Film prices keep rising. Labs are more expensive than ever. Even the cheapest plastic point-and-shoot from the 90s is suddenly treated like a sacred relic touched by Henri Cartier-Bresson himself. Cameras that used to sit forgotten in flea markets are now sold online with cinematic lighting and the word rare in the title, usually at absurd prices.

And yet, more people than ever want to shoot film.

So the question appears naturally:

Is analogue photography still worth it?

I think the answer depends entirely on how honest you are with yourself.

For years, film photography has been surrounded by a certain mythology. People often describe it as a purer form of photography. A slower process. A more conscious way of creating images. Some even frame it as resistance against modern technology, especially now in an era dominated by AI-generated images, algorithms, endless scrolling, and hyper-digital aesthetics.

But if I’m honest, I think many of those arguments are exaggerated.

Most people are not shooting film because it makes them better photographers.

Most people are there because they like how it looks.

And honestly? That’s perfectly fine.

The grain, the colors, the imperfections, the softness, the highlights, the accidental mistakes, the nostalgia… all of it creates an aesthetic language that digital still struggles to replicate naturally. Some people fall in love with the emotional texture of film. Others simply enjoy the trend around it. Some want the experience. Some want the look. Some just want to carry a camera that feels alive.

I’ve taken plenty of terrible photos on film myself. Truly terrible ones.

Film does not magically transform someone into a thoughtful artist. A roll of Kodak won’t suddenly inject meaning into an empty image. Sometimes people romanticize analogue photography while producing the same careless photographs they would have taken digitally, just with grain added on top.

And again, that’s okay.

Photography has always contained a huge amount of experimentation, failure, vanity, obsession, trend-following, collecting, nostalgia, and personal pleasure. Film is not morally superior to digital. It is simply another medium with its own physicality and emotional appeal.

Personally, I still shoot film for two main reasons: aesthetics and experience.

I genuinely love how film renders the world. But I also love the tactile aspect of analogue cameras. The sensation of advancing the film lever. The sound of rewinding a roll. Looking down into a waist-level finder on a TLR. Focusing differently.

There is something beautiful about interacting with a mechanical object that was designed decades ago and still functions perfectly today.

I’m also deeply interested in camera history. One of the oldest cameras I’ve personally shot with is a Kodak Brownie No. 2, and using it felt less like operating a tool and more like touching a fragment of photographic history.

But none of this means film is objectively “worth it.”

Art rarely works that way.

Painting is expensive. Music equipment is expensive. Printing books is expensive. Darkroom chemistry is expensive. Creative practices often require money, time, space, patience, and access. Analogue photography is no different. In many ways, it has become a privilege.

So maybe the real question isn’t whether film photography is worth it universally.

Maybe the better question is:

Is it worth it for you?

If shooting film genuinely excites you, inspires you, motivates you to go outside and create images, helps you connect with photography, or simply makes you happy, then yes, it’s worth it.

If you have some extra money to feed a hobby that brings you joy, why not?

Just don’t lie to yourself about the reasons.

You don’t need to pretend film makes you spiritually superior. You don’t need to frame yourself as a guardian of “real photography.” You don’t need to romanticize suffering, slowness, or imperfection to justify enjoying analogue cameras.

Sometimes the honest answer is simply:

“I like how it looks.”
“I enjoy the process.”
“I think it’s fun.”

And honestly, that’s more than enough.

Last march I was present in one of the most interesting Swiss traditions.

Tschäggättä is a tradition from the Lötschental valley in Switzerland, with roots that go back centuries. Its exact origin remains unclear. Some connect it to older seasonal rituals, others to local folklore. What is documented is that references to the practice appear in the 19th century, and some of the surviving masks date back to the late 1700s.

The valley itself has long been relatively isolated, and the tradition still feels strongly tied to the people who live there. Most of the participants are locals. There is no sense of performance in the conventional way, even though today it exists within the broader context of Fasnacht and its public parades.

The masks are hand-carved, often from wood, combined with fur and heavy materials. They carry a physical presence that is difficult to reduce to costume. Each one feels slightly different, shaped by the hand that made it and the time it has endured.

What stayed with me was the coexistence. These figures moving through a crowd of winter jackets, people holding up smartphones, documenting something that was not originally meant to be documented and, suddenly they will come and scare you or hold you around their arms.

