Category Archives: Darkroom sessions

Todd | Home of the Brave


In their book Art and Fear, David Bayles and Ted Orland write, “To require perfection is to invite paralysis.”

And invite it I did – this past fall – when I became disorientated after a photography submission was rejected, leaving a sting lasting far longer than I had expected. The result was a brief, albeit bracing, dose of writer’s block that suddenly prevented me from writing a single word that would do the participants of Home of the Brave justice.

When I met Todd to discuss his participation in this project we were complete strangers. Our introduction (via email) was graciously facilitated by our mutual friend Angela Kokott.

Todd smiled when I told him Angela and I grew up together. “Any friend of Angela’s is a friend of mine.” he said as I began my introduction to the project and what had motivated me to take it on in the first place.

What has struck me the most about meeting and photographing Todd was his sense of commitment. When talking with Todd he listens to you, he really hears and sees you. His genuine authenticity draws out the authenticity in others.

That was obvious the night I attended the launch for his new book Halfway Home. You could feel the genuine warmth and festive hospitality in the church that evening. I was made to feel exceedingly welcome yet I knew not a soul, save Todd. Basking in the warm, glowing acceptance within the church I briefly imagined a large sign posted on the front door which might have read: Please check your armour at the door. You won’t be needing it this evening.

Looking now at this portrait of Todd and his beloved Boston Terriers (Piper and Puma), it occurs to me that we often experience rejection because of who we aren’t.

But we always experience acceptance as a result of who we are.

Silver gelatin print
Hasselblad 500c
Hasselblad 80mm f2.8 lens
Ilford HP5, ISO 400



Also posted in Home of the Brave Tagged |

Cattails | June 2015


I have been looking at a lot of pinhole photography lately. In particular the work of Canadian photographer Dianne Bos.

The first time I saw one of Dianne’s photographs I was stunned by how big it was. At 40 in. x 40 in. this silver gelatin print had a commanding presence. The second thing that struck me was how beautifully imperfect it was. Most of the image was soft and the subject (a distant horse) was blurred perfectly.

I couldn’t stop looking. Here was a photograph that was speaking to me on an entirely new level. It had touched my soul through my eyes and it wasn’t letting go. The experience was at once exhilarating and unsettling.

My Leica M6 is a marvel of German engineering. It is a thing of beauty to hold and a delight to use. With the right lens it can produce razor sharp photographs with a visual bite I can almost hear. I love my Hasselblad for it’s minimalistic design and the creamy sharpness of the images it produces. I could never let either of these cameras go.

And yet I can’t stop thinking about that stunning pinhole photograph and its exquisite imperfections.

Which brings me to my Holga 120N and how it just might be the most valuable camera I own.

Silver gelatin print
Holga 120N
Ilford FP4, ISO 125
Natural sunlight

Out of the clear blue sky | May 2015


“Shoot what you love!” Click, click, click.

“Photograph what you hate.” Click.

“Shoot everywhere and everything.” Click, click, click. click, click, click.

Taking pictures is easy. Making a photograph requires more skill and effort. Embarking on a new project can be downright challenging.

The challenge isn’t what to photograph but rather what to say within the context of 15 – 20 related images.

The difficulty lies in deciding on a theme that speaks to your heart and the viewing public at the same time. Choosing a project that has the depth to express exactly what you want to say can be a major investment of your time and effort. That is why you want to get it right!

This search leaves in it’s wake a collection of lists, library books, false starts, lucid dreams and candid conversations.

Walking and shooting. Learning, watching, waiting. Frustration and elation. Repeat.

And then it suddenly appears out of the clear blue sky – unannounced and without warning.

Ground zero for your next project.

Coming on so quick and with such clarity that you can’t help but ask…

“Where have you been?”

Silver gelatin print
Hasselblad 500c
Hasselblad 80mm f2.8 lens
Ilford FP4, ISO 125

Toy camera | April 2015


Toy cameras are not everyone’s cup of tea.

Like most toy cameras the Holga 120N is a medium format film camera that is made almost entirely of plastic.

Photographers experiencing a creative dry spell are often encouraged to shoot with a toy camera in an effort to strip away the technical haze which can – at times – become a burden.

The Holga 120N has two shutter speeds – sunny and cloudy. When you focus the plastic lens you have 4 zones from which to choose – really close, not so close, far away and really far away (infinity) – making it the ideal camera for high school reunions.

