A Reverence for Film.
It has been years since I loaded a camera with film to take a picture. Not because I have given up taking pictures, far from it, in the past 2 years I have shot more than 20,000 frames.
But film, especially black and white negative film has a quality no digital camera can reproduce. Not the image itself, but the magical, delicate, scratchable, light sensitive miracle material which allowed George Eastman to say shortly after inventing the stuff, “You take the picture we do the rest.”
I think I was born wanting to take pictures. I was always fascinated by the capturing of images, and had my first success with a Polaroid Camera in 1965, when on an overnight trip with my 6th grade class, I shot an extravagant 20 pictures. They were candid shots and some of the only images I have made I can not find (I tell myself – as yet). It was 2 years a later I was introduced to ‘real’ film, the kind you have to develop in the dark – tricky cookbook stuff. I was hooked.
I was given a light proof plastic developing tank by my cousin Richie, and a 35 mm camera by another family friend. I had learned how to develop film at Camp Minnowbrook, and I was determined to try it at home. But before I could make a picture, I would have to be able to work in absolute darkness to transfer the exposed film onto a plastic reel, then place the reel in the special light proof developing tank – even before I could pour in the magic elixir of chemicals which would render a negative image on the sprocketed 35mm wide strip.
It was a hot fall day, and I needed a to find a place in my house which was totally light proof. I could locate only one spot, inside a closet at the right top of the stairs in our 2 storey ‘cape cod’ suburban house. The closet was actually a section of attic, which had remained unfinished when a dormer had been added to the second floor. There were nails sticking through the roof where shingles had been nailed into place. The door itself was miniature, perhaps 16 inches wide, with a special latch, which lay flat against the wall. There wasn’t even room for a typical doorknob. I opened the door and was struck by the 100 plus degree heat, then pulled the string that operated a light fixture screwed into a 2x4 on the wall running along the stairway I had ascended.
I pulled the closet door closed behind me, and with the light shining, made a space on the floor to place the black plastic developing tank, the roll of 35 mm film in its metal sealed container, a ‘church key’ bottle opener I was going to use to pop open the film can and a scissor. I crouched down in the tiny space. Then I pulled the string and the lights went out.
For the first few moments I wasn’t sure if it was really dark enough. It took several minutes for my night vision to work and since I could not see my hands, I decided to “do it.” Years later, in darkrooms at home, at high school and in college I could execute these steps deftly, ‘seeing’ in the dark. But this was the first time and I was sweating it, literally and figuratively.
I groped the floor in front of me. I found the film can easily enough and tried to orient it in my left hand, so when I succeeded in removing one end of the diminutive container, I would know which way the film was facing.
I found and picked up the can opener, and ever so carefully fitted the tiny lip of the bottle opener side to the edge of the film can. My hands were already wet with sweat, and it was hard to get purchase on the edge of the film can. For several minutes, I made no progress, even slipping, scraping my left fingers with the sharp edge of the tiny lever, then silently, the end of the film can pealed back. I dropped the opener and used my right hand to bend the end of the film can back, then dropped it on the floor.
Now I had to remove the 1” diameter spool on which was rolled about 30 inches of film, and not drop anything. No mistakes, “You can’t turn on the light.”, I reminded myself. I held the spool gingerly in my left hand, with the film still wrapped tightly in my fingers. I had seen rolls of film in daylight just unwind and become tangled, and I didn’t want that to happen. I reached for the scissors I had carefully placed at the right edge of the work area. For a moment, I considered my luck at being ambidextrous, given that scissors don’t work well left handed. Then, still holding the scissors, I found the end of the roll of film. Thirty five millimeter film was cut especially narrow at the end of the roll to assist in feeding the film into the camera. The first few inches, which had been exposed to daylight during the loading of the camera, would have to be cut off for the film to be transferred to the plastic reel. I felt for the end of the roll of film, and found it, tracing the die cut 3” section with my hands, and even more carefully arranged the scissors to be perpendicular to the film to make the cut. I started to cut the film, when just like that I dropped the spool, and the remaining 2 feet of film unwound on the floor in front of me. I could hear it, and to my horror saw the tiniest glint of reflection from the shiny side of the film. “@#$%^!!”, I said to myself, and looking up, I thought I could see light leaking in from the far side of the attic.
