Fotografia Podcast – Details, episodes & analysis

In this blogcast episode, Colin Czerwinski and I discuss a collaborative photography project, focusing on the magic of Kodak Gold, to photograph old cars, and abandoned towns. Our conversation highlights the beauty of everyday life through the lens of film, emphasizing the textures, colors, and stories that emerge from our photographic work.

Together, we selected the best shots from the three rolls I sent him and discussed some curiosities and thoughts that crossed his mind while shooting.

How I transformed the slow, often tedious process of film scanning into an efficient and enjoyable workflow. Inspired by Henry Ford’s principles of industrial efficiency, I optimized my scanning setup using batch processing, automation, and a Stream Deck to streamline repetitive tasks. By scanning in batches and editing entire rolls together, I achieve more consistent results while making the process faster and less frustrating. Switching from SilverFast’s unreliable color grading to Negative Lab Pro gave me more control, allowing for flexible edits without rescanning. Ultimately, my home setup now operates like a mini-lab, turning what once felt like a chore into a refined, structured part of my creative process.

The Start of My Film Journey

“From the first roll, I was hooked.”

Photography has always been a part of my life. As someone born in 1986 and growing up alongside the evolution of digital photography, I’ve always been drawn to its precision, immediacy, and control. High-resolution sensors, advanced autofocus, and powerful editing tools like Lightroom have been my companions for years.

Even in film photography, digital technology often plays a pivotal role. Scanning film with a digital camera and a macro lens, for instance, can create sharper, more detailed images than traditional scanners. It’s a testament to how far digital tools have come. But even with all this power at my fingertips, I found myself craving something more.

When my mother brought me old family negatives last Christmas, along with a Nikon L35AF camera, I decided to give film photography a try. From the first roll, I was hooked. Loading the film, carefully setting the ASA, and advancing the frame felt like a conversation with the past. It was as though I was connecting with the same photographic journey my parents and grandparents once took, but on my own terms.

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Why Film is Different

“The film camera communicates authenticity and hobbyism, which makes street photography more efficient and genuine.”

The limitations of film didn’t hinder me. They inspired me.

This process reminds me of playing a vintage bass guitar. Modern guitars are often manufactured with CNC machines, capable of cutting wood with extreme precision. They produce instruments that are flawless in their construction and reliability. But a vintage bass, with its handmade imperfections, worn-in frets, and history in its wood, creates a different kind of connection. It’s not just about the sound: it’s about how holding that instrument makes me feel. It inspires me, sparking creativity in ways a modern machine-made bass never could.

Film cameras feel the same way. The mechanical precision of advancing film, the resistance of manual focus, and the sound of the shutter are all part of an immersive experience. With each frame, I’m not just capturing an image, I’m engaging with light, shadows, and composition in a way that feels deliberate. Every click matters because every frame costs something.

When talking about street photography and riskier shots, I must also note how using a film camera positively influences the way people perceive you during street photography. There’s something disarming about seeing someone advancing film and practicing slow photography, it immediately conveys that you’re an enthusiast, not a private detective or someone with ill intent.

This dynamic shifts interactions significantly. People react better, often intrigued by the process rather than wary. It aligns with the concept from Marshall McLuhan’s book The Medium is the Massage, where the medium itself shapes the message being received.

The film camera communicates authenticity and hobbyism, which makes street photography more efficient and genuine. Moreover, there’s a unique safeguard when using film. If someone, like a security guard, demands that you delete a photo, the absence of a delete button means your property (the roll of film) remains intact unless someone physically removes it. While losing a roll in extreme cases might be a frustrating compromise, it keeps interactions civil and avoids unnecessary escalation.

The Unexpected Joy of Community

“Film photography has a unique way of bringing people together.”

But what surprised me most about film photography wasn’t just the process or the results: it was the community.

I experienced this firsthand when I met Nicholas Lopresti. He became a guide in my early days of home development, helping me navigate the complex world of chemicals, timings, and tools. Without his help, I doubt I would’ve had the confidence to develop my first roll successfully. Moments like this remind me that photography isn’t just about the images we create, it’s about the connections we make along the way. If you benefited from his tips, or just laugh with his videos, consider going to his Shop and supporting his job, as the world needs more creators like him.

Film photography has a unique way of bringing people together. Whether it’s online forums, local meetups, or the friendly staff at labs, the community is incredibly welcoming. Many photographers are eager to share their knowledge, whether it’s about camera mechanics, film stocks, or developing techniques.

The Time Spent Reflecting on My Creations

“Each photo carries a story.”

The scanning process has also been unexpectedly transformative. Each scan takes around 3–5 minutes per photo, which forces me to slow down and really look at my work. I notice the details, the play of light, the textures, the small imperfections, and reflect on what I could improve. This time spent with my images has sharpened my critical eye and deepened my appreciation for the art of photography.

