"You're a purist..."

Two and a half years ago, I was given a digital Canon Rebel camera for my birthday. At the time, it was not just a nice camera; it was a very, very nice camera. 6.3 mpx, 2.5 frames per second, RAW shooting capacity. It was one of the few times I've been in the "early adoption" end of technology. I usually wait around for everyone else to buy the new gear and then discover all the problems with it. This time, I was the only kid on the block with one of these cameras.

Before the Rebel, my photographic interests were supported with great dignity by a gorgeous old 35mm Pentax SuperProgram handed down to me wth pride by my father. A fabulous battleship of a camera from the late 70s, it was one of the first semi-automatic 35mm cameras on the market. It offered a manual focus only, but my father was especially proud of the fact that he could switch it to "auto" and let the camera calculate the best shutter speed and aperture for the shot.

When I received the Rebel, I found myself taking photos of everything. Photos of my breakfast cereal, photos of my shoes, photos of the power lines criss-crossing the horizon. I felt like a six-year-old who had just been cut out of a full-body cast. I was all over the place. I swore I'd never go back to film; digital was so freeing! I held onto the Pentax for sentimental reasons, but shoved it carelessly back into its ugly gray camera bag, then carted it around from one apartment to another, falling deeper and deeper in love with that slick little digital camera.

Well, I'm not sure how to say this, but all of a sudden, I'm thinking about film again. Well, of course. You saw that coming, didn't you?

Last weekend, I shot a roll of old BW film—expired, naturally—last weekend while walking around town with my friend David (above). Then we paid a visit to The Camera Doctor, and got my camera all checked out.

At the store, I laid my digital camera on the counter, and placed the old Pentax next to it. The Doctor, Steve, hardly gave the digital camera a second glance. But picked up the Pentax, cradled it lovingly in his hands.

"Now, this is a very nice camera," he said. He opened up the camera, and held it up to the light, fiddled around with the aperture. He clicked away on the shutter. "All metal parts. That's real good. This is worth a lot of money."

The walls of The Camera Doctor's store are lined with old cameras from almost every age of photography. There are rows of medium-format cameras with crinkled old bellows, glass cases of boxy Brownies, pyramids of Holgas, and democratic 35mms just like mine lining all the shelves behind the register.

It had felt good to shoot a roll of film again. There is so much about photography that is very physical, and film cameras help you remember that. I had forgotten about the sound that a film camera makes when you press the shutter button, and the small pleasure of pausing to advance the film lever with your thumb. (A little gesture that says, I just took a photograph. And now I believe I will take another photograph.)

It's very different from taking digital photos. The film camera is so slow and thoughtful and deliberate. It has a slender little profile, weighing even less than the Rebel. None of those dense mysterious microchips hiding inside. Just real physical moving parts. Glass, mirrors, metal. As I shot the roll of film, I remembered how it felt to hear the click of the shutter as it physically opened in the darkest parts of the camera body, letting in just the right amount of light.

Trying to be cute, I teased Steve about being a purist. He did not smile. He looked at my digital camera. "No, I'm not being a purist. Listen to the words. That thing is not really photography. It is electronic communication." He held up the Pentax. "This is photography."