I bought two disposable cameras last month when I moved. It seemed like the right dose of nostalgia, as I re-root in my hometown. It’s an alluring concept, capturing new memories in a sturdy, physical format. Tangible photographs that exist outside of a screen, as if holding their printed existence will aide me in forming a foundation, an identity, and a renewed relationship with my hometown. The developed rolls, comprised of 78 photos, will be definitive proof that I’m actually living here. My insides will catch up to the reality of the choice I made to eject myself from the city.
Growing up, I lived near a drugstore with 24-hour film processing. My best friend and I were always there dropping off film. 24 hours felt like an eternity of waiting when we had pictures of our middle and high school crushes (oh, so many). We’d pass the time watching MTV, and give ourselves a rundown of the photos we were SO excited for. Yesterday, I learned that the photo processing envelope still asks for the same information. When I got to the options for Singles or Doubles, I felt a teenage giddiness in my stomach as I nearly checked off the choice for Doubles on instinct. We always needed our own copies of our photos for our photo albums (physical albums of printed photos).
The late-90’s meant waiting until school for the possibility of crossing paths with crushes and their cuteness—there were no photos on AIM *~*~pRoFiLe$~*~, lol. As for my most recent film rolls, I started the first one at a hardcore show in Maine, and the second one ended with a hardcore show in my hometown, at a space where I saw shows as a high schooler (a hot spot for a lot of crushes).
When the photos are developed in a week or so, I expect them to reveal that everything’s new and old at the same time: eternally familiar landscapes, new experiences in Portland, Maine, a close friend I’ve known my whole life posing with her partner, and the incredible mix of blast-from-the-past friends at the hometown show, all of their faces easily found in old photo albums.
Old photos just sit in albums. But, as an exercise in melding my past with my present and projecting into my future, what if I temporarily taped them to the wall? A hundred photos representing different periods of my youth and young adult life, like a ceremonial practice to marry all my former selves together, in order to bring to light the future me I’m becoming. I’m far enough removed from negative experiences of my youth that I can imagine it feels like an embrace that amplifies my gratitude for a life lived.
I have plenty of film of moments that are seemingly nothing. But, what we learn as we grow up is that it’s actually the small moments built up over time that make you who you are. My old photos are accurate depictions of living as they encompass both the incredible and mundane experiences of everyday.
With these two new film rolls, I found myself being more considerate of what I was capturing. That space for reflection fittingly matches the pace of small town living. Even the actions of clicking and advancing the film give us time to pause and think.
By taking the time to consider which moments are worth holding onto, I’m slowing down my brain. Soon, the internal city buzz that resides within—a low-burning, anticipatory restlessness—will revel in the room it has for further self-evolution.