Posted by Claire Yaffa on 04/29/2012 | Permalink
stepping inside, clutching rolls of film, wondering, beginning to wind the film, snagging it, starting again, realizing the fragility of this process which will be unforgiving for mistakes of temperature, unfresh chemicals needing to be thrown away, cleaning the dust of time not spent there. It has always been my safe, magical place where I used to smoke, inhaling chemicals,with smells and music enveloping me in my world of photography. Returning after an absence after trying to accept the digital world, I was brought back to memories in time.
I recalled the time spent in the evenings, when my children were growing up.
After a busy day being a mother and wife, when all were asleep, I would go down to my darkroom which was the children’s playroom, but was now my space. I would light my cigarette, turn on my music. This was my time, when I would try to recreate my impressions and thoughts about the world, its beauty, its problems and try to decide if what I thought and photographed was at all important. After so many years, I am grateful I can still enter the darkroom,
without the cigarettes, but perhaps with a vodka or glass of wine. It is still my place, but many years have passed. I can enter at anytime. There are no children asleep upstairs to worry about. They have their own beds now and I have three grandchildren who like to come with me into the darkroom to create their own images. Time passes, memories linger and it is still the place where I love to be.