Ode to the Darkroom (December 11, 2024) 

 

 

It all begins with focus—a thought or desire that calls us to capture something more than what meets the eye. The camera, in its quiet way, holds that intention, offering a glimpse into the unseen. The image captured on the negative is more than a photograph; it’s the essence of a moment, crystallized in time.

 

In 1983, I was accepted into the High School of Art & Design in NYC just a year after emigrating from Russia (the former Soviet Union). I barely spoke any English, but art was my refuge, as far back as I can remember—a language of its own that spoke to me when words failed. In the darkroom, I found sanctuary. The camera became my bridge to a new world, connecting me to the city, the people, and myself in ways words could not.

 

At first, I was drawn to architecture—my love for drawing buildings led me to dream of studying it. But by the second semester, I found myself focused on photography, discovering a new way of seeing. Photography allowed me to capture not just buildings, but the emotional layers of light and shadow that transformed them, giving them life. Architecture became a reflection of my emotional journey, and I learned to connect with it on a deeper level. (Who knew buildings had so much to say?)

 

Eventually, my focus shifted from landscape to people—capturing not only their faces but my own. Through self-portraiture, I began to understand how deeply I was woven into this new place, connected to it in ways I hadn’t yet fully grasped. The camera wasn’t just a witness; it was a participant. And as I looked at the images I captured, I realized something profound: the way the camera sees me, the way others see me, and the way I see myself are all subjective. It’s as if we’re all holding up our own lenses to the world, seeing through our filters, shaped by who we are, where we’ve been, and what we’ve experienced. These reflections may vary, but they are all equally real, and equally valid.

 

The camera, like the mind, is a darkroom—a place where raw moments, desires, and dreams take shape. Just as negative soaks in the chemicals, our thoughts and feelings are immersed in reflection, slowly evolving into something tangible.

 

The enlarger is where the image begins to come alive. As light exposes the negative, we control the exposure time, adjusting the intensity of the light to reveal what we want to see. The image grows—sometimes zooming in on details, other times leaving it framed as it was. What was once a faint sketch of reality becomes sharp, clear, and full of depth. The final bath in chemicals seals the process. (And in the end, the image reveals itself—not always as we imagined, but exactly as it was meant to be.)

 

Manifestation mirrors this process. What we focus on, what we choose to capture, gradually comes into being. Just as a photograph develops over time, our intentions shape our reality, and the world around us responds to our light, our focus, and our care. Yet, even in that act of creation, there is surrender—the image, like our life’s path, must unfold in its own time and way.

 

And so, just as the camera reveals what we cannot always see at first, we, too, become the products of our focus and intentions. In the darkroom of the mind, where light and shadow play, our thoughts begin to form, unfolding with clarity—sometimes shifting, sometimes surprising, but always becoming more defined, just as the photograph does in the developer’s tray. The focus, after all, never ends; it is the light that guides us, and the images we capture are reflections of our ever-evolving selves, both through our own eyes and through the lenses others hold up to us. Each one of us brings something different to the frame.