I photographed this using a Nikon F2 with Kodak Tri-X 400. Black and white allowed me to focus on texture and contrast, the rough surfaces of carved wood, the density of fur, the way these elements stand against the softness of snow and the constant movement of the crowd.

There is no clear boundary between past and present here, at least to me.

After a few years working with film, I don’t really buy that idea anymore.

What I’ve realized is much simpler: I just like how film looks.

The way I shoot has more to do with me than with the camera. I can take my time with digital, think through every frame, build something carefully. I can also rush through a roll of film without much thought. The medium doesn’t magically change that.

Still, I keep coming back to analogue.

At this point, I’ve been shooting film for around four years. I went through that phase of trying everything: different cameras, different stocks, different formats. The excitement was real, and I don’t regret it. It helped me understand what I actually enjoy and what I don’t need.

Now my setup is smaller. More focused. I shoot less film, and when I do, it’s more deliberate.

There’s also a level of distrust that never really goes away. Film feels fragile in a way digital doesn’t. Too many variables sit outside your control: exposure, development, the condition of the roll itself. Because of that, I don’t feel comfortable relying on it completely.

So my workflow changed.

I shoot digital first. That’s where I secure the images I care about, the ones I need to deliver, the ones I don’t want to lose. Then, once I have something I already like; a pose, a moment, an idea, that’s when I bring in film. It becomes an extension, not the foundation.

In that sense, film is still intentional for me, just in a different way than I used to think.

There’s also a strange side to it: sometimes I slow down too much. I’ve had a roll of expired Fujifilm Velvia sitting in a camera since November. At this point, I’m not even sure what I’ll get from it. Maybe nothing. Maybe something interesting. That uncertainty is always there.

And yet, I’m still drawn to it.

There’s something about the texture, the colors, the imperfections. Something that feels harder to replicate, even if digital keeps getting closer every year.

I don’t see analogue as a philosophy anymore. It’s a tool I choose for specific moments, for specific images.

And at the end of the day, the reason is pretty simple: I like what it gives me.

Let’s close with one of my favorite photos but on its analogue version.

I didn’t just want a camera; I wanted an anchor. I wanted something built with the stubborn durability of a cold-war relic. I was looking for a tank.

Enter the Nikon F2.

The Choice: F2 vs. F3 (The Philosophy of Mechanics)

When you look for a professional Nikon system camera, the debate usually lands between the F2 and its successor, the F3. Both are legends. But for me, the choice was philosophical.

The F3 is a marvel of electronic integration, offering quartz-timed shutter accuracy and aperture priority. But it has an Achilles heel: it needs a battery. If the electronics fry, you are left with a single, emergency mechanical shutter speed (1/60th).

I chose the F2 because it is a purely mechanical beast. It doesn’t care if you have batteries. It doesn’t care if it’s freezing outside. As long as the springs have tension and the gears mesh, the shutter will fire at any speed you command.

Is it “more reliable” than an F3? That’s debatable among historians. An unserviced mechanical camera can have gummy lubricants and slow shutter speeds. But the feeling of reliability, knowing that the machine’s operation relies solely on physics, not circuitry, was what I needed. It felt immortal.

The First Ritual: A Study in Silver and Weight

The F2 isn’t just a tool; it’s a sensory anchor. It is cold, unyielding, and demands a specific kind of physical presence. There is a weight to it that feels intentional, a counterweight to the ethereal, “sweet-and-sour” nostalgia I try to capture.

Advancing the film isn’t a casual flick; it’s a deliberate, mechanical sequence. The sound is less like a weapon and more like the heavy, rhythmic carriage return of a vintage typewriter or the winding of a grandfather clock. It doesn’t offer shortcuts; it requires a ritualistic precision.

For the first roll, I chose Ilford HP5. I went out to do some portraits and the camera felt like a partner in the process. The DP-1 prism was responsive, and the 50mm lens translated the world exactly as I saw it: a cinematic, shadowed reality.

In those moments, I felt a rare sense of alignment. I wasn’t fighting the machine; I had simply found a rhythm that matched my own. I thought I had mastered the ritual.

