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I can’t bring myself to betray my beloved Pentax K1000.
We’ve been together for 14 years, the longest relationship I’ve had in my life.
I know it sounds absurd. Digital technology is here to stay, and we need to
evolve in order to grow. I am also not delusional. I know my Pentax is an
inanimate object. It can’t reciprocate my love. Yet I still can’t give it up,
not just yet.
Sam, a veteran copyeditor at the Venice Gondolier,
a small newspaper in southwestern Florida, sold it
to me in 1995 for a price of 100 dollars, including the flash. I needed it for
my first job in journalism, as a feature reporter and editor at the paper.
I befriended the camera right away, and it helped me to
cover symphony concerts, outdoor festivals, senior citizen fashion shows, and
early bird suppers. It accompanied me on my journey to the Midwest, to the
gritty environs of Toledo, Ohio. It snapped pictures of barns in rural Monroe
County, Michigan, of battered warehouses in downtown Toledo, and oak trees
stripped of their leaves in late autumn.
It crossed the Continental Divide when I relocated to Phoenix, Arizona. In the Valley of the Sun, I took pictures of Sonoran
cacti, the McDowell and Camelback mountain ranges, and breathtaking sunrises from the roof of an office building at the Scottsdale
Airpark, after my night shift as a copyeditor. But in Phoenix, my camera was especially fond of dancing light patterns created
by early morning or late afternoon sunlight in my small, first floor apartment.
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It also snapped photos on top of the Space Needle and
outside the Experience Music Project when I visited Seattle.
When I relocated to upstate New York in 2006, it captured my
most treasured photo—the stoic picture of my father, weeks after he was
diagnosed with terminal lung and liver cancer.
I just love the weight and girth of the camera, the rough
black metal and the feel of the spool of film as it catches the sprockets when
I load it.
I am not buying up film in bulk, but if I’m in a drug store
or other outlet that still sells film, I find myself picking up a roll or two—a
necessity like Folgers coffee, smoked turkey and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
But it’s come to the point where almost all of the rolls of
film I burn, particularly the black and white ones, need to be sent out for
development, and it usually takes at least a week. Unlike digital cameras, my
K1000 can’t fire off hundreds of pictures in mere seconds like those of the paparazzi
stalking Britney Spears or Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
I know the time will come soon when retail outlets will no
longer sell or process film and manufacturers like Kodak and Fuji will stop
making film altogether (if they haven’t already). But there are certain things
we just can’t part with when the attachment remains so strong.
I guess that’s why I don’t want to sell my Pentax at some
garage sale or on Craigslist and have it end up in someone’s attic or damp
basement. As long as the K1000 works, I’ll still put it to use; and when it
doesn’t, I will thank it profusely for its years of service and then clear a
spot for the camera on my bookshelf, where it can retire with honor alongside
the works of writers like Albert Camus, Raymond Chandler, and Thomas Wolfe.
Then I will not feel guilty about going out and buying a
brand new digital camera, which I imagine will be sleek, efficient, and devoid
of shared personal history.
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