This is the story of a film. A black and White film. An unwanted artefact. A relic of technology.
This is the story of a Pentacon Praktica BC3 and a 1: 1.8 lens, focus 50mm. It was lent to me by a
friend who has recently managed to capture a shooting star on film.
This is the story of a journey. Through London. Through people in London. Through my imagination.
And my memory.
This is what happens when the world goes faster and analog photography is not enough.
This is a strip of plastic film, with gelatin emulsion on one side and crystals on the other.
This is what we used to use. Everyday. Before our telephone starts taking pictures.
Before.
This story will unfold. These twenty-four pictures will go to the darkroom. These pictures will be released. And revealed.
This is also my story. But only this part will be autobiographical.
The rest will draw from elsewhere.
It starts because I moved house. And packed boxes. Again.
I moved houses several times in the last thirty-one years.
Fourteen times.
Many houses.
Five villages.
Three cities.
Three countries.
Two boats.
These days, living on a canal in London town, I don't stay long in a neighbourhood no more.
I am a mover.
I always carry a bag.
I am happier with the weight of the essential belongings on my shoulder, feeling the sweat of the weight running along the spine, salt-whitening my black tee-shirt.
Always on the move.
What comes to my mind now, is the downside of moving.
Losing things.
I have lost many many items. I can still picture in my head the toys I never found after I moved from the Auvergne region to the Rhône valley. I was nine.
So when I moved to my first boat, after I left my beloved flat in Hackney, on Lower Clapton road, I was expecting it. Losing things.
Nay!
I found a black and white film. An undeveloped Ilford black and white film, ISO 125/22°.
In a box. I did not remember packing it at the time. It must have been there a while, I thought.
I forgot again.
And I remembered. So I took it with me.
I went to different places. To develop it.
The answer was always the same:
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
Snappy Snaps on Upper Street, Islington.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
Jessop Photo Video Center on New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
The ID photoshop on the Strand.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
Lomography Gallery Store, on Newburgh Street, Soho.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
The chemist on Russell Square, borough of Camden, amateur darkroom enthusiast, recommended by the previous deceitful film revealer.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
I kept the film then; intact.
A few years have passed now. I am ready to develop them. Without chemicals or artificial exposition.
I'll just open the box and see what comes out.
A miniature Pandora's box.
I am looking at it right now. It is mysterious and black and white.
I must tell the tales of these twenty-four pictures taken one day or another, showing something clear or blury, a landscape, a friend or more, a place, a moment, a woman, a band... recalling an instant in the history of my eyes.
B.
This is the story of a Pentacon Praktica BC3 and a 1: 1.8 lens, focus 50mm. It was lent to me by a
friend who has recently managed to capture a shooting star on film.
This is the story of a journey. Through London. Through people in London. Through my imagination.
And my memory.
This is what happens when the world goes faster and analog photography is not enough.
This is a strip of plastic film, with gelatin emulsion on one side and crystals on the other.
This is what we used to use. Everyday. Before our telephone starts taking pictures.
Before.
This story will unfold. These twenty-four pictures will go to the darkroom. These pictures will be released. And revealed.
This is also my story. But only this part will be autobiographical.
The rest will draw from elsewhere.
It starts because I moved house. And packed boxes. Again.
I moved houses several times in the last thirty-one years.
Fourteen times.
Many houses.
Five villages.
Three cities.
Three countries.
Two boats.
These days, living on a canal in London town, I don't stay long in a neighbourhood no more.
I am a mover.
I always carry a bag.
I am happier with the weight of the essential belongings on my shoulder, feeling the sweat of the weight running along the spine, salt-whitening my black tee-shirt.
Always on the move.
What comes to my mind now, is the downside of moving.
Losing things.
I have lost many many items. I can still picture in my head the toys I never found after I moved from the Auvergne region to the Rhône valley. I was nine.
So when I moved to my first boat, after I left my beloved flat in Hackney, on Lower Clapton road, I was expecting it. Losing things.
Nay!
I found a black and white film. An undeveloped Ilford black and white film, ISO 125/22°.
In a box. I did not remember packing it at the time. It must have been there a while, I thought.
I forgot again.
And I remembered. So I took it with me.
I went to different places. To develop it.
The answer was always the same:
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
Snappy Snaps on Upper Street, Islington.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
Jessop Photo Video Center on New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
The ID photoshop on the Strand.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
Lomography Gallery Store, on Newburgh Street, Soho.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
The chemist on Russell Square, borough of Camden, amateur darkroom enthusiast, recommended by the previous deceitful film revealer.
'No Sir, kits of chemicals for black-and-white reversal processing is no longer available'.
I kept the film then; intact.
A few years have passed now. I am ready to develop them. Without chemicals or artificial exposition.
I'll just open the box and see what comes out.
A miniature Pandora's box.
I am looking at it right now. It is mysterious and black and white.
I must tell the tales of these twenty-four pictures taken one day or another, showing something clear or blury, a landscape, a friend or more, a place, a moment, a woman, a band... recalling an instant in the history of my eyes.
B.
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