A Goodbye to My First Love: Film

As a photographer who went to college in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, I grew up on film.

Not the romantic, Instagramified version of “shooting film,” but rather the real thing:
loading canisters in dim light, the smell and inhaling of chemicals that were probably shortening my life, the slow magic of images appearing in trays under a red glow.

When I first studied photography in Montreal back in 1999, digital was still more science fiction than everyday reality. I was majoring in television and film production, but I chose to minor in photography, not because I wanted to be a commercial photographer, but because I was obsessed with the process and I fell in love with the ability to document, which lead me to graduate from photojournalism and for were news outlets.

Back then, photography in university wasn’t a technical studio course. No flash diagrams, no marketing talk, no “best lens for your headshots” debates. It was art school… and you do everything yourself from start to finish. Load the film. Shoot the roll. Develop it by hand. Print your images in the darkroom. No shortcuts. No presets. Your raw files were your negatives.

Back then, the darkroom wasn’t a romantic concept for me, it was just where the work happened. Today, we open Lightroom.

Fast forward to 2025, and we’re living in a world where everything is connected and synced and tracked. Screens everywhere, notifications layered on top of notifications, AI creeping into your world before you’ve even had a chance to blink.

In the chaos of it all, film can feel like a refuge.

It’s slower.
It’s more deliberate.
It forces you to be present in a way that digital doesn’t always demand.

For years, even as digital took over my professional work, I kept film in my life as a kind of reset button. I’d pick up my trusty Leica film camera when I wanted to reconnect with why I fell in love with photography in the first place.

I’ve owned a few over the years, but most recently, it was a beautiful Leica MP. Before that, a trusty Leica M7 that I adored. They were more than just tools, they were companions, almost extensions of how I saw the world.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Here’s the part that feels almost like a betrayal to everything prior… I haven’t felt the same joy from film in recent years.

Not because it suddenly got worse. Not because the cameras aren’t incredible.
But because I changed and the world around me changed, too.

We live on tighter timelines now. Clients want images yesterday. Personal projects stack up behind an endless to-do list. That dreamy, spacious pace film requires started to feel less like a meditative ritual and more like a logistical puzzle I didn’t really want to solve. It began to feel like I was dragging an old version of myself around, trying to force a feeling that just wasn’t showing up anymore.

I’d pick up my MP, run a few rolls through it, and then, months would pass. The camera sat on the shelf, literally collecting dust. Beautiful, German mechanical perfection… not being used.

And as a photographer, that started to feel wrong.
A camera that’s not making images is, in a way, a story that’s stopped mid-sentence, a book that is unfinished.

So, I made a decision that felt both sad and strangely peaceful… I let it go.

The Leica MP has now found a new home, someone who will hopefully give it the attention and love that I, honestly, wasn’t giving it anymore.

I want to be clear; this isn’t a breakup letter to film itself.

If anything, film is more popular than ever. We’re watching a whole new generation discover it with fresh eyes. Young photographers putting down their smartphones and picking up point-and-shoots and old SLRs. Labs popping up again. Film stocks selling out, light leaks, grain, and that 90s look.

It’s not surprising. We’re all a bit tired of the over-saturation of digital everything. The infinite scroll, the glowing screens, the sense that nothing is truly finished.

We’ve seen this pattern before. Vinyl came back after CDs and iPods.
There’s something about holding an album, reading the lyrics, admiring the artwork, physically dropping a needle onto a record. It asks you to slow down and commit to the experience.

Film photography taps into that same craving.
The weight of a camera.
The sound of the shutter.
The not knowing if the film is actually advancing in the camera.

I completely understand why people are falling in love with film right now. In many ways, it makes more sense than ever.

It’s just that, for me personally, the relationship has run its course.

I eventually found a way to get with digital.

After many cameras and lenses (and more than a few gear experiments), I’ve found a digital setup that gives me the look and feel I want. I can shoot more, experiment more, deliver faster and still feel like the images reflect my voice. Glass pays a big hand it in.

What really matters in the end is the print. Whether you shoot on a Leica, a Sony, a Canon, a phone, or a cardboard pinhole camera, the real satisfaction is in holding the image in your hands and sharing that creation.

A print on your wall.
A small stack of photos in a box.
A book you can flip through on a rainy afternoon.

A hard drive full of images hidden in a drawer or a cloud folder you never open, doesn’t give you that feeling. It’s not alive in the same way.

That, I think, is where film and digital meet in the middle, where they both deserve to escape the screen and become something tangible.

Telling stories. Documenting.
Making images that feel like me.
And, when it matters, turning them into something you can hold.

This isn’t a permanent goodbye to film. However, it is goodbye for now.