Recently, I scanned over 500 35mm negatives from my family archive, images that are over 30 years old. Seeing these moments preserved in vivid 65-megapixel TIFF files is a powerful experience. Each photo carries a story, a memory, and now a level of detail that ensures it can be cherished for years to come.

Lessons Learned / Key Takeaways

Film photography has taught me so much more than just how to shoot on film. It’s taught me patience, resilience, intentionality, and how to truly see. It’s connected me to a community of people who share that passion. And it’s reminded me that the most meaningful parts of photography aren’t just the images, it’s the journey of creating them. And mostly important: I made new friends.

Here are some photographies I did with my new Voigtländer Bessa R2A and the old Nikon L35AF, some of them developed and scanned by Gelatin Labs, some other I developed and scanned myself. Please consume them slowly, allow you some time to think about details, I urge you to not scroll like we all do on Instagram.

Expect more film photography around here!

Summary:

After carefully shooting and developing three rolls of film from a special trip to Brazil, I discovered they were completely blank. The culprit? An exhausted developer that failed just before reaching its advertised limit. This loss was devastating—not just because of the images, but because of the effort and meaning behind them.

Yet, this is what makes film photography so brutal and so rewarding. Unlike digital, where everything works by default, in film, chaos is the default. Every successful frame is proof of skill, patience, and mastery. This failure is a reminder that resiliency is essential—not just in shooting, but in every step of the process.

But I refuse to be defeated. This won’t stop me. Tomorrow, I’m buying fresh chemicals and developing five more rolls. Because film photography demands strength—and I am strong.

On a rare sunny winter day in New York City, I embarked on a long-anticipated bike ride to the George Washington Bridge, armed with my Voigtländer camera and two distinct film stocks—Kodak Ektar 100, known for its rich, warm tones, and SantaColor 100, a repurposed Kodak Aero film designed for aerial reconnaissance and clarity over aesthetics. The journey, filled with breathtaking contrasts of snow and steel, was a testament to endurance and adaptation. Along the way, I captured cityscapes from a ferry, navigated freezing paths, and relished a warm meal in the Bronx—only to face an unexpected setback when my vintage Leica Summicron 50mm lens slipped from my numbed fingers onto the cold asphalt. The frustration of that moment forced me to reconsider my approach to gear, leading me to invest in the rugged, weatherproof Canon Sure Shot WP-1, a smarter companion for my cycling adventures. This ride reinforced a lesson in photography and life: creativity thrives on resilience, and the right tools can shape the experience as much as the images themselves.

Most 35mm film scanners crop out film borders, removing sprocket holes and text markings that prove an image was shot on film. This post explores why film borders matter, from preserving composition integrity (as Henri Cartier-Bresson emphasized) to acting as a certificate of authenticity for analog photography.

While some photographers see borders as unnecessary, others value them for their aesthetic appeal and proof of unaltered composition. The post also calls for scanner manufacturers to offer an option to preserve film edges.

Developing my first ten rolls of film revealed ten key insights: understanding the deeper “why,” feeling the therapeutic rhythm of the darkroom, chasing consistency, embracing surprise color casts, shooting more deliberately, savoring the slow scan process, welcoming the wait, working with ISO limitations, celebrating a warm, supportive community, and finally, inviting others to experience the magic.

When the snowstorm hit, I couldn’t resist the urge to go out and capture it. While others stayed warm indoors, I braved the cold with my CineStill 800T, juggling an umbrella, a manual-focus lens, and the ever-present risk of moisture damaging my camera. My destination? Basile’s Pizza—the shot I knew would be the best of the night. Battling wind, snow, and fogged-up gear, I pushed through, improvising as I went. By the time I reached my refuge, all I could think about was drying my camera with napkins. The adventure was exhausting, but the story and the photos made it all worth it. And yes, I’d do it all again—before the snow melts.

A long-awaited Leica camera arrives, craving light but lifeless without a CR123A battery. With urgency, the missing heartbeat is found, and something shifts as the red dot flickers to life. The camera doesn’t just work—it speaks, and has feelings! Loaded with CineStill 800T, it pulls its photographer into a neon-drenched world, firing instinctively, guiding each frame like it has a will of its own. The shutter becomes a whisper, the flash an unexpected command. By the end of the night, they are no longer photographer and tool, but partners in a cinematic dream. The Minilux isn’t just alive—it’s in love.

(Check Substack for original text and photos on https://blog.rafalop.es) -- This episode explores the journey of developing 35mm film at home, framed by Walter White’s quote on chemistry as change. We discuss the thrill of managing the entire process—from mixing chemicals to revealing hidden images—and highlight the challenges of temperature control and reel loading. The conversation covers why labs still matter, but also how hands-on experimentation fosters resiliency and a deeper bond with analog photography.