🧪 From Silver Halides to Pigment Inks: Questions from a Photographer in Transition

There was a time when the darkroom was a sanctuary. The red glow, the scent of fixer, the slow emergence of an image in developer—each step felt like a ritual. It wasn’t just about making photographs. It was about becoming a photographer.

Now, in 2025, the workflow has changed. The trays are gone. The chemicals are silent. The hum of an inkjet printer replaces the drip of water on resin-coated paper. And yet, the question lingers:

Do I still feel the same?

🧠 What Was Lost?

• Was the darkroom a place of solitude, or a space for communion with the image?

• Did the tactile process—the dodging, the burning, the waiting—shape how I saw the world?

• Have I traded patience for precision? Mystery for control?

🖨 What Was Gained?

• Does inkjet printing offer a new kind of intimacy—one built on calibration, paper choice, and tonal nuance?

• Can the act of printing still be meditative, even without the alchemy of chemistry?

• Is the shift from analog to digital a loss of soul, or a redefinition of craft?

🪞 What Still Remains?

• Do I still chase the feeling of watching an image come to life—whether in a tray or on a platen?

• Is the emotional weight of a print tied to its process, or to the story it tells?

• Can the discipline of daily shooting and archival reflection bridge the gap between eras?

🧭 Where Am I Headed?

• Am I honoring the legacy of the darkroom by printing with intention?

• Do I teach restraint and vision in a way that transcends the tools?

• Is the photograph still a physical artifact of presence, even when born from pixels?

These questions aren’t meant to be answered quickly. They’re meant to be lived with—like a well-worn lens or a rediscovered negative. The shift from chemical to digital isn’t just technical. It’s emotional. Philosophical. And deeply personal.

If you’re still printing, still reflecting, still asking—then maybe the spirit of the darkroom never left. It just changed form.