – had severely damaged the region we were trying to cross and all traffic had therefore to be diverted onto secondary roads. As we sought our way through one-way streets, looking for green and yellow signs leading us onto the highway, we got a message from our booked accommodation. If we didn’t make it to our destination within an hour, our booking would be cancelled. Impossible.

Being two hours away, we decided to call our hostess. We tried to bewitch her with the gentlest of voices - which turned out to be much easier than we thought, but the worry had already struck our spirits. She told us she wouldn’t be able to welcome us at 3:30 AM, the time by which our navigation system had calculated our arrival, but she’d happily let us in first thing in the morning before going to work. With the pressure gone and three hours of extra time on our hands, we decided to make the best of it and drive straight to the coast, looking for a spot to park and rest.

Along the highway, we stop at a gas station. The loud chirping of crickets and the smell of gasoline finally deliver the first dose of vacation vibes. A warm ocean breeze fills the air inside our car the moment we open the doors. I decide to take my first photograph.

So far my camera of choice had been sleeping on the center console, waiting for the deep black asphalt and sky to give way to something more photogenic. She expected her first duty call for sunrise. Instead, she got a line of caravans and trucks under a street post in the middle of nowhere.

The plasticky body squeaks in my hands. A little pointer inside the viewfinder reminds me to slide aside the lens cover. I hear the flash charging as I flip a switch on the top plate. I always forget to cock the shutter but on this camera my thumb automatically rests on the intended mechanism so I keep it at eye level while I catch up. A gentle press, a ray of light, and the vacation officially begins.

Had I brought any other camera on this trip, it probably would have gone back home with the frame counter unchanged. The cumbersome journey and tiredness have honestly robbed me of my desire to photograph anything. This always happens when I find myself in unpleasant situations. But this is just the right camera to have. It makes it easy enough to (at least) snap something.

And surprisingly, taking an image not worth mentioning gets me hooked to shoot more before we even arrive at the picturesque coastline. I guess the Keystone Everflash XR308 is the perfect camera for the day after a sheer endless journey. It’s perfect for someone who loses interest in everything when something doesn't go according to plan, perfect for a lazy person on a lazy vacation. And to me it also offers the magic of shooting a new format without the fear of screwing up.

When we finally arrive at our accommodation long after sunrise we feel tired but unwilling to waste the day in bed. We switch bermudas for trunks and bras for bikinis and head straight to the beach. Whistling Faithless’ Insomnia in my flip flops with the Keystone Everflash XR308 around my wrist, I have everything I need to survive another day. It’s my first time shooting 110 film and I can’t have found a better occasion.

Standing on the beach with a bottle of beer clamped between my pale, white thighs I take a shot of my friends in their bathing suits and feel a very specific sense of nostalgia come over me, a long lost feeling unexpectedly filling my spirit. This very moment suddenly feels more like a vacation than any trip to far away places I’ve done this year. And I can’t help but think this weirdly shaped, plasticky Keystone camera is somehow responsible for it.

After our first swim in the sea we decide to go for a walk in the city and look for a place to have an aperitivo. Then, we look for another one. We pass by historic sights, cross large squares, get lost in small alleys. Though I’m constantly in awe, I only take a handful of images. And looking back, I really don’t mind. The XR308 wouldn’t have done the scenery any justice anyways. The camera’s lens and 110 film in general is really lo-fi. This, to me, makes it an immensely liberating way of photographing. You’ll shoot just to have a splinter of a memory, nothing more.

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but some cameras definitely make it easier to take meaningful photographs than others. I’ll happily use the XR308 to document for myself, but it’s the wrong format for easily legible photographs to show someone who didn’t live through the captured moments themselves. In a way, the technical weaknesses of this camera and film format bring back a sense of privacy which in my opinion has largely disappeared in photography with ever more perfect equipment.

I really don’t want to talk about any technical aspects of this cheap camera, a camera with the worst shutter button and least precise viewfinder I’ve ever used – mostly because it doesn’t matter, but also because it would distract from its qualities. I want this article to be subjective and unbalanced. Because if it were technical and balanced, you might miss out on an experience I can only recommend.

On Sunday we drive along the coast for a while. Here and there the cloud cover opens up and reveals a deep blue sky. We take advantage of every ray of sunshine to stop and go down to the shore. I keep my camera on my wrist and flick it every now and then. It’s all casual, weightless and fun. Instead of looking for spectacular compositions I just document what catches my eye the way I first see it. No circling around people and waiting for perfect lighting, no body contortions or standing on the tips of my feet to get the shot.

