On Slowing Down & Shooting Film

I’ve been wanting to write something about my analogue process for a while now. Every time I tried, though, the words felt forced — like I was trying too hard to explain something that maybe doesn’t need explaining.

So what do I really want to write about?

A few weeks ago, I began a twelve-week journey through Julia Cameron’s classic book The Artist’s Way. I’m now entering week four, and I’ve just finished the fourth chapter. It’s already been a ride: insightful, frustrating, clarifying, confronting — and surprisingly grounding. In just three weeks, I’ve been nudged to reflect on my creative rhythms in ways I hadn’t expected.

One of the things that’s become clear is how much time I’ve spent drifting away from photography over the past year or maybe even years. Not intentionally, not dramatically. Just… slowly. I worked jobs that paid the bills but didn’t light me up. I traveled, often without a clear sense of photographic purpose. At the time, it felt fine. Necessary, even. But now I’m beginning to see it differently — as a quiet call to slow down. Not just externally, but internally too. A pull back to my own desires. To contentment. To peace.

Looking back, the clues were there. I felt it while riding my bike through Europe — the lightness that came when I wasn’t chasing work, when my days were built around simple rhythms. Or back home, when I’d fall into a routine of sleeping well, going to the gym, and spending quiet hours in my favorite coffee shop with tea and a book. These were windows of stillness that were trying to tell me something. I just didn’t quite hear it yet. Or I didn’t listen.

The real reason I’m writing this, though — the one that keeps tugging and makes it a blog for my website — is analogue photography.

It’s funny, because it’s not even about the results. If I’m honest, they’re often not all that impressive to me. They’re certainly not the kind of photos I feel, are screaming for attention online. I don’t see them boosting my career or feeding any algorithm. Sometimes I look at them and realise how much time and money I pour into this. Film is expensive. Processing even more so. And scanning? A perfect exercise in patience.

But that’s exactly it.

It slows me down.

Each photo takes time. I meter the light. I guess the distance. I fiddle with settings. I think. I wait. And finally, I press the shutter. That slowness — the deliberate act of making an image rather than just taking one — is what’s brought the fun back. It feels like play.

It probably started when I took only an analogue camera with me on my motorbike trip. Once I was back home, the idea just stuck. I began leaving my phone in my pocket and bringing the Rollei 35 instead. Sometimes even the Mamiya medium format. Slowly, I found myself shooting on film during the in-between moments — on set, in the tattoo shop, on the road with my girlfriend, with family and friends. Even during the “Artist Dates” that Julia Cameron’s program encourages every week.

It became less about the photo, and more about the process. Less about the outcome, more about presence.

I suppose that’s what I’ve been circling around, without quite naming it: this shift back toward a way of working — and living — that values slowness, intention, and attention. A familiar place, a way of life I know so well, but slips away ever so easy. Shooting analogue didn’t just bring me back to my photography. It brought me back to myself.

Back in flow