Monochrome Days: From Fixer to Photoshop

In 1994, I stepped into a darkroom for the first time. The scent of fixer and developer filled the air—acrid, yes, but intoxicating in its own strange way. That’s where my love for photography began: in the darkness, with a roll of black-and-white film and a blank sheet of photographic paper waiting to reveal a world only I could see.

Back then, photography wasn’t about instant gratification. It was about patience. About process. About trusting your instincts and the light meter, and then waiting for hours—sometimes days—to see if you were right. I learned to load film onto stainless steel reels in total darkness, my fingers doing the work my eyes could not. I learned how to coax out the subtleties in contrast, how to dodge and burn with precision, and how every little decision in the development process could profoundly alter the final image. It was alchemy. It was magic. It was mine.

Monochrome captured me from the start. There was something haunting about a scene rendered in grayscale—something more honest. Stripped of the distraction of colour, the image had nowhere to hide. Texture, contrast, and light became the stars of the show. Even when the work demanded colour, my heart always lingered in black and white. I’d fulfil a brief with a burst of vibrant hues, then sneak off to capture something in shadow and grain just for myself. The world made more sense that way.

As my skills grew, so did the scope of my photography. What began as a passion project quickly evolved into a business. I started picking up paid gigs and eventually found myself teaching photography and camera techniques to adult students at the local college. It was deeply satisfying work. There’s something invigorating about watching someone discover the inner workings of a camera for the first time—or seeing their face light up when a concept finally clicks and they understand depth of field, or how shutter speed and aperture dance together.

During those years, I also began shooting and writing for travel magazines. From car, train, plane and boat, my camera became my passport, my pen the other half of my storytelling toolkit. The wedding market filled my weekends, demanding precision, energy, and a steady hand when nerves and emotions ran high. There was something incredibly human about weddings—the rawness, the nerves, the vulnerability that bled into every photo. It was both exhausting and beautiful at the same time.

Then came 1999.

The digital wave hit, and I rode it well. At the time, digital SLRs were prohibitively expensive, but I wasn’t going to be left behind. I took the plunge and leased the first Canon DSLR I could get my hands on. It was revolutionary, but not without its hiccups. The sensor size, image quality, and battery life were limitations compared to what film could do, yet the potential was unmistakable. No more darkrooms. No more waiting. I could shoot and see results instantly. For a while, it felt like freedom.

But with that freedom came a strange kind of burden.

Suddenly, everything about photography changed. The lab work moved into the studio. Photoshop replaced the enlarger. I found myself spending more time in front of a screen than behind a lens. The romanticism of photography—the smell of chemicals, the red glow of the safelight, the meditative rhythm of darkroom work—was replaced by pixel counts and histogram curves.

In a way, photography had come full circle. Where once the power of the image was shaped by lab technicians, it now rested entirely in the hands of the photographer again. Every dodge, every burn, every subtle contrast tweak—I was back in control. That part I loved. But the sheer volume of work became crushing.

Burnout crept in like a fog.

The wedding industry, in particular, has undergone significant changes. With digital came the expectation of quantity over quality. Couples didn’t just want a few dozen cherished moments—they wanted hundreds, sometimes thousands, of images. Every single one edited, polished, perfect. And while the workload tripled, their budgets remained unchanged.

I made a conscious decision then—one I don’t regret. I raised my prices. I priced myself above the market of bargain-hunters who expected Vogue on a shoestring. I decided that my time, my vision, and my years of experience were worth something. If they didn’t want to pay for it, they wouldn’t get it. That decision saved me.

With fewer weddings and more space in my calendar, I returned to the part of photography I loved most: storytelling. Not just through pictures, but through words. I started writing a novel. It had a dark, twisting arc and was interwoven with a strong photographic theme. Photography became more than a backdrop—it was a character. It was the thread that tied together broken people, hidden secrets, and dangerous revelations.

One character in particular—tertiary in role but vivid in detail—came to life almost effortlessly. Her descent into darkness—well, that went to places only fiction should explore. She wasn’t the only one who transitioned from fact to fiction. She just happened to fit without embellishment.

Years of shooting people had given me a unique view into their behaviour. The camera often became a shield, or perhaps a mirror. People showed themselves differently when they knew they were being watched through a lens. Some posed, others closed down, and some pretended not to notice. And a few—those rare, intriguing few—revealed their true selves in fleeting moments. The way a bride would glance at her mother across the room, or the expression that flashed across a groom’s face when he thought no one was looking—those unscripted slices of real emotion stayed with me.

Photography also taught me discipline. Understanding light and shadow. Timing. The importance of framing, balance, and tension. How to wait. How to anticipate. How to craft an image that said more than the sum of its parts. All of that translated beautifully into fiction. I found myself describing scenes in terms of aperture and shutter speed, visualising dialogue in black and white, framing each chapter like a photograph: composed, intentional, revealing.

Even though I no longer develop film, my love for monochrome endures. Digital tools now mimic what used to be done with filters and film stocks—Kodak Tri-X, Ilford HP5, Agfa Scala. I still chase those textures, those velvety mid-tones and sharp silvers that made black-and-white photography sing. Now I use Lightroom and Photoshop to emulate the look, but the intention remains the same: to strip away the noise and reveal something truer underneath.

Every once in a while, someone asks me if I miss the old days. The darkroom. The clack of a shutter on a mechanical body. The weight of a camera that didn’t rely on batteries or memory cards.

The answer is yes.

And no.

I miss the ritual of film. The commitment. The sense that each frame mattered. That you had to think before pressing the shutter, because each click cost both money and time. It made you present. Intentional.

However, I also appreciate what digital has to offer. Flexibility. Efficiency. The ability to experiment wildly and push boundaries without bankrupting yourself. It’s a different kind of artistry. One no less valid.

The biggest change over the years, though, hasn’t been in technology.

It’s been in me.

Photography once consumed every hour of my day. It was my passion, my job, my identity. Now, it’s part of a broader tapestry. A powerful tool in my storytelling arsenal. An art I no longer need to monetise to justify its worth.

Today, I still shoot—but only what I want to. A shaft of light hits a table just so. A shadow stretching across a wall. A stranger on a park bench who reminds me of someone I once knew. These are the moments I chase now. Quiet, personal, and deeply satisfying.

Photography shaped me, no doubt. It taught me how to see. How to wait. How to interpret the world through grain and light. And while the industry changed—over and over again—I remained rooted in the essence of what drew me in all those years ago: the shimmer of something honest, something real, in a world too often dressed in pretence.

From film to digital. From darkrooms to Lightroom. From student to teacher to storyteller. The journey has been long, sometimes exhausting, often beautiful. But through it all, one truth has stayed with me:

A good photograph doesn’t just show you what something looked like.

It shows you how it felt.

And I suppose that’s what I’ve been chasing all along.

–Michael (Dark fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)