One Place at a Time

Originally posted at dstudelska.medium.com

Almost two decades ago I took a photograph of my grandfather holding an antique pair of pliers in his basement. His pose suggested deep familiarity and contemplation of the device, his parted lips invoked his tendency to share his experience and wisdom. My grandfather had an enormous impact on my intellectual perspective growing up. He always told me to be present in my surroundings and to seek out the “interesting things” all around us. I’m immensely proud of how I was able to capture his spirit, even in my admittedly novice portrait.

That photo is one of my favorites that I’ve ever taken, and like most camera phone users, I’ve taken a lot of photos. Until I recently held the print a few weeks ago, it had been at least 10 years since I had seen that precious image.

The reason: the photo was captured on film, developed by hand, enlarged in a darkroom, and printed on light-sensitive paper exactly once. And it was never digitized. It only exists in one place at a time.

As physical beings, humans also only exist in one place at a time. But as work, leisure, and social connection are increasingly imported onto internet-accessible applications and myriad other digital platforms, our attention is proportionally wrenched from our bodily experience.

Work from home is becoming normalized and the ongoing debates about a “right to disconnect” from the incessant emails, texts, and other digital requests for our attention are all the more urgent. This is to say nothing of the enrapturing possibilities of virtual reality and the Metaverse, all of which are attempts to overcome the bodily limitation that human beings can only be in one physical place at a time.

That’s why I’m building a darkroom.

A darkroom is an inadvertent but ideal zone of respite from my iPhone /tablet/computer/tv and the notifications they facilitate. Banning cellphones and illuminated screens from a darkroom isn’t a choice, it’s a requirement. Any stray photons could hit the light-sensitive photo paper and mar a carefully prepared print before it is fully developed. It’s a real possibility that an unexpected email could light up my phone and ruin hours of careful work.

Now an uncommon novelty, film photography was a multi-billion dollar industry for nearly a century. Though analog products have made a slight comeback in recent years, digital photographic technology still dominates professional and hobbyist markets.

More personally, film photography was a central creative activity for my family as I grew up. For over 30 years my mother was an art and photography teacher at my local public high school in Wisconsin. Her old enlarger, timer, film reels, tanks, and chemical pans now form the core of my darkroom-in-progress.

If you have never been, a darkroom is a special place, a place of focus and experimentation. Whether working in total darkness while preparing negatives for development, or under the characteristic dull orange safety light when enlarging, the sense of quiet and singular attention to detail is striking. Something quite unlike the fragmented demands that digital life and work impress upon us most hours of the day.

Those who know me know I’m a romantic about craft processes, like darkroom work. The fact that film photography combines a scientific chemical reaction — by which the light reflecting off a subject, like my grandfather, at a specific place at a specific time is permanently recorded in a physical medium — and a skilled craft — whereby the details of a negative’s captured light can be playfully enhanced and editorialized — offers a unique opportunity to document and express. It is a perfect example of a craft where technical knowledge collides with seeing, feeling, and judging in the present moment, all while learning from raw experience. And unlike Adobe Photoshop, a darkroom offers no “undo” button.

I don’t claim that a darkroom is a substitute for the anti-digital restorative powers of nature that Alan Lightman describes in his wonderful Atlantic article, nor am I holier than thou — I waste time scrolling on my phone, I often play online games with my friends, and the majority of my work exists almost exclusively on the internet. But I do expect my darkroom to be an oasis of sorts: a place of welcome respite from the constant and fraying pressure of the digital world that surrounds us.

Stemming the tide of blue light in my life has been an ongoing struggle. I can no longer play games on my phone before bed as I, like many, sleep poorly when I stare into a screen before laying down for the night. Now I read from a regular old book made of paper and ink. No circuits required. My eyes used to ache after extended computer work sessions. But now I have special glasses that reduce the visual strain from the screen.

Looking at a real printed photograph has never given me a headache, nor has a genuinely creative endeavor ever felt like a waste of my time. Despite the promise of an internet-based existence, I’m happiest, healthiest, and most productive when I’m able to fully connect with the work I’m doing. And for that I’ll continue to carve out spaces where I can exist only one place at a time.