The Fall and the Aftermath: A Heavy Impact

I chose the Nikon F2 because it is a purely mechanical beast. It doesn’t rely on electronics; it relies on physics. But physics, as I rediscovered, can be a harsh teacher.

During a shoot with a CineStill 800T, the camera strap tangled on a park bench. As I lifted the camera, it yanked back and slipped. I lunged, catching it just as it struck the ground.

It was a “mild strong” hit. The kind of metallic thud that vibrates through the brass and into your bones. A fall is a fall, no matter how “pro” the gear is.

The Limbo: Finishing the Roll

In that moment, the anxiety of a mistake spiked. But the F2 is a professional tool designed for war zones. I checked the shutter, the advance, the glass. It seemed to hold. So, I did the only thing I could do: I finished the roll.

I leaned back into the photoshoot, despite the nagging doubt in the back of my mind. Did the hit misalign the mirror? Did it crack a light seal? Is the shutter still timing correctly at 1/2000th?

The CineStill roll is now headed to the lab. It carries with it the evidence of that impact.

The Diagnostic Ritual: 400 TX

To be sure, I haven’t put the F2 on a shelf to wait. I have immediately loaded a roll of Kodak 400 TX.

If the HP5 was the “honeymoon” and the CineStill was the “accident,” the Tri-X is the “verdict.” This is the diagnostic phase. I am currently out shooting with it, pushing the machine through its paces again.

The philosophy is simple: If both the CineStill and the Tri-X come back clean, if the frames are aligned and the exposures are consistent, then the F2 has officially earned its title as “The Tank.” It will have survived not just the fall, but my own human error.

Until then, I am in a state of silver-halide suspense. The ritual continues, but now with a new scar on the corner of the brass, and a deeper respect for the weight of the machine.

I wasn’t particularly active with film this year. Other projects took priority, and my attention moved elsewhere. Still, every roll I shot mattered. Film has that effect on me. Even when it’s not constant, it remains deliberate. Each camera slows things down in a different way, asks for a different kind of presence.

Part of it is the process. Part of it is memory. And yes, part of it is that I’m simply a gear nerd.

There’s something deeply satisfying about small mechanical decisions: choosing a camera, loading a roll, committing to a limitation. Film cameras don’t pretend to be neutral. Each one carries a personality, a bias, a way of seeing that inevitably shapes the image before you even press the shutter.

Here’s a brief reflection on each of the cameras that accompanied me this year.

Agfa Isolette III

A quiet, folding camera that feels older than it looks. Shooting with the Isolette always slows me down. Every frame feels deliberate, almost ceremonial. It reminds me that photography doesn’t need speed to be precise, sometimes it just needs patience and trust.

Canon AF35M

Clunky, unapologetic, and surprisingly charming. The AF35M is the kind of camera that invites instinct over intention. You raise it, frame quickly, and commit. It doesn’t wait for you to overthink and I appreciate that about it.

Kodak Brownie II

This camera barely feels like a camera. It’s primitive, direct, and stubbornly simple. Shooting with the Brownie forces you to abandon control and accept whatever comes back. There’s something honest about that kind of limitation, something almost refreshing.

Konica Autoreflex T3

Solid, mechanical, and quietly reliable. The Autoreflex T3 doesn’t try to impress, and that’s exactly why it works. It gets out of the way and lets the act of photographing feel straightforward and grounded.

Lomo Fisheye 2.0

Playful, distorted, and completely uninterested in realism. This camera turns every scene into an interpretation. It reminds me that photography doesn’t always need to explain, sometimes it just needs to surprise.

Olympus AF-10 Super

Light, fast, and effortless. The AF-10 Super is perfect for moments when thinking too much would ruin the image. It rewards spontaneity and presence, and it’s often the camera I reach for when I want to react rather than plan.

Olympus OM-2

Precise and elegant. The OM-2 feels like a conversation between control and intuition. It’s responsive without being intrusive, and it has a way of making you feel technically supported while still creatively free.

Yashica FX-D

A straightforward SLR that feels familiar almost immediately. There’s nothing flashy about it, and that’s its strength. The FX-D lets you focus on composition and light without asking to be admired itself.

Yashica Mat 124G

Slow, square, and deeply meditative. Looking down into the waist-level finder changes everything. This camera alters posture, pace, and perception. Shooting with it feels less like capturing and more like observing.

