I make fully handmade 1840s Adamson-era calotype paper negatives and ammonio-nitrate of silver (ANS) salt prints at a single vintage window, using only natural light and 19th-century chemistry to speak about grief and endurance.
My work is grounded in a quiet, contemplative process. Through Pictorial Whispers, I explore themes of memory, impermanence, and solitude—crafted entirely by hand using the 19th-century calotype paper negative and handmade salt printing process.
Each image begins with light, paper, and chemistry. I iodize and sensitize every sheet of paper myself in a silver bath before exposing it in my large format camera. The calotypes are then developed using historic chemistry and contact printed onto salted paper—transforming slowly under UV light into silver images that speak more to feeling than fact.
Guided by the emotional and spiritual weight of each subject, I embrace imperfection and atmosphere over precision. The process is physical, deliberate, and deeply personal. Every negative is a one-of-a-kind artifact. Every salt print is a quiet revelation.
Influenced by the expressive legacy of the Pictorialists and the tonal sensitivity of early photography, I aim to create work that feels timeless—simple in form, rich in emotion, and grounded in both memory and place.
This is not photography for the masses. It’s not built for speed, trends, or algorithms. It’s built for stillness, for reflection, and for those who believe that something handmade can hold more meaning than something perfect.
The Return of Aura: Why Analog Art Matters in a Digital Age
In 1935, cultural critic Walter Benjamin introduced the idea of aura in his groundbreaking essay, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. What Benjamin described as mechanical in 1935 can be seen as digital today.
He defined aura as the unique presence of a work of art in time and space—its authenticity, authority, and connection to tradition. In today’s hyper-digital photographic landscape, where images are infinitely reproducible and instantly disposable, Benjamin’s insights have never felt more urgent. For the analog large format photographer, his critique offers validation and a compelling philosophical foundation for preserving and practicing this tactile art form.
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What is “Aura,” and Why Does It Matter?
According to Benjamin, what withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art—its singular presence in history and place. No matter how technically perfect, a reproduction lacks this presence and detaches the image from the original context and ritual from which it was born (Benjamin, 1935/1969, p. 4). Aura is not merely about visual uniqueness; it’s about the accumulated life of an object—the patina of age, the hand of the maker, the trace of history.
The quick swipe of a screen or mass-produced print has no place. Digital reproductions may be shareable and clean, but they’re untethered from time, texture, and the presence of the artist’s hand. Handmade art by contrast is rooted in the physical world. It holds the weight of the chemistry and the hand of the artist with the subtle imperfections that reveal its humanity. This is where aura survives—in the quiet authority of the original, in the surface touched by time, and in the evidence of a soul at work.
I make photographs slowly—with light, paper, and chemistry—using large and ultra-large format cameras, handmade calotype paper negatives, and historic printing methods like salt and platinum/palladium. Every step is tactile, deliberate, and personal. I feel something when I create, and that feeling becomes embedded in the work itself.
During a recent downsizing of gear and tools, I explored scanning my negatives and making digital reproductions. The results were beautiful, but something essential was missing. The “aura” that Walter Benjamin once described—the soul of the original—simply wasn’t there for me. That physical connection, the slow and imperfect dance between hand and material, is what makes the work come alive.
That experience was clarifying. It reminded me that I never want to lose the physical act of making my art. I’m grateful for what I learned along the way—it strengthened my ability to create high-quality reproductions when needed for exhibitions and marketing—but I now know with certainty that my creative path lives in the analog.
This is not a critique of how others work. It’s simply my truth. I’m an artist who needs to feel the paper in my hands, smell the chemistry in the darkroom, and watch the image slowly emerge from light and time.
Handmade Photography: A Living Rebuttal to Reproducibility
In the practice of handmade analog photography, nothing is virtual. You begin with raw materials—light-sensitive paper, silver nitrate, and your own hands. Each step is slow and deliberate. From waxing and iodizing the paper to exposing it in large-format cameras and developing it in trays of chemistry, every moment unfolds in real time. There are no presets, no instant previews, no command-Z. Every decision leaves a physical trace. The final print carries not only the image, but also the memory of how it was made.
Unlike digital photography, which thrives on speed, precision, and infinite replication, handmade photography embraces imperfection, slowness, and singularity. The print is not a reproduction of a digital file—it is the artwork. The texture of the paper, the subtle shifts in tone, and the traces of chemistry cannot be replicated on a screen or by a printer. As Walter Benjamin warned, the “aura” of an original is lost in mechanical and now digital reproduction. But here, that aura remains.