My concerns about light contamination were put aside. Afterall, I could not see well enough to see what I was doing, what were the chances of spoiling the film? I reached down and gingerly felt for the end of the film, pulling the perforated ribbon between my fingers until I found the sharp edges I had just made with the scissor. Then using the technique I had practiced with a piece of used film in the light, fed the end of the plastic strip into the open end of the plastic spool. This was supposed to be easy. It wasn’t. The film bent and buckled. My hands were slippery. Finally the film felt as though it were aligned, and as I had been taught, I wiggled the ends of the plastic spool back and forth, feeding the film into the spiraling spool. This action wound the film onto the spool with a slight space separating each successive wrapping of the film. This was supposed to be easy. Yeah, right. Finally the end of the film strip was in my right hand and attached to it, the original small spool on which the film had been wound in the canister. I struggled to peel off the tiny piece of masking tape (another skill I would learn later – only to be amazed a the glow of sparks generated with masking tape is removed from plastic) and finding that impossible tore the spool free of the bitter end of the film strip, wrapping was left of the strip around the larger plastic spool, so it could be inserted into the special light proof (‘light tight’) container.
I slid the 3 inch diameter spool into the black plastic container, and found the lid. I tried several times to screw the lid down, each time being uncertain I had it correct, then redoing the movement to reassure myself. “NO TURNING ON THE LIGHT!,” I thought silently. By now my legs were cramping, the minuscule amount of light was beginning to show details if I looked up at the ceiling. Perhaps 10 minutes had elapsed, but without a glow-in-the-dark watch, I was uncertain. I took a breath and pulled the string.
The 75 watt bulb seemed blinding. After a moment I could see well enough to know that, well yes, the film was in developing tank and the lid was correctly affixed. I reached over my right shoulder and opened the closet door, and carefully placing the developing tank in front of me, got to my feet and stepped out.
Down in our basement, where I had set up my chemicals for developing the film, I followed the step-by-step instructions, all the while hoping I had wound the film onto the spool correctly. I knew if any of the surface of the film touch another surface, no chemicals would come in contact with the precious emulsion and the image would not develop correctly in that spot.
I could hardly wait to see the results, but this was not Polaroid “instant” film. First I poured in the ‘developer’, then spun the small handle which protruded through the light tight cover of the developing tank. Some minutes later I drained the developer and using water from the tap, filed and emptied the tank several times to rinse the surface of the film and poured in “stop bath” chemical, a dilute solution of acetic acid. The acrid smell of vinegar which I would later always associate with photography, filled my senses.
I swished the film back and forth inside the canister – hoping I had measured the temperature of the developer correctly, and allowed the film to sit in the chemical long enough, once the stop bath was added, there was no going back – then poured the stop bath down the drain. It was time to pour in the 3rd and final chemical, something called, “hypo” – which would permanently fix the (hopefully properly exposed and developed) image onto the film. I poured in the measured amount and again agitated the film, swishing the spool back and forth – hoping the fixer had done its job, because film remained light sensitive until it was fixed. I stopped and poured out the chemical. Now I could remove the lid. I did.
I placed the canister under the faucet in the laundry room sink and turned on the water, rinsing residual fixer away. I knew the very chemical which fixed the image on the film would turn white and destroy the image if left on the film to dry. A minute later, I reached in and removed the spool with the film wound around it – just right. I carefully grasped the sides of the spool and wiggled them back and forth while pulling them apart on the axel which formed the spool. They slide apart, and the wet film was suddenly in my hands. I couldn’t wait any longer. Dripping water, I lifted the strip above my head so I could look through it into the fluorescent bulbs above me.
There they were, 24 perfect tiny images in black and white - reversed, negative and perfectly magical. I was struck with the same thrill all photographers in the age of film received when viewing their magical images. I had done what no mortal can do any other way; stopped time, frozen a moment, locked the future and past into a single momentary NOW, which would last as long as the film remained on this earth.
It comes as no surprise that, some hours later when I made a positive image on photographic paper of the film strip, a “contact sheet”. I brought that print to my bed with me that night, so I could stare at the tiny positive images as I went to bed.
And as I write this, just to my left, whirrs my digital scanner, once again transferring those images I captured 40 years ago. The film is just as magical as it was then, tiny negative images appearing now on my 30 inch computer screen, revealing a moment in time forever captured. A moment of reverence.
