Sadly Life Goes On
As I scrubbed the grime from the trays and reels, I couldn’t help but think about his father. Crusted old chemicals, bits of hair, an abandoned wasp’s nest. His handwriting in green sharpie telling me which tray he used at each step of the process. The same sharpie he used to make little indicator marks on the enlarger and easel. You see I didn’t just inherit an enlarger the other day, but his entire darkroom.
As I examined the enlarger closely, I found a #2 1/2 contrast filter still in it’s little drawer 13 years after he had died. I knew the box to which it belonged, and found it so satisfying to return it neatly to its place, almost as if I was doing him a favor. I imagined a man spending his days in a blacked out corner of the garage, immersed in his craft - away from his young family. His son was the one selling all this equipment after it has sat for years in the attic, and I could tell that photography was not a point of connection for them. I felt close to his father as I explained to him what various bits of equipment were for. I felt his father’s despondence as he only sort of understood.
I couldn’t possibly take it all. My space is limited, and I wanted only the essentials. But I felt an overwhelming sadness as I left the rickety paper cutter, stained dryer, and I-have-no-idea-how-to-use-it densitometer behind. After all, these pieces of equipment were part of his darkroom family - and unlike all the stuff I did bring home, these will never be loved again. But I try to dismiss this feeling as I scrub away at the trays. As some of that original sheen emerges, I start to get excited about pouring fresh chemicals into them. About blacking out the bathroom and firing up the enlarger. His sharpie marks will forever remain, but now they serve no function beyond nostalgia. I’ve already moved the enlarger head to where I need it, and adjusted the easel to my preferred configuration.
As much I wish it would stand still, sadly life goes on.