Beauty and the faulty batch of Kodak | Olivier S. Meier

The thing about film photography is that it bares reality in its rawest, most uncontrollable form. It soaks up 'life moments' like a parched earth in the aftermath of a storm. There's a primitive quality, untamed and genuine, stripped of the glare of digital perfection.

But if it's really all that, why does it feel like it's been lying on its deathbed for nearly two decades? Why did the digital image drown the analog?

Is it the immediacy? The ability to seize a moment in time and examine it right there and then.

Is it the certainty found in each pixel of an image. The very pixels you're staring at right now?

Does it matter that "digitality" doesn't replicate the thrill of shooting blindly, not chimping, not knowing... did you nail it? Did you shoot what your mind's eye saw? Did she blink or did I catch that sparkle in her eye? You're left in the dark, at least for a while.

There's a magic there. In the faulty batch of Kodak. In the misfired shot of Velvia. In the uncertainty & suspense. In the anticipation of having your exposure, expose itself to you. Something digital precision misses and almost ironcially is painstakingly doctored back into it pristine perfection.

Why all the hassle? Why not just shoot film?

It can't just be a fear of imperfection. I don't think.

Yet, often it seems we, humans, are drawn to normalization and generalization.

And while this paves the path for progress, it is in the beautiful chaos of imperfection, the uncertainty of a captured moment, that one of the souls of photography truly lives in.

Whether you shoot digital or film... it pays to remember, the beauty of the world, much like the charm of film, is not in perfection, but in the unique quirks that make each frame, each moment, irreplaceable.

Because more often than not, it is in the world's irregularities where beauty is aplenty to be found.

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Film photographer Olivier Meier is based in Switzerland. See more of his work and connect with him on his website, on his YouTube, on Instagram, and on Twitter.

Only Way is North | Wing Hong Leung

It was 3:24 pm on a Friday, 8th of July 2022. As every worker in a white collar begins to appreciate the ever-lingering movement of the minute hand, most of them realise their weekend daydreams might just come to fruition, given it’s the 28th weekend of the year.

A commonly accepted truth is this - the wall clock moves slower if you stare at it. 

A sudden teams inbox message requesting an audio call came slightly too late for my comfort; perhaps it’s the loose ends that need tying again.

Two things resulted from that audio call:

  1. My plan for the foreseeable week is cancelled

  2. I am going to Cape York, Australia. This coming Sunday.

Feeling surrealistic as I had to make travel arrangements, I spent most of my Saturday ignoring that a whirlwind road trip is imminent. Perhaps old Orwell was right- “Ignorance is strength.”

I reluctantly packed a small set of gear on a loan of good faith by my friend Samuel. The kit consisted of the following which I managed to fit in a single SLR carry bag

  1. Minolta Cle 

  2. 40mm f2.0 m-rokkor

  3. 28mm Leica Elmarit f/2.8 v2

  4. 90mm Leica Elmarit f/2.8

  5. Cable release

The only thing certain on the day of the trip was this-

The Only Way is North.

I flew from Townsville to Cairns and drove the rest of the way. Approximately 10 hours’ drive in total. Summary observations on my leg of the drive are as follows:

  1. Quaid Dam's reflection was utterly calming; the realisation of the road trip has settled into the core of my body

  2. After Mt Molly, the roads begin to become narrow and winding. But at random times, it would straighten out far as the eyes can see

  3. The roads became red after Laura and fuel was getting expensive

4. An Oasis forms surrounding the Hann’s River Roadhouse, which I photographed as the light which spilled on the red dirt turned yellow

5. As the dust cuts through the bush, the skies turned pink at Musgrave.

Throughout the week I was there, a surge of energy would rush into me upon knock off to explore and see the surroundings of Archer River.

There is an interesting dynamic and perhaps a relationship in which I, myself, cannot draw the lines, whether it puts me in an existential debate or it has become the very thing I refuse to think about it at night for the betterment of one’s sleep.

The presence of a construction site shows the full might of man and machine that exists on downstream of the Archer River:

And a pure example of juxtapositioning in public display: the remnants of the frontiers, yet to be touched by man:

Even now, I can’t help but wonder what parts of the remnants of the frontiers should we leave alone; perhaps we have seen enough for one life. Every step I took upstream felt strange as if the whisper of the wind was telling me I was leaving my world for another. But what about the people? Cape York is known to be flooded for the majority of the wet season, improving its road's flood immunity is crucial for those who reside there. 

On my journey back to Cairns, the very question lingered in my mind.

And right now, I still don’t have the answer,

Perhaps I never knew the question 

Maybe it’s not for me to answer

All photos are taken on Wik, Kaantju and Wikampama land, the traditional custodians of the land where Archer River is.

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Film photographer Wing Hong Leung is based in Townsville Australia. See more of his work on Instagram.

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Soledad | Kevin Provost

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I was looking at the photos I had taken and this quote from Mexico’s acclaimed poet Octavio Paz came to mind:

“To live is to be separated from what we were in order to approach what we are going to be in the mysterious future. Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone, and the only one who seeks out another."

I freelance as a TV camera operator. I had worked on a number of food and travel shows, and in 2015 I joined the crew of the PBS “Pati’s Mexican Table.” Every year we would travel to a new region of Mexico and spend a few weeks exploring the area. As was often the case, while on these work trips I was carrying around my Ricoh GR1, a small point and shoot 35mm film camera.

I started using point and shoots on my trips because I knew I couldn't pass up the chance at documenting my travels in some way, but when you're carrying a television camera around all day, and all your thoughts are about shooting, the last thing you want to do is repeat the same process the moment you put the other camera down. I realized if I was using a point and shoot, there was no technical thinking on my part, I could just grab a shot and not have to go into my work mindset. It’s probably the most instinctual process I’ve ever done as a photographer. I see a moment and capture it. No thinking. Not worrying about menus, what lens I have on, if the battery needs to be charged, and since I have a limited supply of film, I’m usually just taking one picture and I can’t check to see if I liked it immediately. It’s a real pure way to capture a moment and only be thinking about the moment itself.

I especially loved doing this in Mexico, where things are so vibrant and beautiful while being weathered and used. I love the juxtaposing aesthetic that I seem to find there. I had no grand plan with the photos, they were merely things that caught my eye and I was so busy with work there, I never had much time to think about what kind of images I was collecting.

It wasn’t until the boredom of the pandemic lockdown that I actually looked at the images with some thought. I had over five years worth of trips to Mexico and as I looked at them all as a whole, I couldn’t believe how much they felt in tune with each other. Perhaps it was the state of the lockdown, or the perspective of a foreigner in a new land, or something I unconsciously seek out, but I noticed all the images had an inherent loneliness to them. Quiet scenes of a place or short moments with someone alone, they had a solitude to them. I thought of the poem I referenced before and the whole thing screamed “book” to me.

I had never self-published anything before, but the idea of sharing these moments in this new context got me really excited. The process of finding a publisher that could give me a good quality book while keeping the cost at a minimum took a long time, but after months of test books I finally found someone I was happy with. Two hundred books off the presses and here we are! I’m so excited for people to see these images and enjoy the quiet journey each page turn gives.

Photos made with a Ricoh GR1 and Kodak Portra 400.

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See more of film photographer Kevin Provost’s work on his website - where you can also snap up a copy of his book! Connect with him on his Instagram, too.