Handmade photography is more than a creative act—it is a form of resistance. It pushes back against the disposable nature of modern image-making and insists on presence, intention, and meaning. In an age of algorithmic perfection and endless scrolling, it offers something rare: a return to the physical, the personal, and the poetic.
The Darkroom as a Site of Aura and Poiesis
Walter Benjamin wrote that an object’s aura is rooted not only in its uniqueness, but also in its connection to ritual—its original role as something approached with reverence and mystery (p. 6). The analog darkroom embodies this sensibility. It is a quiet, meditative space where the work unfolds slowly—one sheet of paper, one tray of chemistry at a time. There are no shortcuts. Every step is physical, deliberate, and shaped by the presence of the maker.
This process echoes the ancient Greek concept of poiesis—the act of bringing something into being through creation. In handmade photography, poiesis is not metaphorical; it is literal. The photograph is made, not rendered. It emerges from a tactile dialogue between light, paper, silver, and human intent. This is not automation—it is a slow alchemy of presence and precision.
Through this analog ritual, the photographer restores depth, meaning, and aura to the finished work. The darkroom becomes more than a workspace—it becomes a sacred site of becoming. It is where the invisible is slowly made visible, and where the act of creation is inseparable from the spirit of the final print.
Relevance in the Age of Pixels
Some might argue that digital photography has “won”—and by many cultural standards, it has. But what has been lost in that ascent? In exchange for speed and infinite replication, we’ve sacrificed permanence for convenience, presence for proliferation, and the tactile intimacy of creation for screen-based consumption. In this digital context, analog photography becomes more than artistic expression—it becomes a quiet, deliberate form of resistance.
To make photographs by hand today is to reclaim agency over the creative process. It is to insist on slowness, on presence, on imperfection. It is a return to touch, to ritual, and to the enduring power of the handmade. Walter Benjamin foresaw this shift. He warned that as mechanical reproduction replaces originality, the meaning of art moves from contemplation to consumption (p. 5). In the darkroom, tradition is not just remembered—it is practiced. And in that practice, the aura of the photograph—and the presence of the artist—is renewed.
Analog photography offers something the digital world can never replicate: the authority of the original, the integrity of the process, and the irreplaceable humanity of the hand that created it.
A New Tradition Built on Old Truths
In a world saturated with disposable images and instant visual noise, analog photography offers something increasingly rare—and quietly radical: presence. It invites us to slow down, to see with care, and to create with reverence. Walter Benjamin’s concept of aura lives on in every handmade calotype, every sheet of paper prepared by hand, every salt or platinum print shaped by chemistry, light, and time.
To embrace analog photography in today’s hyper-digital age is not to retreat into nostalgia—it is to reclaim the soul of image-making. It is a return to a tradition where meaning is built slowly, with the body and the mind in unison. A tradition where truth isn’t rendered through replication, but revealed through process.
In each piece, I seek not perfection, but presence. Not spectacle, but sincerity. A new tradition, grounded in old truths.
How Aura Relates to My Creative Framework
In my artistic practice, I strive to recapture the aura—the unique presence and authenticity that Walter Benjamin described as diminished in the age of mechanical and digital reproduction. Through the slow, tactile act of calotypes and salt prints, I engage in a physical, intentional process that honors the singularity of each piece. Every calotype paper negative and salt print is created by my hands though the guidance of my soul.
This approach aligns with my Creative Framework’s three pillars:
- Resilience: The enduring presence of handmade art in a throwaway culture.
- Transformation: The unfolding journey of each piece, from blank surface to expressive form.
- Connection: The direct bond formed between artist, artwork, and viewer—real, unmediated, and deeply human.
Through this methodology, I aim to create works that possess intrinsic authenticity and emotional depth—offering a moment of stillness and reflection in an increasingly fast and fragmented world.
In my personal Printmaker’s Journal, I share exclusive behind-the-scenes access to my work—from the field to the darkroom—and you won’t find these stories anywhere else. Best of all, the stories are free and delivered quietly to your email.
I release a small number of handmade prints throughout the year in limited editions. Each piece is signed, numbered, and includes a certificate of authenticity and a written artist statement.
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References
Benjamin, W. (1935/1969). The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. In H. Arendt (Ed.), Illuminations (H. Zohn, Trans.). Schocken Books. [link]
