Now the youngest child is at pre-school, I have three days a week to myself. I’ve had naps, watched ‘Cougar Town’, made elaborate salads, jogged with girlfriends, taken yoga classes, shopped, vacuumed, Facebooked, done laundry and sloughed my late thirties feet. But lately I have this hankering to actually do something about that nagging feeling called ‘my lost career’. It wasn’t really lost, it was just on the pause button.
There is a box of black and white film that dates back to 1991 that has been following me - it documents all the awful relationships I had, all the exotic places I went and now dream about, all the films I just couldn’t find the time to develop in my makeshift darkrooms in the bathrooms of Surry Hills or freezing laundry of Clovelly in the nineties, when I was holding down a day job and night school and shooting my heart out in between.
I’ve looked online and found my old favourite labs still open (surprisingly after the slaughterhouse of the Day of the Digital Camera) and I’ve got tomorrow pegged as lab drop-off and begin the process of exposing these little windows into my history.
I’m starting off cheap and cheerful by the seaside with Charing Cross Photo in Bronte at $6 a roll. But what I’d really prefer is the Blanco Negro hand job experience with a happy ending for $13.75 a roll