The Quiet Film
One roll, four countries, and a gentle unawareness.
Often, when we shoot, I’ve noticed most people feel the urge to get the photos into the computer as soon as possible. I suffer from that too — especially when I think I’ve got something good.
Last year, I was given a Rollei 35 (35 stands for 35mm film), a tiny camera I carry with me everywhere, though I only use it every now and then. No rules indeed— I just take it out whenever I feel like it, especially when it’s sunny and I want to leave my X-Pro2 at home..
Back in the day, probably some rolls of film felt urgent. You’d shoot, develop, maybe even print them within days — hungry to see what you’d captured.
But a roll of film can also offer something else: an experience free from any sense of urgency. This roll — a humble Kentmere 400 — travelled with me across many countries over several months. It saw streets in Istanbul, lovely sunsets in Chile, restless walks in Rome, and the golden peace of Sun Island, in Bolivia.
I shot it slowly, even carelessly. I wasn’t chasing perfect exposure or technical precision. In fact, I often forgot it was still in the camera. And I never deliberately tried to stretch it across time and space — it just happened. I wasn’t trying to make a point or write about it.
And then a small accident happened — or maybe a gift. I realized the film counter on the Rollei was broken. The only way to know the roll was finished was when the advance lever stopped working. That moment came the day after I arrived in Istanbul, during a quiet and sunny Sunday walk.
When I finally developed the roll last Monday, I didn’t recognize most of the frames. The photos felt like they’d been taken by someone else — a quieter version of me. A less relentless one, for sure. Or maybe it wasn’t even “me” at all. Perhaps it was the camera seeing something I wasn’t aware of. Probably, I’m just overthinking, and it simply feels unfamiliar because of the focal length — 40mm.
What struck me most about this roll was the detachment built into it. I wasn’t emotionally tied to the frames anymore. I wasn’t waiting on them. Their existence had become irrelevant to me, which somehow set them free. They weren’t trying to be “good” photos. They were just moments — fragments of life seen through an indifferent lens. A quiet and calm click. A soft touch, easy to forget.
And yet, the beauty was there. Not in composition or technical perfection, but in their stillness. Their honesty.
And to be honest? I freaking love these shots now.
There’s something liberating about forgetting. Letting go is often hard — but in the right context, it can be the most generous thing to do. This roll reminded me that photography doesn’t always need our full attention. Sometimes, it needs our absence. A gentle unawareness.
I’ll share a few frames below — not as highlights, but as pages from a diary I didn’t know I was writing.
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I love the portrait of your grandmother. Beautiful tonality and a lovely unguarded moment. I wonder how it would look if you burned in the window area just a little bit. Just an idea. What do you think?
Some absolutely charming shots!