None of these cameras are “the best,” and I don’t want them to be. What matters is how each one changes the relationship between eye, body, and moment. Film photography, for me, isn’t nostalgia… it’s engagement. It’s accepting uncertainty and letting the process leave its mark on the result. Rather a romantic way to do things.

Some of these cameras will stay. Others will move on. That feels right. Tools come and go. The experiences remain.

If you watched the video, you probably have a favorite.

I’m curious which one and why.

It’s all part of the game, I guess, but it certainly teaches you a lot about patience and managing expectations.

Farewell to the Morrissey Dream: The Agfa Isolette III

The Agfa has been in my collection for a couple of years now. I initially got it because I wanted to recreate a shot from the famous Morrissey “Suedehead” video, where he’s taking photos with what I assume is a similar folding camera. It was a steal, I paid about 25 CHF for it and once I learned how to use it I genuinely liked shooting with it. The lens is surprisingly sharp for the price!

I took the Agfa out to the Cannstatter Wasen this year (gotta love a Mexican trying to navigate German festivals!), and while shooting, I realized the focusing was totally off. I couldn’t “match” the split-image focusing screen; the ghost image simply wouldn’t align, which means the telemetro is broken.

I had to switch to zone focusing for the rest of the roll, and thankfully, it seems to have worked in most cases. Now, I have to decide: repair it or try to find a new one. Whatever is cheaper, honestly! For now, it’s semi-retired, but that final roll has a moody, slightly uncertain quality that I kind of love. It’s the visual equivalent of a dramatic, melancholic Smiths song.

Here some of the possible very last photos with it.

The Return of the Beast: Yashica Mat 124G

The story of my Yashica is the complete opposite: a phoenix rising from the ashes of a bizarre mechanical failure. I also managed to get this one cheap, paying around 150 CHF years ago, and I shot several rolls until April when I noticed a strange, concerning sound every time I moved the focus lever.

I decided to take it to one of the most famous camera repair specialists in Switzerland. The wait? Six months! The service was extensive: a full CLA (Clean, Lubricate, Adjust), plus he repaired the electronic system, changed the focus screen for a brighter one, and replaced the light seals with Bahmwool ones.

It is now my current favorite camera, and the results from this first test roll prove that the wait was absolutely worth it. It is smooth, bright, and an absolute beast. And honestly, while I’m still saving up to get my dream Pentax 6x7 or a Mamiya (and maybe one day, a Rolleiflex), I’ll keep shooting with this TLR most of the time. It handles medium format beautifully and delivers that portrait quality I need for Threads of Obscura.

Here are some shots from the test roll when I got it back.

Conclusion

The analog life is about patience: waiting for the right light, waiting for the film, and waiting for the repairman. But the results whether they represent a stunning comeback or a beautifully broken farewell. always reward the wait.

What’s the longest you’ve ever had to wait for a camera repair? And was it worth it?

Let me know your own stories of analog victory and defeat in the comments!

Until the next frame,

Arnos, the Count Obscura

This particular year has been tough on my equipment. I’ve dealt with many camera repairs and a couple of cameras that I simply had to let go, like my beloved Olympus OM-2. So, instead of mourning, let’s focus on what I am currently using, starting with the analog side.

As you know, my main interest in photography is portraits, and that is precisely why I have these specific pieces. I’m going to keep this brief and just write about what I love about each of them.

Yashica Mat 124G

This is a widely known and incredibly trustworthy medium format TLR (Twin Lens Reflex). It’s almost entirely mechanical, save for the light meter. But the best thing about it is that you can still use it without worrying about the batteries or even the light meter part specifically.

It produces amazing portraits and honestly handles medium format beautifully. I’m not saying there is no need for a Pentax 6x7, a Mamiya, or a Rolleiflex—but while I save up for one of those, this is a very good option. Even when I get more specialty cameras, I think I’d love to keep shooting with the Yashica.

It got a full service this year, and even the focus screen was replaced. Now, it is a total beast. Six months of waiting were totally worth it; not being able to shoot with it only made me more excited to get it back.

The cons? Like with any camera of this type, the parallax error is difficult to fix, especially when you are close up for portraiture. But you know what? I think there is something romantic about acknowledging that things aren’t perfect.

Here are some photos I’ve taken with it.

