

From a Kyocera TD, Pentax Espio 80, Mamiya 135AF, Canon A1, Walz Envoy 35 to a Bronica and Lubil 166B and many more other cameras, my love for Film photography runs deep from the cliffside of Wilsons Prom in 1992 when dad showed some of the functions on his Canon A1 which now I use regularly.
Film is just different. It has soul. It has this thing that I can’t explain—like an old friend who always smells of cigarettes and stories, never in a rush, never perfect, but always real. You don’t just take a photo on film. You earn it.
Every roll is a gamble. You load the canister, wind it forward, and commit. No safety net, no instant gratification. Just light, chemistry, and a silent agreement between you and time itself. You frame the shot, breathe in, click the shutter—and then what? Nothing. No preview. No do-over. Just a whisper in your head saying, Hope you got it, mate.
And then there’s the waiting. The glorious, agonising waiting. Days, weeks, sometimes years (if you’re a tragic like me) before you see what the hell you actually captured. And when you finally unroll that strip of negatives, it’s either magic or a total disaster—sometimes both. Light leaks like cosmic accidents, scratches from a life well-traveled, colours that shift and bleed like memories refusing to sit still.
Digital is sharp, clean, obedient. Film is unpredictable, messy, alive. It’s the crackle of a vinyl record, the taste of cheap whiskey at 2 AM, the way a handwritten letter feels in your hands. It reminds you that imperfection is beautiful, that the best moments are often the ones you never saw coming.