by Alyssa Marie Iresare (Department of Philosophy, University of Santo Tomas)
Fig. 1. Photograph Prints. Photograph by Alperr Padiernos.
Photography, much like any other field in ambiguity (like philosophy), has a plethora of definitions, mostly personal ones. For one, photography is learning how to see, to reflect, and respond: we take pictures to express ourselves about people, nature, and the world around us. (1) Two, is that photography is a way of remembering. And speaking of remembering, one may wonder why a resurgence of the things from the past is happening recently.
With smartphones being integrated into every facet of our existence, taking photographs seems to be taken for granted, and somewhat ritualistic. Many of us are guilty of taking photos of almost about anything: the food we eat (hence, the phone eats first!), the places we go to, the people we talk to—people, places, things in short. What once was the occasional, time-consuming, and costly is now part of the everyday, served in a visual feast for our delight through the mini screens. Ironically, amidst this era of digital overconsumption, there is a notable resurrection of interest in analog photography, especially among the Gen Zs. This resurrection, characterized by the use of digital vintage filters to make photographs appear vintage, is a cultural irony: a generation known for its rapid consumption of digital content is also leading the charge in reviving older, more deliberate forms of the same medium. But why is such the case?
Why People Crave for the Past
More often than not, people miss the good old days and therefore yearn for them—the days of analog music, vinyl records, cassette tapes, discos, film cameras and polaroids, inter alia. This yearning, this longing for a past era, is not just a passing sentiment but a condition deeply rooted in our psyche. It is referred to as nostalgia, a term derived from the Greek words nostos and algos, meaning “return home” and “pain,” respectively. Nostalgia is not just a feeling, but a powerful force that shapes our perceptions and actions, often leading us to seek comfort and familiarity in the past.
Fig. 2. Everything Must Go. Photograph by Alyssa Iresare.
Last semester, I took a Paul Ricoeur specialization course under Dr. Leovino Ma. Garcia: writing about analog photography and nostalgia reminds me so much of Ricoeur’s philosophy, being that his philosophy, beyond his well-known hermeneutical contributions he’s known for, is fundamentally ethical—or, in his own terms, poetic. (2) For Ricoeur, memory and forgetting are not opposite but rather intertwined processes, essential for crafting a meaningful narrative identity. (3) To stretch this further, his concept of the "capable human being" suggests that individuals shape their identity through the stories they tell about themselves, which requires both remembering and forgetting in approximated ways. (4) And in this life, there is just enough remembering and just enough forgetting; (5) going back to analog film photography and the resurgence thereof, I see this beyond mere nostalgia. Initially, one might reduce this revival to a longing for the past, yet to view it solely through this lens would be an oversimplification. Instead, this revival should be understood as an alternative way of seeing—an aesthetic rebellion, if you will, against the ubiquitous precision of digital imagery. Analog photography, with its inherent imperfections and the tactile intimacy of its process, offers a counter-narrative to the digital age's instantaneity and perfectionism. It demands a slower pace and a more contemplative approach, characteristics that are often overshadowed in our fast-paced digital milieu. Thus, the choice of film is not merely a retreat to the past but a deliberate pause, a way to mediate the frenetic digital now through the thoughtful temporality of analog. In this context, the revival of film photography is not just about recapturing what was lost but redefining what it means to truly see and remember.
A relatively recent example of this would be Christopher Nolan's creative decision to use 35 mm film for the 2023 blockbuster Oppenheimer. I find this a very compelling illustration of the uniqueness and beauty of film as a medium-in-itself. As most contemporary movies are shot digitally, Nolan's preference for film brought a distinctive texture and sense of authenticity that film brings to the cinematic experience: no Computer-Generated Imagery (CGI), and more on classic Hollywood effects. (6)
In the local setting, The Grey Market Vintage, Good Vibrations Records, and the apparent fixation and fascination with the so-called Cubao Expo tropes—essentially a celebration of 'vintage core' and the lore of the manic pixie dream girl archetype. I find it rather amusing how these seemingly disparate elements actually relate to the realm of photography in one way or another. Such alignment suggests that photography, in its quest to capture the ephemeral, often gravitates towards the nostalgic and the idiosyncratic. Just as the manic pixie dream girl trope offers a narrative escape from the mundane, vintage photography provides a lens through which the past is not only seen but idealized. It's a medium where the sepia tones of yesteryear meet the curated aesthetics of today’s Instagram feeds, blending modern whimsy with vintage charm. In this light, photography does more than mere documentation—it romanticizes, it transforms, and perhaps most amusingly, it reinvents the wheel, turning the ordinary into the covetable and the passé into the trendsetting.
