My love of the photographic process reaches far back, as it probably does for most of us who toil in this practice. I have distinct memories of so many aspects of image making, that have wormed into my brain. Memories of things I hardly remember from long ago. Memories of the smell of a darkroom, memories of a print coming to life in a tray of developer. The feel of a roll of film in my hand, in complete darkness, as I fumble with a metal reel and tank. The smell of the inside of a film container, the plastic and latent silver scent intoxicating my young mind.
Recently, I was recalling an early memory that I had forgotten about, from many years ago. A childhood memory that laid buried in my brain, almost completely forgotten. Growing up in 1970s New Jersey I lived in a suburban, middle class town. Our entire neighborhood was populated with families with kids. So many kids, ages from pre-K to teens. We all interacted with little regard for any age-inflicted stratification. There was one particular house at the far end of our street, that a group of the older kids (teens) lived in. They were also part of the most liberal, progressive family on the block (in the 70s they were the “hippie” family.) The teens were, to my eyes, a bit wild… long hair and wire framed glasses, like John Lennon. One of the boys was also a photographer. Well, he owned a Nikon camera, that much I recall. One day he arrived in our driveway, showing off to me and my sisters, a mysterious sheet of black and white paper, with little rectangles of images on it. I didn’t comprehend really what it was, and where it came from. But I do remember being intrigued by a series of images, that looked like they told a little story. I think they were from some road trip, in upstate New York, perhaps. There were a few rectangles showing our neighbor urinating on the side of a road. I remember reacting in a confused manner to those few frames. Why would you take a picture of that? Thirty six little pictures. Thirty six moments of magic.
Up until that point, photos were things I saw in frames on a living room table, or pressed in a photo album, behind a thin layer of static cling, plastic sheeting. Sometimes a snapshot or a Polaroid would be shuffled out of a shoebox. This was a new thing… now I know the reason for a contact sheet, and the inherent magic of it, too. The outtakes, the misfires, the hidden gems, the one or two “winners” of the roll… they’re all there. The photographer’s secret story. Often not seen by any audience besides themselves. Hunched over a table, with a magnifying loupe in one hand, a grease pencil in the other. Contact sheets are something that get lost in today’s digital photography world. You can replicate the experience with a simple setting in Lightroom, which I use as my own virtual version of the darkroom practice nowadays. But something is already lost, as these are usually curated sheets that I’ve culled the duds from. Those of you who have spent any time shooting film and exposing paper in a darkroom know there really is no substitution for a contact sheet. It’s as elemental to the photographic process as the sharp smell of stop bath, wafting from a red lit tray.
