Through My Lens: Part 1 - Chasing Light

You might be wondering how I ended up here. Or maybe you just stumbled across this page—who knows? Either way, this feels like the right place to start. Or, more accurately, to start again. For like the third time. Alright, enough rambling—here we go.

Art has always been part of my life. My grandmother and aunt were artists, and some of my earliest memories are of drawing and painting. As a kid, probably six or seven, I was obsessed with sketching jets and “killer penguins”—penguins with massive, toothy grins. Somewhere in my mom’s house, there are probably thousands of those drawings. (P.S. I still love jets.)

As I grew older, my art evolved. I started drawing people, animals, cityscapes, and architecture. Creating was my outlet. In high school, like most teens, I experimented with life and made some questionable choices, but I learned a lot. Along the way, I got into graffiti and caricatures, which sparked a new wave of creativity. At my school, you could choose between a foreign language or art classes. I always picked art. The first two years covered the basics—drawing, painting, shapes, light, and color.

In my junior and senior years, my school offered film photography and I was in. This was when digital photography was just emerging, but our class focused strictly on black-and-white film. I didn’t own a camera, but I was eager to start, especially to photograph my friends skateboarding. My grandma gave me her old Canon AE-1, and I was hooked. (I still have it and want to give film another shot someday.)

Photography became my passion. We learned the essentials—exposure triangle, framing, composition—and I loved every second. The entire process was hands-on. We bought film in class (about 10 cents a frame), chose our ISO, and loaded the rolls in light-sealed bags to avoid exposure. From shooting to developing, every step was thrilling.

Developing photos was my favorite part. It felt like a delicate craft. Each roll was a single ISO, so you had to commit until it was done. We’d carefully extract the film in those lightproof bags, load it into a developing tank, and process it into film strips. You’d know right away if you nailed the exposure—those crisp negatives were so satisfying. I miss that feeling.

Printing in the darkroom was its own science. We’d expose photo paper through the negative, tweaking light intensity and timing based on the paper and negative quality. Test strips helped us dial in the perfect exposure, and we’d dodge and burn to adjust light and dark areas. (If you’re curious about dodging and burning, let me know, and I’ll explain!) Cropping happened here too. It was a long, meticulous process, but seeing the final photo made it all worthwhile.

Each week, we’d get an assignment and present a mounted photo. I poured my heart into it. At the end of my senior year, a couple of my photos were entered into the district photography show. To my shock, I won “‘Best of Show.” I thought it was some minor award, but it meant my photo was the best in the entire show. I was floored—and thrilled. The prize included a small cash award and a basic point-and-shoot digital camera, which I never really used. Instead, I invested the money in a Canon EOS Elan, a more modern film camera with autofocus. I upgraded my lenses and started photographing my friends skateboarding, using flashes to light the scenes. I pored over skateboarding magazines, admiring photographers like Atiba Jefferson, Grant Brittain, and Jai Tanju as much as the skaters’ tricks.

As I got older and stopped skateboarding, photography faded. The digital age made film expensive, and developing costs were too much for my budget. My gear went into bags and stayed there for years. Writing this has been surprisingly therapeutic, and maybe that’s part of why I’m here. For now, I’ll leave it at that. Thanks for reading—until next time.