If you’re my age and you’ve been doing photography for a while, then you probably remember the tactile joy of shooting with film cameras. Back then, that was all we had—there was no digital, no LCD screens to check after every click, no instant feedback to assure us we “got the shot.” You had to trust yourself. You had to wait. And in that waiting, a different kind of magic unfolded.
There was surprise. There was imagination. There was patience. You paced yourself with every frame, aware that each roll had a limit, and each exposure mattered. Then came the waiting again—until you could develop the film and see the world you tried to capture come to life in a darkroom. For me, that darkroom was in New York City. It was 1996. I had just inherited my first manual camera—a Pentax—and I knew instantly: this was it. This was the thing I would keep doing. This was passion.
After experimenting with a couple of rolls on the streets of Manhattan, I took that Pentax with me to Egypt. It was my first big journey with photography. I carried film, and slide rolls, and a heart full of curiosity. I returned with 35 rolls, and within them, a collection of encounters that I can still feel to this day.
The two images I’m sharing tonight are among my favorites. One is of a boy selling trinkets near the pyramids—he had pieces of fake alabaster in his hands, and a sincerity in his gaze that I’ve never forgotten. The other is of two young bakeresses near Saqqara, standing in the warmth of their bread oven, looking straight into my lens with the quiet strength of everyday life.
What I loved then—and still love now—was the brief moment of connection that passed between us. That moment was real. And it remains real through these photographs.
Digital is fast, convenient, efficient. But the truth is, the magic was always in manual.