Konica Autoreflex T3n

This one was one of the best deals I’ve ever scored. I got it for less than 20 bucks! Even though it has never had a service and the light meter isn’t working, it’s yet another camera that is almost fully mechanical. This means it works perfectly without me having to worry about the electronic system.

Right now, while I wait to source a battery cover for my Yashica FX-D and save up my budget for some Nikons, the Konica is my only SLR. This doesn’t mean it’s a camera I wouldn’t choose to use—on the contrary, I must say it is my workhorse when I get serious.

Yes, it is big and heavy compared to other SLRs I’ve worked with, like the aforementioned Yashica and Olympus, but it is an amazing camera. I have it paired with a Zuiko 50mm and the famous Konica 40mm pancake—both being outstanding lenses.

The best feature of this camera? The built-in function to easily create multiple exposures.

The only real downside is, again, how heavy it is, but honestly, I’ve never cared too much about that.

Here are some photos, including some cool double exposures I’ve done with it.

I’ve shot and tried so many analog cameras over the years, from a Kodak Brownie to my also beloved but now broken Agfa Isolette III. But the Konica and the Yashica are currently my main two analog resources—my reliable workhorses for serious portraiture.

Besides those, here’s a list of other things I use from time to time, purely for fun and experimentation:

• Olympus AF-10 Super: My current trustworthy point and shoot.

• Lomo Fisheye 2.0: A fun one to bring to parties for those wild, distorted views.

• Reto 3D: One of my favorite party cameras for creating those cool, slightly glitchy stereoscopic images.

• Fujifilm Instax Mini 9: Currently using it for especial exploration projects where I need an instant, tangible result.

The rest are cameras that I am not sure still work, or they were broken while using them (like many I’ve mentioned!), or things I used to rely on often, like the Canon AF35 or the Yashica Electro. It’s a revolving door in the analog world—some cameras arrive, some go in for repair, and some just retire.

So there you have it—a deep dive into the analog gear that currently defines my photographic life and contributes to the aesthetic of projects like “Threads of Obscura.”

These cameras—the robust Konica, the trustworthy Yashica, are all fundamental to the visual language I’m developing for my Substack and my personal projects. They help me create the rich, detailed, and often moodier portraits that I love.

What about you? What’s your most trusted piece of analog gear right now?

Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear your thoughts and recommendations!

Until the next frame,

Arnos, the Count Obscura.

First of all, as I’ve stated many times, my interest in film initially stemmed from its aesthetic. The photographer Marco Krueger inspired me; I wanted to achieve a style similar to his, and that’s when I realized he shot exclusively on film.

When I got my first film camera, I already had a couple of years under my belt shooting digital portraits, with a quite consolidated portfolio. Because of this, its integration into my workflow was slow. I started by shooting film for things more related to my daily life, like friends and candid moments. Since I had a point-and-shoot, it was never a serious part of my formal photoshoots. Ironically, I started using it primarily to capture behind-the-scenes moments—which is funny, because the original idea was to get that specific film aesthetic in my portraits!

After I moved to Switzerland, I started to shoot a bit more specific frames that I wanted to capture on film, but still without moving to a more serious camera. As a result, each roll would only have four or five portraits out of the 35 exposures.

Let’s make an important parenthesis here: most of the models I shoot with are beginners and friends/acquaintances. These last ones are actually the people I enjoy shooting with the most. I rarely like to shoot twice with the same person unless I genuinely love the dynamics we have, or if I feel there’s something “pending” that needs to be captured on camera.

This is the current situation with a girl I haven’t found the chance to photograph again. A couple of years ago, she let me know there might be a chance. She cancelled at the last moment, but I was so excited that I made one of the biggest plans of my life for that session: I created a really careful planification of outfits, locations, and posing. Since it was such a special thing to me, I decided I would shoot both color and black-and-white film, in addition to the digital part. By then, I had started to see film as a kind of special rite for me, with a different value than my digital shots—maybe more incrusted in my heart.

After she cancelled, I decided I was going to use what I already had planned anyway, and I ended up getting some nice shots of different models, both in color and black and white.