Soon we’ll have to leave again. Once I’m home I won’t store my roll of film for weeks or months before sending it in for development like I usually do. I can’t wait to see the results. There’s excitement, curiosity, a new lust for photography – of all things it’s my cheapest camera to trigger this.

I remove the small cassette and put the XR308 back in its packaging. I don't know when I’ll use the camera next or for what I’ll use it. But after seeing the prints and tiny negatives I just know it won’t have been the last time. I look at the photographs and have to smile. These are pictures of the most tedious weekend trip I've ever had, photographed with the most straightforward camera I've ever held. And to me, the product is perfectly imperfect.

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[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post The Keystone Everflash XR308 and My First Time Shooting 110 Film appeared first on Casual Photophile.

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The Keystone Everflash XR308 and My First Time Shooting 110 Film

We should’ve known better but we didn’t want to. While the entire country was moving south to reach the sea, we joined in and embarked on an odyssey of detours and traffic jams to spend just a couple of hours under the Mediterranean sun. We’d had it with the rain, had it with fresh water. We longed for salt in our eyes and sand in our shoes, counterfeit sunglasses and tourist traps. We were sure we had earned it. But someone or something thought otherwise. After just an hour on the road we encountered our first roadblock.

We were idling between two family vans packed to the brim when a police car bypassed the queue on the opposite lane. Eventually the hand signals of an oncoming driver informed us that the route had turned into a dead end and we had to drive back to were we came from to search for an alternative path to our promised land. As grey clouds traveled over the mountains we looked for a way around them. With our spirits high from wanderlust we put our trust in the front passenger’s navigation skills and went on with our discussion about where we’d eat and what we’d wear at the beach in just a few hours. As we got close to the border the day was coming to an end.

A few kilometers from customs, traffic slowed once again. Understandable, we thought, but we didn’t expect the situation to stay the same after crossing the border. Had we done our research, we would have known. The heavy rainfalls of the last few weeks – the ones we were so desperately trying to get away from – had severely damaged the region we were trying to cross and all traffic had therefore to be diverted onto secondary roads. As we sought our way through one-way streets, looking for green and yellow signs leading us onto the highway, we got a message from our booked accommodation. If we didn’t make it to our destination within an hour, our booking would be cancelled. Impossible.

Being two hours away, we decided to call our hostess. We tried to bewitch her with the gentlest of voices - which turned out to be much easier than we thought, but the worry had already struck our spirits. She told us she wouldn’t be able to welcome us at 3:30 AM, the time by which our navigation system had calculated our arrival, but she’d happily let us in first thing in the morning before going to work. With the pressure gone and three hours of extra time on our hands, we decided to make the best of it and drive straight to the coast, looking for a spot to park and rest.

Along the highway, we stop at a gas station. The loud chirping of crickets and the smell of gasoline finally deliver the first dose of vacation vibes. A warm ocean breeze fills the air inside our car the moment we open the doors. I decide to take my first photograph.

So far my camera of choice had been sleeping on the center console, waiting for the deep black asphalt and sky to give way to something more photogenic. She expected her first duty call for sunrise. Instead, she got a line of caravans and trucks under a street post in the middle of nowhere.

The plasticky body squeaks in my hands. A little pointer inside the viewfinder reminds me to slide aside the lens cover. I hear the flash charging as I flip a switch on the top plate. I always forget to cock the shutter but on this camera my thumb automatically rests on the intended mechanism so I keep it at eye level while I catch up. A gentle press, a ray of light, and the vacation officially begins.

Had I brought any other camera on this trip, it probably would have gone back home with the frame counter unchanged. The cumbersome journey and tiredness have honestly robbed me of my desire to photograph anything. This always happens when I find myself in unpleasant situations. But this is just the right camera to have. It makes it easy enough to (at least) snap something.

And surprisingly, taking an image not worth mentioning gets me hooked to shoot more before we even arrive at the picturesque coastline. I guess the Keystone Everflash XR308 is the perfect camera for the day after a sheer endless journey. It’s perfect for someone who loses interest in everything when something doesn't go according to plan, perfect for a lazy person on a lazy vacation. And to me it also offers the magic of shooting a new format without the fear of screwing up.