The camera is prone to light leaks. Some photographers like this effect while others don’t. For those who don’t the solution is a sticky one – duct tape.

Toy cameras are notorious for a painfully low photographic yield. On a good day you are lucky to get 3 negatives that may have potential in the darkroom.

The best advice I can give to those of you wanting a cheap introduction to the glorious world of medium format film photography?

Purchase a Holga 120N and shoot when there isn’t a cloud in the sky.

Shoot on a day made for a day dreamin boy.

Silver gelatin print
Holga 120N
Ilford FP4, ISO 125
Natural sunlight

Swedish muscle in Montana | March 2015


There are occasions when you need a large camera to take a photograph. When your subjects deserve a Swedish camera that has been to the moon and back.

I knew my weekend in Montana was going to be short. When I hit the Canada/US border late Friday afternoon I was already 24 hours and as many beers behind the friends I was meeting in Whitefish.

“Turn if off.” the US Border agent said as I rolled my van next to his boots. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

“I’m skiing with friends in Whitefish.” I said.

“Why now?”

“Birthday.” I replied.

He walked around my van stopping to look through the side window, his left hand surgically placed against the tinted glass in an effort to block the sun and reveal my cargo.

“Where are your skis?” he asked. His left eye catching both of mine in my driver’s side mirror – his pupil large and menacing – like Sauron’s.

“I’m renting.” I said starting to feel his vibe.

“What’s in the bags?”

“Camera gear. I’m hoping to take some portraits of my friends in Whitefish.” I said biting my lip as the title of this post suddenly (and cruelly) popped into my head.

He looked at me (and my van) and returned my passport.

And suddenly I was in America…

With a Swedish camera heading to Whitefish for some fellowship, cheap beer and the ambitious goal of capturing the souls of my closest friends on six rolls of Ilford FP4.

Silver gelatin prints
Hasselblad 500c
Hasselblad 120 f4 CF Makro-Plannar
Ilford FP4, ISO 125
Lightrein 400ws strobe with translucent umbrella – camera left
Natural sunlight – camera right

Shooting from the hip – March 2015


I spent a Saturday morning recently pouring over Photographs, a book by Canadian photographer Fred Herzog. Herzog’s work is unique for a couple of reasons not the least of which is that he shot in color using slide film within a genre (street photography) that was predominantly black and white.

He shot primarily in Vancouver with most of the images in Photographs taken during the early – mid 1960s. The images in this book instilled a powerful sense of nostalgia that was difficult for me to ignore. Not so much for a particular place (Vancouver) but for a very particular time (my youth). Which now seems so very long ago.

I was surprised to discover that Fred Herzog was an avid practitioner of a street photography technique called shooting from the hip.

Shooting from the hip is a crap-shoot (for mere mortals) because you take a photograph without raising the camera to your eye. You don’t look through the viewfinder to frame the shot. You prefocus the lens, estimate the exposure and take a photograph while holding the camera at hip level with the lens pointed in the general direction of the subject.

This technique allows you to shoot very quickly and often without being noticed. It can be an effective way to make a photograph when you and/or the subject are in motion.

On the down side, this technique is inherently inaccurate and results aren’t guaranteed.

Unless of course your name is Fred Herzog.

Silver gelatin print
Leica M6
Voigtlander Nokton Classic 35mm f1.4 MC lens
Ilford 125 FP4 Plus, ISO 125

Art and fear | February 2015


I asked my darkroom instructor a question last week.

“George, has there ever been a time in your life when everything you do in the darkroom is crap?” His answer was brief and poignant.


In their book Art and Fear Ted Orland and David Bayles talk about how an artist’s job is to make art. Making art – and lots of it – is the only means by which we eventually create bodies of work that will convey our unique vision, our personal narratives. Making art – regardless of the result – offers us the time to practice. To experiment with our materials, fine-tune a technique, refine our work-flow, clarify our vision.

The problem, however, is that we fear the imperfect results of a consistent practice. We become afraid of our mistakes, our false starts, the thought of abandoning yet another project. We fear the prospect that despite our best efforts we may not become rich and famous.

At best our fear prevents us from practicing our craft as often as we should. At worst this fear manifests into paralysis and we stop making art all together.

It has been a week since my brief conversation with George and I have now accepted my current “dry spell” in the darkroom as an essential stage in my creative development.

