Darkroom

You know, darkrooms are ingenious little closets.

the room's called "dark," but it's all about light.

You go in, turn the lights off. You use a red light, but it doesn't stress you, because for some reason, it's the only shade of calm red there is. You pour the chemicals into their respective basins, and it smells. Somehow it's the most delicious smell of gross there possibly could be, because that smell is the photography smell. You get out a strip of film, and you pick a frame. Brush it off. You place it in the frame carrier, and shove it into the enlarger. You turn on the light and open the diaphragm all the way, roughly estimating at the size you want the image to be, and then placing the focusing tool on the image. You crouch down, carefully focus the image, and then you close up the light. Magic will soon begin.

Magic is a lot of tedious work, come to find. Tedious, magical work that feels like play.

Set the timer. Careful, paper! Place it carefully, turn it on. Time is up! Turn it off, Slip! Into the developer, and sweet! Here it comes!

Stop bath, let it rinse. Wash, wash, wash. Wash. Wash. Hang, dry. Can't wait. Take it out, out into the light. It's like birth: out of the womb, into the light, covered in liquid.

Add a filter, change the time. Do it again, again, again, until it's right. Hours go by, but who cares? You are making magic. You are making a print: you are painting with light.

Darkrooms are ingenious little closets.