When we finally arrive at our accommodation long after sunrise we feel tired but unwilling to waste the day in bed. We switch bermudas for trunks and bras for bikinis and head straight to the beach. Whistling Faithless’ Insomnia in my flip flops with the Keystone Everflash XR308 around my wrist, I have everything I need to survive another day. It’s my first time shooting 110 film and I can’t have found a better occasion.

Standing on the beach with a bottle of beer clamped between my pale, white thighs I take a shot of my friends in their bathing suits and feel a very specific sense of nostalgia come over me, a long lost feeling unexpectedly filling my spirit. This very moment suddenly feels more like a vacation than any trip to far away places I’ve done this year. And I can’t help but think this weirdly shaped, plasticky Keystone camera is somehow responsible for it.

After our first swim in the sea we decide to go for a walk in the city and look for a place to have an aperitivo. Then, we look for another one. We pass by historic sights, cross large squares, get lost in small alleys. Though I’m constantly in awe, I only take a handful of images. And looking back, I really don’t mind. The XR308 wouldn’t have done the scenery any justice anyways. The camera’s lens and 110 film in general is really lo-fi. This, to me, makes it an immensely liberating way of photographing. You’ll shoot just to have a splinter of a memory, nothing more.

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but some cameras definitely make it easier to take meaningful photographs than others. I’ll happily use the XR308 to document for myself, but it’s the wrong format for easily legible photographs to show someone who didn’t live through the captured moments themselves. In a way, the technical weaknesses of this camera and film format bring back a sense of privacy which in my opinion has largely disappeared in photography with ever more perfect equipment.

I really don’t want to talk about any technical aspects of this cheap camera, a camera with the worst shutter button and least precise viewfinder I’ve ever used – mostly because it doesn’t matter, but also because it would distract from its qualities. I want this article to be subjective and unbalanced. Because if it were technical and balanced, you might miss out on an experience I can only recommend.

On Sunday we drive along the coast for a while. Here and there the cloud cover opens up and reveals a deep blue sky. We take advantage of every ray of sunshine to stop and go down to the shore. I keep my camera on my wrist and flick it every now and then. It’s all casual, weightless and fun. Instead of looking for spectacular compositions I just document what catches my eye the way I first see it. No circling around people and waiting for perfect lighting, no body contortions or standing on the tips of my feet to get the shot.

Soon we’ll have to leave again. Once I’m home I won’t store my roll of film for weeks or months before sending it in for development like I usually do. I can’t wait to see the results. There’s excitement, curiosity, a new lust for photography – of all things it’s my cheapest camera to trigger this.

I remove the small cassette and put the XR308 back in its packaging. I don't know when I’ll use the camera next or for what I’ll use it. But after seeing the prints and tiny negatives I just know it won’t have been the last time. I look at the photographs and have to smile. These are pictures of the most tedious weekend trip I've ever had, photographed with the most straightforward camera I've ever held. And to me, the product is perfectly imperfect.

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Chinatown is Empty – Shot by Yameen on Lomography and Ferrania Film

Nestled in San Francisco’s downtown, Chinatown is one of the oldest parts of the city, encompassing a distinctive twenty-four square blocks. It's typically filled with a hustle-and-bustle mix of local residents, office workers hunting for a meal or libation, and tourists wandering about marveling at all of the sights, sounds, and shops. All types of automobiles pack its modest one-way streets: city buses, delivery trucks, Ubers and Lyfts more recently. Or so it was before Covid.

For the first year of the pandemic, I avoided traveling to San Francisco’s busy downtown; the last place I wanted to be was among a lot of people. But in March of 2021 with a national vaccine rollout just around the corner and a daily routine of face-masks and precaution, I felt safe enough to pack my cameras and head downtown. And frankly, it was about damn time: I missed this massive part of San Francisco that I had been abstaining from visiting. Somewhat shockingly as a photographer, I’d never taken pictures of Chinatown in any meaningful way before, so I was excited and inspired to finally return. But when I arrived, I found that Chinatown had changed in a mid-pandemic world: It was eerily vacant.

Reduced foot traffic due to stay-at-home orders and high rents forced many storefronts to shut-down; hopefully only temporarily, but possibly forever. I was saddened to see so many shops closed, gated, or boarded up. The downturn is tragic by any account, but I find a selfish silver lining: Seeing Chinatown so oddly barren, with only its native residents going about their normal routines, was cathartic. This is Chinatown in a new light, stripped of outsiders (well, myself excluded) and distilled to an everyday “normal” that I’d never experienced before. Even the historically busy open markets of Stockton Street were sparsely populated.

