Here in Shanghai, I snagged a small HUQIU 351, a camera born in Suzhou some sixty odd years ago. (It’s growing my interest in Chinese cameras.) It snaps quite well, but the rangefinder ain’t the most reliable. I have to tap it on the side to line it up, which ain’t exactly confidence-inspiring. So, I’ve leaned into the zone system à la Cartier-Bresson for focus.

Shooting on film versus digital—it’s not just about the equipment; it’s an entirely different mindset. Film is a surface that reacts to the reality of the external world in a direct way; it is touched by light and is directly altered by it.

In digital, the shot means nothing, it does nothing; the light touches a sensor which is not modified but interpreted, translated into binary numbers, which are then recomposed by a computer speaking the same language as the sensor, but neither of them speaks our language. A fleeting illusion of permanence.

But when you shoot on film, each frame is unique, irreplaceable. Digital is like modern architecture, transparent and illusionistic; film is like ancient architecture, solid and historical.

In the digital world, everything is transient, fleeting. A click, a swipe, and it’s gone, lost in the endless stream of content. But when you capture a moment on film, it becomes a tangible artifact of time, a testament to the impermanence of existence itself. Each frame is a reminder that nothing lasts forever, that every moment is fleeting and precious.