What does it mean in the overall landscape portrait of my fleeting life?
When I take a photograph of myself on film, there’s something raw about it—no filters, no retakes. Just a single, unrepeatable moment. That’s what I love about analog photography: it slows me down, forces me to frame with intention, and—maybe most importantly—asks me to accept imperfection.
We live in a world that’s always rushing forward. Our phones serve up a constant scroll of curated highlights and distractions. But film doesn’t care about efficiency or self-optimization. It asks for patience. It asks for unadulterated presence. Each shot costs something—time, money, effort—so I have to ensure I nail down my intent when I press the shutter. And in that restraint, I find clarity. I find depth in a world of ephemerality.
Taking that mirror photo wasn’t just about capturing an image. It was a pause, a moment to ask: Where am I, really? What does this moment feel like—not just how it looks, but what it means? What does it mean in the overall landscape portrait of my fleeting life?
That’s the power of analog media. It creates mental space—a kind of distance that allows for reflection. There’s no instant gratification, no algorithm to feed, no filters to hide behind. Just the long, uncertain wait as the film develops. And by God, it is a wait—two to three weeks to send it off and have it done, sometimes more. But that delay becomes its own kind of meditation.
In those pauses, I notice more. A flash of fleeting light on the wall. The echo of silence in a room. The subtleties of my own expression of how I create. Film doesn’t demand perfection; it reveals truth in texture and grain. And somehow, looking through that lens helps me see life more clearly—even when I’m not holding the camera.
This photo isn’t remarkable to anyone else. But to me, it’s a milestone. A reminder that I was here—thinking, observing, choosing to look inward instead of always chasing the next “thing”.
—It’s a still frame from a life that too often blurs by.