I unpacked my cameras.

Gear-wise, I was well-covered: I brought my trusty Mamiya 7 with a fairly new (at the time) 50mm lens to explore. The wide angle proved beneficial in hindsight, as it allowed me to capture much of the space above Chinatown, such as buildings that stretch high, as well as icons of the San Francisco skyline like the pointed Transamerica Pyramid. For more intimate street-style photography I brought my Nikon L35AF point-and-shoot, a camera I cherish for its on-the-draw autofocus and quality optics. I shot exclusively on color Lomography film (100 ISO for the Nikon, 400 for the Mamiya), with the exception of a single roll of Ferrania P30 black and white that I eagerly loaded into the 35mm camera as soon as I arrived.

Even though I’m a San Francisco resident, I feel comfortably out of place in Chinatown. No one paid me any mind as I began to take pictures. A man sat and read his newspaper on a park bench, never once lifting his head even as I crouched in front of him to compose a shot. Patrons ordered breakfast pastries, either oblivious to my presence or too carefree to acknowledge it. Elsewhere in a public square, students practiced in an ornately-decorated lion costume as I, the only “tourist” present, snapped away, delighted to watch my own personal show. My apparent invisibility allowed me to take the extra time to be more precise with my focusing. I could disregard my typical zone focus approach to street photography and ensure I properly lined up my rangefinder patch.

For what few pockets of people I encountered during my late morning in Chinatown, each scene was full of life and energy. After a year’s worth of pandemic-induced seclusion, re-experiencing Chinatown and embedding myself among its enduring community, safely and with a mask, was exactly what I needed. I found inspiration in shooting Chinatown once again, for the first time.

Our guest posts are submitted by amazing photographers and writers all over the world.

Today's Guest Post was submitted by…

Yameen, a photographer and sifter in the land of fun. Based in San Francisco, California, he is always looking to capture the beautiful, the gritty, the absurd and the unexpected. See Yameen's portfolio on their website here, and on Instagram here.

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The Beauty of Pen y Fan on Kodak Portra

A few months ago, my oldest friend Tara asked me if I wanted to walk up a big hill in Wales for the Alzheimer’s Society. It’s a cause that's close to both our hearts, as dementia has affected our families over the years, so of course I agreed and immediately started looking at water bladders for hiking backpacks. How hard could I be, I thought - if it’s for charity, surely anyone can do it? In my haze of spending money on expensive anti-blister socks and pestering friends for donations, I missed the fact that we would be walking up Pen y Fan, the highest peak in south Wales. Standing an impressive 2,907ft above sea level, and used as a training ground for the UK’s Special Forces, I probably should have been a little more cautious.

I’ve known Tara since I was 14 years old, and one of our greatest pleasures in life is egging each other on. We have a shared love of the outdoors too, having spent our teenage years buying illicit wine to drink in parks (that counts as outdoorsy, in the suburbs of Surrey). On a bright, hazy late summer morning, we set off together from Bristol for the hour-and-a-half drive into Wales - over the bridge and up through winding and increasingly picturesque roads towards the Brecon Beacons.

Upon arriving in the small town of Brecon, we met up with Tara’s uncle, also along for the trek, munched on our complimentary pastries and blew on cups of tea as each group of hikers set off in half hour intervals. We had opted for the 13 mile route, a half marathon - estimated to take between six and eight hours. Finally, we shuffled together into our starting group and trotted through the starting gates at 9.30am.

The walk through Brecon itself was uneventful - it’s a typical small rural town, with a couple of pubs, some takeaways and an old concrete bridge over the River Usk, described when it was built as “functional and safe, but extremely ugly.” It might not win any awards for beauty, but it did the job as we tramped up out of the town and towards the base of Pen y Fan.

Our early route took us through lush woodland, just heating up at the start of the day. We followed a route along a small stream, spreading out to sheep-grazed pastures scattered with granite rocks as we started our climb. Our first rest stop (time for a sandwich, toilet break and to refill our water bladders) nestled at the base of the mountain, and I remember thinking “ah, this isn’t so bad!” as we picked ourselves up and set off once more.

