Nostalgia for the Darkroom

My darkroom was literally an "actual" room. The door could be closed, and I could control the lights, from bright for viewing to red for developing. The trays were arranged along walls like soldiers, and there was always a pungent chemical smell in the air -- developer, stop bath, fixer -- it clung to everything I wore and probably shortened my life span by several years. I didn't mind, though; I loved this room.

For those who have never been in a darkroom, it is the place where the magic happens. I would take rolls of 35mm film (typically Kodak Tri-X), crack open the canisters, wind the film onto stainless reels, and place them in lightproof development tanks. All in complete darkness. When I’d mess that part up, I swear at myself. I swore at myself many times.

Next comes the chemistry. I’d mix the developer and measure the temperature. I’d decide which developer to use (I liked HC-110) and whether to push the film's ASA (now we call that the ISO) to control the contrast. There was no "undo" option. What I did, I lived with.

Timing is everything. I had to know how long to agitate the tank before pouring off the developer (I used one-shot, so I didn’t save it), put in the stop bath, and then the fixer. I had a fancy film/print washer from Zone VI Studio – back then, I didn’t worry about water bills.thr

Once the negatives have dried, things get really interesting. Under the red safelight, I lined the negatives up on an 8x10 #2 paper and made a contact sheet with my cold-head enlarger. That was the basis for selecting which negatives merited further attention after developing the sheet.

Once I picked out a negative, I’d place it into an enlarger carrier and project the negative image onto photographic paper. I would make test exposures to check the exposure time. I did this with a piece of cardboard, exposing one inch of the paper at a time for an additional three seconds. Too short, too gray. Too long, over-exposure like a bright summer day at high noon.

Now we get to cropping, dodging, and burning. I'd move pieces of cardboard around a metal rod to try to keep highlights down and deepen shadows. As the photographic equivalent of an orchestral conductor waving his arms, I'd coax drama from silver and light.
That's what I enjoyed the most.

I'd drop the photographic paper into the developer tray and watch as the image slowly emerged. At first, it was a ghostly outline. Then it solidified and developed depth. Like watching an image rise from the bottom of the ocean. That never got old. In fact, it seemed as though I wasn't creating the photographs, but discovering them.
Of course, I messed up a lot of photographs. Over-exposed. Spots of dust. Streaks from chemicals. I swear like a sailor every time I screwed up. However, when I produced a photograph that was perfect, I felt a sense of productivity that is difficult to describe today. I had built something with my own two hands.

As for the room itself, it was comfortable, but not luxurious. It was simply mine. The red safelight glowed softly. Negatives hung drying everywhere. Usually, Bach was playing music in the background -- particularly the Cello Suites -- which were measured, musical, and emotional all at once. The music matched the rhythm of my work.

After developing, I would run the prints through a long archival wash, then hang them to dry. Finally, came the matting and framing. Each step took patience, and each step needed space. And plumbing. Don't forget plumbing.

Today? I sit at a desk.

I use computer software and a Canon photo printer. I can crop, dodge, burn, and adjust contrast with a single mouse click. No trays. No chemicals. No plumbing. No waiting for negatives to dry while listening to Bach in the corner.

Easier. Cleaner. More efficient. And, if I'm truthful, infinitely more convenient.

However, things have changed. The smell of chemicals has disappeared, as has the slow emergence of images in the tray, but the discipline remains.

My goal at The Eric Bank Gallery isn't to replicate the past for the sake of nostalgia. I am not reminiscing about stained clothing and wet prints. I want to achieve that same silver halide look -- that same level of detail, that same depth, that same quiet drama -- with today's equipment.

I still dodge and burn. I still fine-tune a photograph's contrast. I still test and adjust and test again. The tools have changed, but my intent hasn't. And every time I send a photograph out into the world, I am still attempting to respect that creative feeling.

My darkroom was literally an "actual" room. The door could be closed, and I could control the lights, from bright for viewing to red for developing. The trays were arranged along walls like soldiers, and there was always a pungent chemical smell in the air -- developer, stop bath, fixer -- it clung to everything I wore and probably shortened my life span by several years. I didn't mind, though; I loved this room.

For those who have never been in a darkroom, it is the place where the magic happens. I would take rolls of 35mm film (typically Kodak Tri-X), crack open the canisters, wind the film onto stainless reels, and place them in lightproof development tanks. All in complete darkness. When I’d mess that part up, I swear at myself. I swore at myself many times.

Next comes the chemistry. I’d mix the developer and measure the temperature. I’d decide which developer to use (I liked HC-110) and whether to push the film's ASA (now we call that the ISO) to control the contrast. There was no "undo" option. What I did, I lived with.

Timing is everything. I had to know how long to agitate the tank before pouring off the developer (I used one-shot, so I didn’t save it), put in the stop bath, and then the fixer. I had a fancy film/print washer from Zone VI Studio – back then, I didn’t worry about water bills.thr

Once the negatives have dried, things get really interesting. Under the red safelight, I lined the negatives up on an 8x10 #2 paper and made a contact sheet with my cold-head enlarger. That was the basis for selecting which negatives merited further attention after developing the sheet.

Once I picked out a negative, I’d place it into an enlarger carrier and project the negative image onto photographic paper. I would make test exposures to check the exposure time. I did this with a piece of cardboard, exposing one inch of the paper at a time for an additional three seconds. Too short, too gray. Too long, over-exposure like a bright summer day at high noon.

Now we get to cropping, dodging, and burning. I'd move pieces of cardboard around a metal rod to try to keep highlights down and deepen shadows. As the photographic equivalent of an orchestral conductor waving his arms, I'd coax drama from silver and light.
That's what I enjoyed the most.

I'd drop the photographic paper into the developer tray and watch as the image slowly emerged. At first, it was a ghostly outline. Then it solidified and developed depth. Like watching an image rise from the bottom of the ocean. That never got old. In fact, it seemed as though I wasn't creating the photographs, but discovering them.
Of course, I messed up a lot of photographs. Over-exposed. Spots of dust. Streaks from chemicals. I swear like a sailor every time I screwed up. However, when I produced a photograph that was perfect, I felt a sense of productivity that is difficult to describe today. I had built something with my own two hands.

As for the room itself, it was comfortable, but not luxurious. It was simply mine. The red safelight glowed softly. Negatives hung drying everywhere. Usually, Bach was playing music in the background -- particularly the Cello Suites -- which were measured, musical, and emotional all at once. The music matched the rhythm of my work.

After developing, I would run the prints through a long archival wash, then hang them to dry. Finally, came the matting and framing. Each step took patience, and each step needed space. And plumbing. Don't forget plumbing.

Today? I sit at a desk.

I use computer software and a Canon photo printer. I can crop, dodge, burn, and adjust contrast with a single mouse click. No trays. No chemicals. No plumbing. No waiting for negatives to dry while listening to Bach in the corner.

Easier. Cleaner. More efficient. And, if I'm truthful, infinitely more convenient.

However, things have changed. The smell of chemicals has disappeared, as has the slow emergence of images in the tray, but the discipline remains.

My goal at The Eric Bank Gallery isn't to replicate the past for the sake of nostalgia. I am not reminiscing about stained clothing and wet prints. I want to achieve that same silver halide look -- that same level of detail, that same depth, that same quiet drama -- with today's equipment.

I still dodge and burn. I still fine-tune a photograph's contrast. I still test and adjust and test again. The tools have changed, but my intent hasn't. And every time I send a photograph out into the world, I am still attempting to respect that creative feeling.