"With so few chances to get a perfect image, you tend to think more critically about what you're capturing — and why."
Armed with a few tiny tools and a lot of patience, we carefully dismantled the dusty parts of the Kodak Duaflex IV camera. Admittedly, Tyler did most of the tinkering, reassembling and stressing, but together, we finished the job. All we needed now was film. Film that's not sold anywhere around or really even produced anymore. You know, because it's film and as a modern society, we tend to avoid things that take time.
So we turned to the place where all that's lost gets found again — the trusty Internet.
After confiding my debit card information over the phone to a random man in Chicago, our roll of 620 film was (fingers crossed) on its way. And once the film arrived a few short days later, I realized you really can trust strangers in Chicago.
With the help of a rather amusing manual we found online (Did you know that to take good photos, you should "make them interesting" and "hold the camera level?"), the film was loaded and we were well on our way to reaching a new level of hipster.
The next day, Tyler and I set out around Roanoke, carefully deciding what to photograph. As always with film, shooting comes a little slower. With so few chances to get a perfect image, you tend to think more critically about what you're capturing — and why. Surprisingly, I had a hard time letting go and releasing the shutter. As a photojournalist, I wanted each photo to have depth, meaning and ultimately tell a story. What took me a while to realize was that the simple act of Tyler and I being out there taking photos with this tiny machine we'd polished and made new again was meaning and story enough.
No matter how the photos turn out (we should have them back in a week or so), our efforts were a labor of love, an opportunity to spend time together doing something new to both of us. Hopefully our dedication will show. For now, we wait for random people in New Hampshire to process our film. Fingers crossed.