Of course, this enthusiasm was short-lived, as the climb up the mountain got steeper and steeper. The heat of the midday sun, combined with an increasingly dense cloud of insects following us up the trail, eventually started to wear me down. Looking back at our progress was satisfying as we climbed higher, but the way ahead didn’t seem to diminish at all - each small peak conquered was replaced by another, looming in the distance. I tried to distract myself from thoughts of “I hate walking, why did I decide to go outdoors, what if I can’t go on and they have to airlift me off the mountain” by taking a few photos along the way - I’d brought my old faithful, the Olympus XA4 that I’ve written about previously on Casual Photophile. Loaded with my last roll of Kodak Portra 400, it luckily weighs hardly anything - perfect for hiking.

With some gentle encouragement from my bestie (“Pull yourself together, you absolute walnut”) I managed to get past my fears of being stuck on the side of a mountain, doomed to be consumed by flies, and made it to the last scramble before the top of Pen y Fan. It’s an almost vertical climb up a rock face, during which I definitely heard some of the other hikers swearing under their breath, culminating in some of the best views anywhere in the UK. We sat and dangled our feet over the edge of the world and looked out over breathtaking valleys, a little bit emotional at how far we’d come together, and the reason for the climb.

The summit of Pen y Fan is marked by a National Trust plaque atop a bronze age stone cairn that would have once held human remains. Now, it’s mostly used for selfies - a polite queue had formed of people happily waiting to get their snapshot of the day (the British are nothing if not predictable). We decided in less polite terms that we didn’t want to get to the top of the world and then stand in a queue, so we set off down the other side, for the long gradual descent back down.

After the grueling climb up, the way down was a welcome relief - we rounded the base of the second peak of Pen y Fan, Corn Du, and carried on skirting the mountain until we reached another wide, wonderful valley. Stopping here for a sit down and some bara brith, we watched the other hikers on our trek pass us by. Old and young, fit and not so fit, all out enjoying the last of the summer for a good cause. Our route took us past a glacial lake in the distance, Llyn Cwm Llwch, as we daydreamed about going for an ice cold dip.

As our path leveled out and I reflected on how I’d never stubbed my toes so much in a single day, our boots hit asphalt again. The road back into Brecon at the end of our walk seemed never-ending, and it was after a total of nine and a half hours that we eventually crossed the finish line. Tired and sore, we nevertheless downed our celebratory glass of bubbly and had a lie down in the cool grass as the sun started to set.

I’m hugely proud that we made it, especially since I’ve spent the last two years sitting on my bum at home. We’ve already decided to sign up for another trek in Cumbria next year, and I’ll be bringing the XA4 along then, too - it’s the perfect camera for a trip like this: one you don’t have to think about to use, and that weighs about as much as the can of bug spray I forgot to bring. Next time we’ll be better-prepared (more training beforehand!), but this walk was the perfect end to our summer.

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What I Learned Shooting My Vacation on Film

My family and I just returned from a vacation, our first trip away after a truly challenging couple of years. During the trip I made 360-odd photos on film, and I learned some lessons in the process. Some of these lessons I've known for years. Some I only recently discovered. Some were learned the easy way and some were a bit more… painful.

Here's everything that I learned shooting my vacation on film.

Expired Film is Terrible

Here I am again, complaining about expired film. This is nothing new. I complained about it here, in a fever dream of hilarious pain and suffering. In another fun article I satirically skewered expired film with my rapier wit (and only one guy missed the self-deprecating joke). Even when expired film didn't totally ruin every photo I made, as in this article penned last summer, I made sure to whine and cry about shooting the stuff.

Why, then, did I think it would be a good idea to bring nothing but expired film on the first vacation that my family and I would take in over two years? Oh, that's right, because I'm very stupid.

And so it was last month, with very few brain cells, that I loaded into my carry-on bag ten rolls of various types of expired film just prior to boarding a plane to Florida. Slide film, C41 color, black-and-white; I brought it all and shot it all through two (a record low quantity) film cameras during my time away with the family. Just yesterday my scans arrived from the lab by email, and you 'll never guess what happened next!

You probably guessed.

I was disappointed.

The lab notes said it all - "You were working with some old film here, so expect the usual; low contrast, tons of grain, color shifts and bad exposures." I opened the folders and, sure enough, found low contrast, tons of grain, color shifts and bad exposures.