After that, I got my first kind of “serious” camera, an Olympus OM-2. That’s when I started my current workflow: hybrid photoshoots with about 80% digital and the rest on film. I work this way mainly because I don’t want to leave the likelihood of a screw-up (which the misfortunes of the universe are usually very much against me with) completely up to chance and end up without any digital images of the session.

This first “serious” experience was in the winter of 2023. I was finally able to use a full roll purely for portraits in a project for Threads of Obscura called “Nylon Under Pants.” You may know more or less what the photos look like, but here are some from that analogue roll.

Finding this hybrid workflow—mostly digital, but with specific, intentional film frames—feels like the perfect compromise. It keeps my portfolio safe from those “misfortunes of the universe,” while still giving me that visceral, physical reward of the analogue process. The Olympus OM-2 and projects like “Nylon Under Pants” are proof that this ritualistic approach works. Now, the goal is to keep pushing the ratio, perhaps moving closer to 50/50, and seeing how that changes the emotional register of the final art. What do you think? Do you have an artistic “ritual” that changes the value of your work? Are you interested in know what’s my current analog gear?

Traveling with a film camera is a bit like writing a journal without words. You are never completely sure what you are keeping until the pages come back from the lab, already aged, already carrying a bit of distance. In my last week’s trip, I let the rolls spin without much thought, even without a specific plan for them, I can see certain patterns that happened.

Some people I’ve found walking and standing, always caught from behind. They were strangers, but for a fraction of a second, I borrowed their solitude. There is something gentle about not showing their faces — the mystery remains theirs.

Then a few repeating patterns that caught my eye. Spheres, buildings, circles, the repetition of shapes that seem almost designed to be seen through a lens. They may not say much about the cities, but they speak about what I notice.

A cemetery in Helsinki that had a very particular stillness. It was not eerie, but rather calm, as if the trees and stones had agreed to hold the same breath.

The usual “landscapes” I can’t resist, views that are not mine, but that I can take home somehow.

Some simple objects that ended up feeling more personal than expected. A coffee cup, a lamp...

And then a man that was in the Ferry, looking out to the horizon, kind of the photo that would be asked to be taken. Cliché.

I shot everything with a Yashica FX-D paired with a zoom lens. The film stocks were Kodak Gold 200 and Ultramax 400.

Looking back, it is clear these photos were less about documenting a trip and more about collecting what my different moods ask me to. They are moments that probably meant nothing to anyone else at the time, but together they make the kind of visual memory I enjoy keeping. For the first time I am happy and satisfied with most of the photos in both rolls.

Let’s reflect on this and see if I can repeat it…

Till next time.

This is a project I mentioned in this post, and I felt that some of the photos might look interesting on film:

I shot them on Portra 400 with an Olympus OM-2.

Till next time,

A.

de una mirada frente a otra

esfumándose…>

My interest in double exposures began when I first saw spirit photographs from the Victorian era.

Since the supernatural and spooky have always been part of my interests, of course I wanted to try creating ghostly images myself.

As a side note, whenever someone asks why I photograph what I photograph, I like to quote that line from Fire Fly by Childish Gambino:

“All I do is make the stuff I would've liked
Reference things I wanna watch,
Reference girls I wanna bite.”

So in that spirit, I was just having fun trying to replicate what I find cool.

I started researching the different ways to create double exposures in analogue photography (I can write more about the techniques in another post if you'd like). The method that gave me the most control and made it easier to execute the ideas I had in mind was using a camera with built-in double exposure functionality.

I picked up a Konica Autoreflex T3N, which has become one of my favorite SLRs. Honestly, I think I like it even more than my Olympus OM-2.

I began testing how the system worked. I wanted to understand which image should be taken first. For example, capturing a sharp base and then overlaying the “ghost.” I figured it out by burning a roll with test shots of a Coca-Cola can on the train. Turns out it’s actually quite intuitive once you get the hang of it.

After that first test, it was just a matter of keeping a few things in mind like always bringing a tripod for better control and paying attention to exposure to avoid overexposing any of the two (or more) layers. I’ve noticed contrast plays a big role in achieving satisfying results.

Here are a few more photos from that roll I used to experiment:

It was a really fulfilling exploration. There’s something special about being able to create these images purely through chemical processes. I think that’s where the true magic of film photography lives.

