The Rebellion of Returning to Film

October 22, 2025 | author: Erika Carruth

There is something quietly radical about slowing down. In a world obsessed with instant uploads, algorithms, and AI-generated perfection, film photography feels almost rebellious. It takes time. It forces patience. There’s no preview screen, no quick fix or edit, no immediate gratification. Every frame demands intention (and concentration), from light metering and composition to choosing the angle and taking a pause before the shutter clicks.

It’s imperfect and raw, and that’s exactly the point.

It is easy to forget that creation was never meant to be convenient. Film makes you wait. It makes you trust your eye again, to reconnect with the physical craft. And when you finally hold that developed print, it is not just another image passing through your scroll; rather, it is a story captured in real time that is not easily replicated or filtered to fit a prescribed aesthetic.

In a digital world saturated with hyper-edited perfection and AI mimicry, the analog process stands out more than ever, and I believe this is a good thing. It’s not about nostalgia (although a little bit for me); it’s about authenticity. You can’t mass-produce it. You can’t duplicate the flaws or when you get it just right. The process reminds you of what attracted you to photography. It was never about the likes or the reach, or the mass appeal. For me, it was about recollection, preservation and connection between the eye, the subject, and the story in between. Photography can be a powerful means for saying with images what the heart may be speaking but doesn’t have a voice, or for expressing a sentiment that simply cannot be captured with words alone. There is visual poetry to it, and with the speed of technology and our ever-increasing expectation for quick results, I think some of the art can so easily be lost in the excitement and image overload.

Why is it Rebellion?

With film, you surrender control. There’s no instant preview (polaroids aside), no delete-and-retry safety net. You learn to trust your instincts, anticipate light, and make peace with imperfection. That tension between what you envision and what you get becomes the teacher.

You also resist the digital drag. We live in a world of screens, drowning in likes, shares, and filters. Film forces you offline. It gives you space to breathe, to reflect, and to connect with the tactile. It makes you quiet the noise and distractions that have become the standard of our day-to-day.

And then there’s authenticity. The truth is that we are constantly engaged in a digital market that is flooded with fabricated images, and because of this, film stands apart. The unique quirks, tonal depth, and organic texture make it honest. Its rawness can’t be replicated, especially when you don’t upload it or share it online. There is power in that — in making something that isn’t instantly available for mass consumption.

But at the core of it, film reconnects you with purpose. The reason I picked up a camera in the first place wasn’t to chase clicks or followers; they didn’t really exist, at least how we know them now. It was about creation and connection. Film brings me back and asks me to slow down.

Returning to the Process

I was first introduced to film as a young teen — not so much the shooting (that came earlier), but the magic that happened afterward, in the darkroom. It was this quiet, secret space where you could experiment and watch an image come to life under dim red light. I remember the first time I realized that I actually had options and that the final photograph wasn’t just what the camera captured, but what I could help shape through development. I didn’t have much formal training back then; it was mostly for fun with friends. But it sparked something. It opened the door from a point-and-shoot existence to an understanding that photography could be a different kind of art form.

I never had my own darkroom, so my experience was limited, relying mostly on labs to develop my work. Still, the process stayed with me. Then, digital photography came along, and I was immediately captivated. Suddenly, I could control the final image in ways that film never allowed me to or would have taken copious amounts of time. I could manipulate color, light, tone, and mood, all from my computer. This new format felt revolutionary, like my creative vision could finally be matched in real time with what I imagined in my mind’s eye.

But as digital tools advanced something else quietly slipped away. The craft became more convenient, and less deliberate. The process became faster, but the connection showed signs of weakening. Technology made photography accessible to everyone, which is a beautiful thing… Art should be accessible. It should allow anyone to express themselves, tell stories, and capture what matters to them. Yet, the faster and smarter technology becomes, the more I find myself craving the slow, imperfect, hands-on experience that started it all.

Going back to film, even briefly, is my way of remembering why I fell in love with photography in the first place. It forces me to pause, to anticipate, and to be more selective and thoughtful with each shot. And in an age of infinite images and AI-generated everything, maybe slowing down isn’t regression. Maybe it is a rebellion of sorts, as well as a quiet way to reconnect with the human side of creation.

The Uncertainty

The frustration of not getting the shot, the agonizing wait for it to develop, the anxiety of whether the lab would handle it properly — all of it once felt so stressful and time-consuming. I used to worry about whether the film had been damaged by heat, or if I had missed the perfect capture in the only moment I would get. But now I look back and cherish that uncertainty. I have a new found appreciation for the raw, imperfect tension of not knowing, of hoping. I think about how many rolls I felt I had wasted, and how each lost negative felt like a vanished piece of time.

Sure, those photographs can’t be duplicated, but what really can’t be duplicated is the feeling of their value. The care we took to protect them. The albums we built, the portfolios we filled; each move, each page added, carried risk. But isn’t that life? Isn’t that what we lose when we drown ourselves in digital ease? The pain of loss and the glory of gain — that is the heartbeat of both life and art.

Finding Your Flow

If you are considering revisiting film, even just for a short time, I would advise starting small. Pick up a used camera or dust off the one you might already have. Choose one or two rolls of film; perhaps you start with one classic black-and-white, and then just go and give yourself the freedom to explore without pressure.

Many professional labs still offer high-quality film development and fine art printing services, whether you prefer mailing in your rolls or working with someone locally. When choosing a lab, consider the type of film you shoot and the level of service you need. Look for labs with strong reputations among film photographers, transparent pricing, and sample galleries that show consistent results. You can also explore small boutique studios, camera co-ops, or university darkrooms that allow community access and mentorship.

Film truly can serve as a mini reset. A return to intention. In a digital world that prizes speed and perfection, choosing slowness and imperfection can be an act of courage. For me, that return to film is not about abandoning progress, but about remembering why I started. It is about valuing the process, the waiting, and finding art again in the uncertainty.

So, if you are feeling disconnected from your craft, take a moment to step back. Load a roll. Let it surprise you. You may just find yourself refreshed and more focused when you jump back into the digital world.