Over the next five hours I did everything I could to salvage the best of the shots in Lightroom, and some of the photos have ended up… fine. I might even like some of them - wow. But getting these shots to where they are now took major adjustments. And there's no escaping the truth that the shots that I like would be liked a lot more had they been shot on new film or with a digital camera. They'd be crisp and sharp and pop with vibrancy and beautiful colors and tonality and show ultra-fine grain and oh, can you imagine? Well, you'll have to imagine. Because the shots I got, ain't it.

Expired film can, of course, be a beautiful medium. But its unpredictability and unreliability, its extremely low hit rate, and its high cost (why are people selling expired film for more than fresh film?) make it a no-go for me in any but the most frivolous situations. I should've learned my lesson years ago, and maybe I have by now - expired film sometimes , but never when the photo matters.

One Lens Only, Please

From one hard lesson to one which I've finally internalized after seven years of shooting cameras professionally. I only need one lens.

Over the past seven years I've packed my bag for trips like this one with way too many cameras and lenses. I'd bring the wide-angle prime for that perfect landscape photo. The standard fast fifty for when the light gets low and I need that bokeh. I'd pack the telephoto zoom to take a specific shot of a specific lion on the Animal Kingdom safari, knowing well that the lazy king of the jungle would be sleeping under a shade rock just out of sight every time our ridiculous safari truck rambled on by. I recall one year I even brought a tilt-shift lens, which sat unused in the air-conditioned hotel room for the entirety of the trip.

Well, this time I brought one lens. Just one. For ten days away from home. And I couldn't be happier with that choice.

Less to pack. Less to carry. Less to worry about. And as long as I chose the right lens, the right focal length, I'd miss nothing by bringing just one chunk of glass on a family trip away.

It took me a while to find my single favorite lens from within my favorite focal length. But now that I have, there's no going back. I'll never travel without it. But more importantly, I'll probably never travel with anything else.

Slide Film is Best Film

Experience has taught me, as mentioned, that expired film is bad. And in my experience, the worst of the bad is expired slide film. I don't think I've ever made a single good photo from a roll of expired slide film (and I've tried many times). Which is why, when I was shooting the single roll of slide film which I brought with me on this particular vacation, I actively thought with every shot "Ahh, another terrible photo."

The phrase became my mantra, repeated with a psychotic, unhinged smile. Click! "Another terrible photo…" Click! "Another terrible photo…"

Well, time has once again proven that I'm a moron. The best photos from my ten rolls of expired film all came from that single roll of expired slide film - a roll of Kodak Ektachrome E100VS (Vivid Saturation) which expired in 2014. Who could have guessed?

I can't explain it. But I do know this - slide film is great! Even the shots from this long-dead film are great! Which leads me to think that, had this been fresh, new slide film, the shots would be damn-near stunning, even with a ham-fisted, brainless sack of oatmeal like me holding the camera.

Next vacation I'll consider bringing nothing but new slide film and see how we do. The operative word in that sentence being "new."

One Camera Only, Please

There's nothing better for creating great photos than to have a perfect understanding of the camera in your hands. I don't care what camera it is, if you don't know how to use it fast and without conscious thought your photos will be bad (or at least not as good as they could be).

I've written before about how to cheat at film photography. And the biggest cheat is to use a camera that gets out of your way and lets you focus on making the photo. That's what I did on this vacation (for the most part). I brought my favorite camera, the one that I use when I want to make a good photo, the one that feels just perfect in my hands and does everything I need.

There were no instances during the trip in which I was looking down at the camera in my hands wondering how to make it do this, or that. I never accidentally shot in the wrong mode, never accidentally forgot to set the ISO, never picked the wrong shutter speed or aperture, and never took a photo with the lens cap still on (because lens caps are for nerds and I didn't use one - also, it's an SLR).

The camera just worked, which in turn allowed me to just work. And more importantly, it allowed me to take pictures fast so that I could get back to having fun with my kids. When picking your next camera, eschew complication and style and instead use the camera that just works (for you)!

The Last Lesson

2020 was not a great year. Despite a positive attitude and a generally forward-marching personal philosophy, I suffered major setbacks. I won't complain or repeat what I've already written about previously, and I acknowledge that plenty of people have had a harder time recently than I have. But I'd be lying if I pretended that the past year wasn't a killer.