This experiment was all part of the preparation for the Host of a Ghost shoot I did last year, which you can check out here:

That series is mostly digital, but these are the analogue frames I managed to capture and I’m honestly really happy with them:

That’s all for now. Let me know if you’d like me to go deeper into either the technical or creative aspects of this process. I’d love to write more about it.

Till next time.

A.

Con cámara de rollo is my film photography journal.
You’ll see portraits, experiments, notes on film stocks, travel photos, failures, maybe even gear — but always filtered through nostalgia and mood.

If you’re here, maybe you also like slowness.
Maybe you find comfort in dust and scratches.

Either way, welcome.

Count Obscura

🧷 Coming soon: some film stills from a recent cyanotype workshop.

Read more

However, managing all these platforms has become increasingly difficult, so I’ve decided to start consolidating certain aspects. For example, I recently removed the separate film photography section from here and merged it with Threads of Obscura. On Patreon, I’ll be offering two distinct tiers for those interested in digital or film photography.

For now, the other accounts will remain separate, but at some point, I may merge them as well.

What Is Con Cámara de Rollo?

Con Cámara de Rollo (Spanish for With a Film Camera) was the name I originally chose when I embarked on this film photography journey.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand that my portraits, conceptual projects, and client work are best done digitally—it’s practical, allows for quick corrections, and gives me the flexibility to shoot multiple takes until I achieve the perfect shot.

Film, on the other hand, has become a medium I reserve for specific portraits and, most importantly, for documenting my life—something I don’t really do in digital.

From now on, posts under Con Cámara de Rollo will focus on a variety of photography genres for those interested in film. I’ll also share tips, insights, and personal experiences as I continue exploring this fascinating world.

So stay tuned! If you love film photography, know that this is a safe space for you—there’s so much to learn, and I truly believe we can build a great community around it.

Let me know in the comments if this topic interests you, and until next time!

It was Marco Krueger’s photos (https://www.instagram.com/radioundfernseh/) that first inspired me. When I actually paid closer attention, I realized he was shooting film. Then I discovered Vivian Maier, and I completely fell in love with this medium.

I have a whole video on YouTube talking about this, and there’s also going to be a future post about it on my other blog, in case you’re interested:

YouTube Con Cámara de Rollo

Con Cámara de Rollo

¿Todavía existen las cámaras de rollo? Let's talk about analog photography!

By Arnos, The Count Obscura

Anyway, let’s get back to the portraits…

After a couple of failed attempts and truly understanding how different ISO and manual modes work in analog compared to digital, I decided to always carry an analog camera with me to take a few shots of the models I work with.

Some of the first film photos I ever took are actually among my favorites, and they were shot with a simple point-and-shoot.

I kept using film as a secondary medium, just taking one or two shots per session, until I decided I wanted to experiment with it more!

That’s when I got an SLR—an incredible Olympus OM-2—and decided to try my hand at portraits. Around that time, I had the chance to collaborate with Swiss actress and model Fiona Rosamilia, who helped me with both the nylon project and the nylon-under-pants project.

Here are some of the photos we created that day.

Since then even if I don’t fully relly in film, I make big part of my photoshoots on this media. Digital is still the main source since I can just try out things and if I find something I like very much then I do it in analogue to have that special aesthetic as well. For example here you can see my favorite photo of 2024 both in digital and film.

Lately, I’ve been letting go of the FOMO that comes with not having a digital backup, and I’ve been embracing the challenge of capturing certain shots exclusively on film. This has become even more exciting now that I’m shooting medium format with a TLR camera.

What I love about film is that it sometimes forces me to slow down and truly think about what I want to capture—though not always. But when that magic happens, I find myself fully immersed in the process, creating images with cameras that have been around for 50, 60, or even 70 years and still (most of the time) work beautifully.

These photos were taken during my last photoshoot using a Yashica Mat 124G, and they only exist on film.

Anyway, I just wanted to share this side passion of mine because I’ve been wanting to dive deeper into it. If you’re curious to see more of the different kinds of photography I do, you can always check out my other blog, my YouTube channel, or even my analogue photography Instagram account. I’m still figuring out what I want to showcase there, so for now, it’s just a random collection of images I’ve captured over the past two years.

Let me know your thoughts on film photography in the comments, and until next time!

I’ll also be posting some full galleries for paid subscribers and Patreon supporters.

Till next time!