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{or, maybe just waiting for something to happen}

I've been watching my studio shrink around me for a while now. It's filled up, with less and less room to walk, and pretty much no where to set anything down. It's frustrating, but it's not a bad thing -- even though it feels like it is. Simply put, my darlings, I must upgrade. Easier said than done. So while that clock is ticking and I'm falling behind on virtually everything, I've been playing around with my newest acquisition, which happens to not be a power tool. Surprise surprise! Instead, it's a 1954 Leica.

Most of my childhood photographs were taken with this camera. I remember the anticipatory buzzing of the self timer and the clean click as it went off. It has sat precariously on many a rock, many a tree-stump, propped up with sticks and books and whatever could be had to hold it in place. In all those years, it never fell, it was never dropped. Self-timed family portraits were plentiful and the lens escaped without a speck of dust. The leather pouch endured through multiple Italy's, Greece, France, Germany, India, road trips and backpacking, and was re-sewn at one point, crookedly and with different colors of thread. This camera has been in my life for years and I never thought twice about it, until now, when it has made me love it.
 

Shooting in film makes you do everything in one's, instead of in multiples. It's that one moment, in that particular light, and then it makes you wait. And wait. Until you finish the roll. Which in my case is weeks. And since I'm still learning, only half come out well, which makes my patience stretch to anxiety for the next roll to come. Yes indeed, having a film camera is like searching for the perfect studio; it might suck at the moment but once it happens, it can be rather marvelous.