Time Capsule
Film >
I asked for something I couldn’t screw up—something easy, with instant results. In response, Emily sent me a link to a Canon Sure Shot 85 Zoom 35mm. Emily is a spectacular photographer, and more importantly, she has known me many years and understands my impatience, which is why I trusted her.
For $53.95, this little rectangular hunk of plastic was mine, courtesy of eBay dot com.
Two years and many trips to my local photo lab later, I found myself stuck with a roll of film I couldn’t bring myself to develop. Not because it was technically impossible, but because I sat on it for eight months, paralyzed.
I hoped the roll held photos of my cousin, but I wasn’t sure. Worse, I feared there was one—but that it would be blurry, out of focus, unremarkable. I know I had the camera with me in the parking lot outside Gillette Stadium. I remember the harsh sunlight, how I searched desperately for shade or a tree to soften it. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d see my cousin, Scott, I wouldn’t have been so stingy with the shutter. I’d have burned through the two extra rolls in my bag in a heartbeat. But I didn’t know. The news of his passing came via text, just one month after that day in Boston celebrating his 49th birthday. And so this roll became, unintentionally, a time capsule.
Last week, I finally mustered the courage to drop it off at the lab. Then I bit my nails for three days, obsessively checking my spam folder in case the email with the scans got lost.
When the link finally arrived, I scrolled slowly. Every time I go through this ritual, I feel my insides melt. It’s like watching a magic trick with your stomach instead of your eyes.
The photo wasn’t magical in the technical sense. No dreamy lighting, no depth of field, no clever focus tricks. None of the attributes that usually send me rushing to Emily with a proud “Look what I did with the eBay camera!!” But none of that mattered. For once, I was grateful that I’d ignored the artsy instincts and just pressed the button.
I scanned the photos further and found one of Adriana with our dog, Chloe, in Joshua Tree around Christmas time last year. Chloe passed just one week into the new year. I was so fixated on whether or not I had a shot of Scott that I underestimated just how heavy this time capsule weighed.
I sent both photos to Emily and admitted my anxiety about developing the roll. She said the feeling was familiar, and told me how she sometimes avoids photographing certain people for fear of failing to capture them as she sees them.
I sent the photos to my friend Sean, too. His response: “How is it possible that phone cameras can’t do that?”
And he’s right—it is remarkable. All that technology crammed into the devices we carry everywhere, the endless functions, the countless tools they’ve replaced. And yet, they can’t replicate the magic of a beat-up, secondhand point-and-shoot film camera.
For the sanctity of this ritual—and the magic it both creates and preserves—I hope they never figure it out.
I love the idea about a new technological camera, not being able to capture someone like an old one. Also, the anxiety of facing whatever truth was captured on the roll. This was a very beautifully moving piece, and it made a wonderful start to a Sunday morning!
Ryan, thanks for sharing, such intimate thoughts and feelings of grief, and then also the willingness to share the picture. Stylistically, I like that you didn't explicitly state that you found a photo of Scott on the camera, you just included it at the end. Always a pleasure reading