Notes from the darkroom.

#20: on continuity

Today is a sad day.

An important piece of my darkroom gear got damaged. 
Something that was still doing the job decades after it was built, provided you care enough.

It hurts because it halts the momentum. What broke isn’t just a piece of gear. It’s continuity. A weekly ritual. A place where effort still converts into something tangible and earned.

The break doesn’t feel like inconvenience. It feels like exile. Especially when that space isn’t a hobby room, but a through line. A way of staying aligned in life.

I tried to repair it. Again and again. Trial, error, learning. No result. I looked for professional help. But no one even wanted to try.

The world I rely on to keep that practice alive no longer seems interested in repair. Not unable; unwilling. No ownership, no responsibility, no curiosity. Just risk avoidance and replacement logic.

That hurts because it contradicts what I value in my practice: care, continuation, transmission.
I wasn’t asking for charity; I was asking for engagement.

That rupture pushed me further into reflection about photography itself.

When photography required time, failure, material commitment and consequence, it imposed a threshold. That threshold didn’t guarantee quality, but it demanded intention, purpose.

Today, the threshold is gone. The act has been flattened into capture and circulation. Permanence replaced by flow. Memory replaced by feed.

What hurts isn’t that photography evolved. It’s that its dominant form no longer needs care to exist. No purpose beyond performance; no loss if it disappears.

My broken darkroom gear feels like a harsh metaphor. A practice built on longevity brought to a halt by a system optimised for disposability.

The current moment does not need what I offer. At least not loudly, visibly, or often.
It needs conformity, theatrics and endless positioning.

I built my instincts out of substance, autonomy and convictions. Those don’t age well in a world that mistakes movement for progress and exposure for meaning.

The work for me now is different.

It’s not about staying current, relevant, or connected. It’s about choosing a narrower, calmer path to meaning. And accepting that it may never be widely mirrored back.

A brutal adjustment for someone who lived vividly and outwardly. Still, it’s only a reversal of momentum, not a loss of self.

I don’t feel obsolete. But I’m done auditioning for a world that no longer speaks my language.

I’ll repair my gear and keep going with what makes sense to me.

And perhaps others,
provided they care enough.