Political upheaval in the country where I live, natural disasters, societal unrest, doom and death and end of days, a chilled bag of misery intravenously drip-fed into us by a destructive industrial news complex where numbers mean everything, bad news sells, and conflict means clicks. And all of it somehow harder to take during an isolating pandemic which replaced friends and family with the cold glow of our laptop's and phone's screens.

Worse than all of that, for me and my wife, was a jarring personal loss.

It's easy to lose sight of what matters in life, with the crowding crush of the world relentlessly pressing in from all sides upon our own tiny lives. And when the strength to push back leaves us, when we're tired and sad and depleted, there's nothing else to be done - we get crushed under it. We suffocate. Or we find some strength and push back.

This vacation, one where I took 360-odd photos, 70 of which might be decent, has helped me push back on the saddest year of my life. The trip was magic, the photography (a hobby which I've not engaged with in any real capacity in over a year) was fresh and useful. And looking through these photos for the first time last night reminded me of a lesson I've known for years, but had nearly forgotten - photography is good, and nothing matters more than family.

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The Story Behind the Mask – Guest Post by Adil Sheikh

Phone. Passport. Camera and film. Mask.

The luggage of any photographer planning to travel abroad has taken on a new essential. But after the tumultuous period we’ve all been through, I wasn’t going to complain about having to wear a piece of cloth around my nose and mouth for a breath of fresh air. After all, nine days in the Basque country with my trusted Canon AV-1 and a few rolls (okay, perhaps more than a few) of Portra 400 and Kodak Tri-X was exactly the new lease on life I had been craving.

Before we get there, a word on San Sebastian - it’s a beautiful city with a hypnotic lure. The famous fresh food, the enormous bays, the captivating old town, the utopian landscape; they draw you in and make you question why you aren't indulging in this high quality of life 365 days a year. Exploring with my Canon, it felt like an impossible task to do it (and my photogenic friends) justice.

But the enchantment only carried me so far before I started thinking about what we’ve all just been through.

Day one of any new setting, let alone the north of Spain, is a struggle in restraint for any photographer. It takes an effort to keep from ripping through a roll before lunch. But one frame caught my eye. I noticed two women on a bench with a beautiful backdrop, and I started painting their story.

Matching the excitement of two teenagers, their energy gave the sense that this was the reunion they had been waiting for. The beauty of their connection translates through the image. It was refreshing to see that spark between them, but it was bittersweet because it was also my first harrowing reminder of the pandemic which we have just lived through.

A few blissful days passed. At the start of a hike to a neighboring fishing village, composed like a still frame taken out of a Wes Anderson flick, I saw a man sitting on a bench. Alone, his body language gave the sense of dejection and, again, it felt like there was an intriguing story to be told. Maybe it was my gray perception (due to you-know-what), but the old man looked deflated, healing from a loss that changed everything for him. His isolation engulfed the lens, and once again I was exposed to another stark reminder of the unprecedented few years gone.

I pushed these melancholy thoughts to the back of my mind. Another couple days of unshackled freedom and guilt-free experiences. Near the end of our trip, we got a bus back to Bilbao for our flight home the following morning. Before we left, we visited the Guggenheim museum, home to some of the most internationally renowned modern and contemporary art. The creative structure of the building was, itself, mesmeric.

After a little while in the museum, the feeling had started to creep back in. The overarching emptiness due to Covid protocols filled the rooms and I caught myself dwelling on that instead of the prestigious, evocative art that surrounded me. I didn’t plan to use my camera too much within the museum, but one moment screamed out to me.

One Hundred and Fifty Multicoloured Marilyns , an expressive painting by Andy Warhol, looking back at my friend, gazing at the faces. The foreground of the image is bordered by the bleak reminder of a reality where two strangers are not yet supposed to be within close proximity of each other. Warhol’s painting portrays an ominous reflection of mortality. The thick red color scheme is striking to me. The juxtaposition of a hundred and fifty faces, against one Ben on a socially distanced bench, again brought to life this constant reminder of a new world we are living in.

The message I am trying to get across (and the lesson I was trying to avoid) is this:

I went to Spain in search of a holiday that preceded a life of Covid. What I realized, what I learned through the beauty of a lens and perspective, was that Covid’s mark on this new world is irreversible, whether I like it or not. The masks of the subjects in each story are metaphors for the picture’s narrative - whether that’s joy, pain, beauty or loneliness. Social distancing and rules will eventually disappear, but the scars left behind are more permanent than I realized. That’s a recent acceptance to which I am still adjusting.

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