There will be prints that disappoint but teach me invaluable lessons in their making. Lessons that I otherwise would not have learned.

And there will be prints that let me know I am on the right track – not in spite of my mistakes – but because I am determined to learn from them.

Silver gelatin print
Hasselblad 500c
Hasselblad 120 f4 CF Makro-Plannar
Ilford HP5, ISO 400
Lightrein 400ws strobe with translucent umbrella

The Omega Man | February 2015


I can barely remember the plot of the 1971 movie The Omega Man but I can vividly recall how it made me feel. The Omega Man stars Charlton Heston who – at the start of the movie – believes he is the sole survivor of a biological war between Russia and China. The film’s opening sequence follows Charlton Heston as he disparately searches for another human being in downtown LA.

This otherwise forgettable movie seeps into my consciousness whenever I find myself alone in an urban environment. When I say alone I am not talking about feeling lonely or isolated. I am talking about that moment when my ears and my eyes tell me that I have found myself alone in a city inhabited by thousands (sometimes millions) of people.

My most recent Omega Man experience happened last spring in Boston while attending a Teaching Professor conference. I stepped outside between sessions in an attempt to warm up. The incessant air conditioning had activated a chill that was becoming difficult for me to manage. Stepping outside was like walking into a sauna. I found a bench, closed my eyes and lost myself in the joy of letting the New England sunshine warm me up.

It wasn’t long before I began to “hear” the silence. Fargo Street was desolate. No cars, no dogs, no people. Just me and the oscillating hum of the traffic lights as they changed from red to green to yellow – for nobody. The scene became increasingly surreal as I waited for a brownstone door to open, a dog to bark, a voice to break the eerie silence. Nothing.

There was a time when I thought this feeling; this awareness of being alone in a large city was déjà vu. I found myself saying, “I’ve been here before. I know this place”.

Turns out it was a feeling, not a place, that was so intensely familiar.

Intense enough (and frequent enough) for me to try and capture that feeling with a camera in my own backyard.

Silver gelatin print
Leica M6
Voigtlander Nokton Classic 35mm f1.4 MC lens
Ilford 125 FP4 Plus, ISO 125


Precious gifts | December 2014


The magic of photography is the camera’s ability to “stop” time. This quality alone can make the viewing of a photograph deeply nostalgic and often emotional.

Sometimes we get lucky and manage to photograph something that is truly rare, undeniably precious. A fleeting moment manifesting itself at the precise instant the photograph is made. And then it dissolves, sometimes forever.

There are times when a subject is looking directly into your lens but they are miles away. In that fraction of a second their eyes are open but they don’t see you.

They are thinking. Not about where they are. Not about the camera. Not about you.

On these rare occasions the photographer is witnessing a sacred, private moment. The subject has revealed himself or herself to you – willingly.

And you have been offered a precious gift that can last forever.

Silver gelatin print
Hasselblad 500c
Hasselblad 120 f4 CF Makro-Plannar
Ilford HP5, ISO 400
Natural light


Impossible conditions | November 2014


It’s too dark, they’re too fast, manual focus is too slow.

One can always find a reason not to take a photograph. Shooting film can turn you into a “cheapskate.”

An unwise man once said “Choose your scenes carefully because you can’t afford to waste film.”

It was dark in this parking garage but the energy, enthusiasm and infectious smiles of these young ladies lit up this stretch of slippery cement like I was standing on a beach in Waikiki.

They danced with such passion and purpose I found myself in a trance with my Leica perched in my hands. In a German accent it whispered “Wake up and take some pictures! This won’t last long.”

The lighting conditions were far from perfect and they were moving so fast I was having difficulty keeping them in focus. Click, advance, click, advance…

I quickly burned through half a roll of film.

I walked away thinking it would take a miracle in the darkroom to get a print I would be happy with. Working in such low light with fast moving subjects meant that the negatives were guaranteed to be dark and blurry.

So why would I “waste” half a roll of film in lighting conditions that I knew would produce negatives I couldn’t use?

Because I was hoping for just one negative. One that wasn’t too dark. One that had just enough blur to convey their contagious energy.

I just needed one.

Silver gelatin print
Leica M6
Voigtlander Nokton Classic 35mm f1.4 MC lens
Ilford 125 FP4 Plus, ISO 125