by: Alex Blanco

My love affair with photography began in childhood, sparked by the thrill of holding a freshly developed Polaroid in my hands. It was real magic—a tangible slice of time made instantly available. Back then, my family also had a point-and-shoot camera, a more practical option since Polaroid cartridges were expensive. Shooting on 36-frame film was a joy of its own, followed by the suspenseful wait for prints to arrive. The surprise of seeing those glossy 10x15 or 9x13 images made the experience even more rewarding.

By the early 2000s, I had my first digital camera. At the time, everyone obsessed over megapixels, and mine boasted an impressive count (at least by those standards). Finally, I could capture sharp, intricate details, like the morning dew clinging to a spider’s web in our garden.

Growing up in the 1990s, I’ve witnessed photography’s dramatic evolution firsthand. From analog to digital and now to the still unexplored field of artificial intelligence, the industry has continually pushed boundaries. Alongside this, printmaking and bookmaking have reached extraordinary levels of sophistication, offering even more beautiful and intricate ways to present visual art. Yet, with these advancements, questions about the very essence of photography and its authenticity arise.

 Robby Müller, 1970s-1990s. Polaroids from the exhibition Like Sunlight Coming Through The Clouds, Arles, France

Today, AI stands as both an achievement and a challenge in the photographic landscape. It offers powerful tools for enhancing images, from perfecting white balance and color to seamlessly removing distractions or adding entirely new elements. Yet, as we embrace these possibilities, there’s a risk of overindulgence. The temptation to endlessly tweak and manipulate an image can strip it of its unique character, leaving behind what feels like a hollow AI imitation.

 This dilemma echoes the concerns voiced by Walter Benjamin in his seminal 1935 essay, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Benjamin argued that mechanical reproduction diminishes the “aura” of an artwork—the intangible essence tied to its originality and authenticity. In stripping away its ritualistic and cultural significance, reproduction reduces art to a commodity. His observations feel strikingly prescient in today’s digital age, where technology enables not only unprecedented creative possibilities but also alarming levels of manipulation. From deepfakes to politically charged disinformation, the implications extend far beyond aesthetics.

 From Letter to St-Loup, 1990, Daido Moriyama / Shinjuku #11, 2000, Daido Moriyama

John Berger, in his groundbreaking 1972 television series Ways of Seeing, expanded on Benjamin’s ideas. He observed how modern reproduction had rendered art ephemeral and omnipresent—images became “ubiquitous, insubstantial, available, valueless, free.” What was once unique and revered now risks being reduced to disposable content.

As we navigate this ever-changing landscape, the challenge lies in striking a balance—embracing innovation while safeguarding the soul of photography. Whether through a Polaroid or pixels, the goal remains the same: to create images that resonate, connect, and endure.

A return to Film: The Art of Slowing Down

In this new era of photography, it’s no surprise that many artists are turning back to analog cameras. Whether it’s a simple point-and-shoot, a unique half-frame Ricoh like the one famously used by Daido Moriyama, or a large-format Hasselblad reminiscent of Ansel Adams’ sweeping American landscapes of the 1930s, the tactile charm of film continues to captivate.

Of course, shooting on film comes with its challenges. With a standard roll offering just 36 frames—or as few as 12 for medium-format cameras—each shot feels precious. The costs add up quickly, too: from purchasing film to developing it and printing on fine-art archival paper, the process can be expensive. But these limitations bring something invaluable to the table.

 Ansel Adams, Moon and Half Dome, 1960

This return to thoughtful, handcrafted photography counters the risk of creating the kind of empty reproductions Walter Benjamin warned about nearly a century ago. For many photographers, it’s not just nostalgia driving this shift, but a desire to reconnect with the artistry and discipline that film demands—qualities that elevate a photograph from mere image to timeless work of art.