Analog
A Piece of Poetic Prose
It was an unremarkable little object, confined in a smooth yet worn leather case, displaying the countless travels it had taken, the countless times it was removed from the bag—each scratch a memory for one of its uses.
The house had become dusty, it brimmed with emptiness, no wind, no noise traversing the hallway down to the room with the neatly organized closet. Dust on the bed, dust on the desk, dust on the closet. But not inside. The leather case reflected the light where it was still smooth, and a soft noise—the soft crackling of the zipper—resounded when the camera came free. It shimmered almost golden in the bulb’s glow, mirroring the blurred edges of the room with the closet, smooth and precisely forged, it weighed heavy in one’s hands as if containing even more fascinating technology than it already was.
The lid came off smoothly, clicking slightly, making way for the almost spotless lens that lay underneath. 50 mm the print on the interior ring displayed, the light reflecting purple and green in the glass, here and there illuminating a grain of dust, impossible to grasp how it even got inside there, unimaginable where it might have originated.
The plastic that coated its handle was still hard, smooth, not in the slightest worn like the case, could have been produced yesterday, showing no scratch as the metal on it’s top. Only the trigger showing the slight black tarnish of ample use. Inside it rested a film, one of these they sometimes still sell in drug stores, or special photography shops, for outrageous prices, ISO 200, general-use, maybe not inside.
A few shots remained, showing transparent, brown landscapes against the bulb, once green meadows, likely with a tang of yellow, grainy, and with too much brightness—a nostalgic look into the past. Next to the other slightly worn cases lay a few developed prints, some too dark, some too bright, some with so much blur and red eyes they looked almost comical. A steep contrast to the others that hang around the hallway, their frames laden with the same dust, but the inside a clean window into the world that had once been.
The endless beaches, the snow-covered mountains stretching their arms after the clouds. Dark forests whose charcoal tainted branches looked like the remnants of distorted horrors. The camera had clicked each time. The smiles during Christmas as the cat wildly played with the torn paper that lay next to the confused baby boy with the deep red eyes that were actually green-brown. The youngster standing on the edge of a castle wall that was higher than himself but still not even one meter, with the medieval town in the background and the clouds looking as if they were his hat. The camera had clicked again. The boy with the school cone proudly in his grip while the mother carried his school bag next to him, her gaze a mixture of pride and stress, the overweighting part not really visible due to the slight blur. The camera had clicked.
The small rail on its head looked empty, missing the flash that was present every time the eyes crossed one of the shots it had taken, the red eyes reflecting it, the memory bringing It to life. But the flash was now enclosed in a leather case right next to the other lenses, like the camera had been. Stored away, not forever, but since a very long time, not having felt the electricity of a battery in years. Much longer than batteries had been replaced by accumulators, rechargeable, of much higher capacity, more compact and yet in more variety than the local bird population, for all the different devices they powered, dying at some point due to bad use, due to time, not like the camera. It still retained its entire functionality.
Batteries were still sold; films were still sold. At much higher prices, at much less quantity, but they were affordable. Nonetheless, the camera remained in the closet, neatly stored away, although the resolution of its shots was nearly infinite, the quality on par with its modern descendants, if used correctly, with the correct film, under the right conditions and with a tripod. And, of course, with a pair of charged batteries.
The picture of the rock-filled landscape with the endless green valley was proof of it. The glass on the front was already a bit dusty making it looking blurred when in reality it was sharp as if looking at the past with one’s own eyes, only the slight tang of yellow setting it apart.
In the back, there protruded a few bushes and trees, sparely covered in leaves, gently swaying in the wind of the blue-laden horizon. They came almost too life, looking at them. Where had it been taken? Perhaps Greece, maybe southern France. A mystery. Nowadays, usually no riddle, the GPS already included in the image file. Buried among a hundred others, often as good in quality, many just to throw them away on the second look. Yet free, unlike in the past. How did it have turned out? Another mystery.
As the camera slid back into its case, the nostalgic feeling bore heavy, the curiosity to make it work again. No distraction, no unnecessary features, of those hundreds typically went unused. A film bought quickly in the store, a pair of batteries available. Developing pictures a pain but not impossible, services still existing. The world went so fast, things getting old in no time, becoming rubbish by their own construction. No eye for the worthwhile and long living anymore. Too expensive to make, not selling good enough to maintain. A new generation emerging in no time anyway.
But optics doesn’t change. What changes is what makes use of it. And what makes use of it, is but an epitome of its time. Same as the yellow tang in the picture. Would it feel the same if taken with a modern device at this time? Maybe, maybe not. Does a picture taken with it today look like from the past? In a sense. A look into the future with the eyes of the past, the eyes unbeknownst to what lies before them, with the beauty of a time in which the appreciation of the small was far greater. As the worth of the manufactured was much higher.
Between clothes and toys, the case and its brethren waited on the bright but not hot day. The leather shimmering in the light as if met by a flash. And as the table emptied, the case remained, almost saddening, unloved, unvalued. The curiosity still there, but not strong enough to bring it back to life. A youngster went past it, the eyes filled with the same, brimming, unsure. And eventually, it won, him asking if it still worked, if he could have a look. So he did, uncovering the gadget anew, the pulse fastening, beating in his chest like drums. Perhaps he saw the reflection in its lens, of the man who had grown up, of the man who had married, who had founded a family, who had brought his father to his final resting place.
But one thing was sure as the bills crossed the table, as the camera slid back into the case, as the bags began their new journey: the camera would click again. And this time, it would capture a new past, with the eyes of a much older one.