A Whole New (Old) Perspective
As you know, I’ve been a photographer for a long time—about seven years, to be exact. Over that time, I’ve wandered through just about every corner of photography. I’ve shot on hand-me-down DSLRs, toyed around with cheap digicams from the early 2000s, used the slickest modern mirrorless systems, and even convinced myself that the solution to my photography was stills from a video-focused camera. I’ve paired those bodies with everything from plastic kit lenses to pro-level zooms, vintage glass, and fast primes that could probably shoot in the dark if you asked nicely enough.
For the longest time, I genuinely thought I knew what I wanted from a camera. I craved sharpness, clarity, and flat images that I could manipulate endlessly in post—turning the raw data into something else entirely. I saw the camera as a means to an end, a capture device that just got me to the edit. The idea of film felt… slow. Impractical. Romanticized. I remember telling my wife Hayley once, “I'll never shoot film. It takes so much knowhow and understanding. It's expensive. And it distracts from what I want to do, take pictures."
Looking back now, man—how wrong I was. I wish some grizzled old photographer would’ve marched over, smacked me upside the head with his Hasselblad, and kept shooting like nothing happened. Maybe it would have knocked some sense into me to see that I broke before that camera did.
It all changed in 2023.
Hayley and I were out estate sale hunting, which, in our case, is usually less about treasure and more about snooping around cool old houses. But on this particular day, one listing jumped out to me: “Photographer’s Dream.” Now, quite like most photographers, I’ve always had this fantasy of stumbling across a forgotten Leica—some dusty, rare gem sitting on a table next to a pile of expired Kodak Gold and a cup of lukewarm Maxwell House waiting for someone to take it back out into the sun. I joked that if I were to find one of those I'd try film. That would be my sign, but when was that going to happen?
To my surprise, wouldn’t you know it—when we walked in, there it was.
Right in the front room, lying on a table, was a 1930s Barnack Leica IIIB. It was in beautiful condition—solid, elegant, a piece of mechanical art. I picked it up like it might vanish. It was the kind of camera that doesn’t just make photos; it whispers stories.
But here’s the tragic part—I couldn’t afford it.
With a pit in my stomach, I placed it back on the table and walked away. I tried to play it cool, but it felt like watching a train to the past roll away without me on board. A little depressed, I reluctantly walked back to the car. For the next several weeks, that camera was all I could talk about. I couldn't get it out of my mind. What I didn’t know—what I couldn’t have known—was that Hayley wasn’t about to let that camera slip away.
She took down the seller’s information, went back later without me, and bought it. And for months, that Leica sat wrapped in a Walmart bag at the back of her closet, hidden like a secret waiting to change everything. Come our anniversary, there it was—carefully boxed, lovingly gifted, and paired with two rolls of film: Kodak Ektar 100 and Ilford Delta 400.
So, really, all this is her fault.
My obsession with film, my dwindling bank account, the hours spent online looking for expired emulsions and light meter reviews—it all traces back to that moment. That gift. That camera. Hayley is to blame, and I love her for it.
I couldn’t wait to shoot it. The first roll I loaded was Ektar. I had no idea what to expect. No screen. No do-overs. No modern conveniences. The Leica didn’t even have a light meter—it was made in a time when photography was equal parts craft and guesswork. Luckily, I had an app on my phone that could do the metering for me, but still… I was nervous.
For my first frame, I chose downtown Tulsa. I wandered until I found something that felt right—something worthy of this camera’s first moment back in action. That’s when I saw a pair of window washers suspended high on ropes, meticulously cleaning the glass of the old 320 S Boston Building. The scene was cinematic. Suspended in the sky, framed by stone and steel, completely unaware of the quiet moment forming below.
I stopped and took a breath. I lifted the camera, composed the frame, and paused.
Then I metered.
Once. Then again.
A third time.
I was terrified I’d blow the exposure—that this first shot would be a total bust. There were no second chances. No “fix it in post.” I double-checked every dial, slowly, deliberately. I adjusted the aperture, locked the shutter speed. I could feel the weight of the camera, of the moment, of history humming through the brass and glass in my hands.
Then, finally, I clicked the shutter.
A quiet, satisfying snick—mechanical and certain.
That moment—that click—was the beginning of something I never expected. It changed how I thought about photography. It reminded me that making a photograph wasn’t just about capturing a technically perfect image. It was about slowing down. About trusting your instincts. About letting go.
And from that point forward, I’ve never looked at photography the same way.
Thanks for stopping in this week. If you’ve never tried film, I suggest you give it a try. If you like my work and want to see more articles like this, check out my print shop. I would really appreciate the support.
Until next time—Happy Shooting!