Photography and the Possibility of the Restoration of the Aura
The thing about photography is that it determines what is remembered and what is lost forever. In The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, Walter Benjamin laments the loss of aura in art primarily due to mechanical reproduction. Revisiting this work, however, made me contemplate the potential of the restoration of aura amidst digital production by virtue of reverting to mechanical reproduction.
Fig. 3. Everything Must Go. Photograph by Alyssa Iresare.
But what is this so-called aura, and why did Benjamin hold so much importance to it? Aura, which he associates with the unique presence and authenticity inherent in traditional artworks, is bound to the work’s singular existence in time and space; this aura is not merely an aesthetic phenomenon but a historical testimony imbued with the work's past, including its physical journey and provenance. (7) However, Benjamin argues that mechanical reproduction, exemplified by photography, strips away this aura by detaching the artwork from its original context and multiplying its presence, thereby diluting its uniqueness. (8)
It is worth noting that Benjamin found photography a rather different case as compared to other forms of visual art, i.e., painting. He argued that this technology does something fundamentally different from manual reproduction—photography does not merely replicate the visual appearance—it can also expose qualities invisible to the naked eye. (9) Techniques like enlargement or slow-motion reveal aspects that go beyond our natural capabilities, thus introducing a new way of seeing the world. However, this capability also means that photography can detach the artwork from its traditional domain and lineage, placing copies in entirely new contexts and thereby diluting the original's cultural and historical essence. (10) Importantly, Benjamin did not completely despair over the loss of aura in photography. Instead, he suggested that certain types of photographs, especially early portraits, managed to retain a semblance of aura through their ability to capture the "fleeting expression of a human face," which he described as possessing an unpredictable uniqueness. (11)
While photography challenged traditional arts by undermining the exclusivity and authenticity associated with them, it also opened up new avenues for art to engage with reality and society. (12) Photography not only documented the world but also transformed viewers' engagement with images, providing a critical tool for social and political commentary. Such detachment from tradition is critical to understanding the dual nature of photography's impact on art. On one hand, it democratizes art by making it more accessible, allowing copies to meet viewers halfway—whether in a book, a gallery, or a private collection. On the other hand, it strips the artwork of its aura, the authentic experience associated with its singularity, and its integration into the fabric of tradition: the reproduced artwork's ability to meet the viewer in their own circumstances is revolutionary emancipation and a profound loss at the same time.
From here, one could argue that the decline of the aura is symptomatic of modern society's broader conditions—namely, the desire to bring things closer and to make them more accessible, aligning with the masses' increasing influence. This transformation, facilitated by mechanical reproduction, has significant implications not only for art but for the human condition itself. For film photography, this has specific resonance—the camera’s intervention transforms the artwork by repositioning it within a new stream of mass consumption and utility. The photograph becomes less about ritualistic or cult value and more about exhibition value—its ability to be seen by many rather than its role in ceremonial contexts. Thus, photography does not merely replicate reality; it reinvents the very essence of what it means for art to possess an aura in the contemporary digital age.
In parallel to this, I suppose it’s only apt to incorporate Barthes in this discussion, given his well-known theories in photography, more particularly in his work Camera Lucida. Here, Barthes conceptualizes photography not just as a medium but as a deeply personal encounter with the past—a "wound" that prompts introspection and emotional response rather than mere observation:
As Spectator I was interested in photography only for “sentimental reasons”; I wanted to explore it not as a question (a theme) but as a wound: I see, I feel, hence I notice, I observe, and I think. (13)
The referent—the essence of a photograph—is the medium’s unique capacity to seize reality and etch it onto a temporal plane. (14) The renaissance of analog film photography is not merely a nostalgic whim but a profound affirmation of Barthes’s assertion that the photograph is a "certificate of presence." Analog processes, which inherently involve the physical manipulation of light and chemicals, are reminiscent of the wound—the photochemical reaction is a tangible imprint of reality, an artifact that physically manifests a moment's transition from presence to memory.
Furthermore, the manual intricacies of analog—focusing lenses, determining exposures, and developing film—demands a meticulous engagement that digital processes often circumvent. This craftsmanship fosters a kinship between the photographer and the photographed, imbuing each image with an individualized narrative arc. Here, the act of photography transcends mere recording, becoming a ritualistic communion with time itself. Such practices reinforce the spectator’s role as an active participant, engaging emotionally and intellectually with the image: to think and to feel.
In contrast, digital photography, with its sensor-based captures and infinite reproducibility, presents an ontologically distinct form of imaging—images become arrays of pixels rather than direct impressions of reality, potentially leading to a perceptual disconnect between the image and its historical authenticity. Digital manipulation further complicates this relationship. The ease with which digital images can be altered—sometimes beyond recognition—challenges their status as faithful replicas of the past. While such manipulations offer expansive artistic freedoms, they also risk diluting the photograph’s documentary value, potentially eroding the trust between the image and the viewer. Additionally, the ephemeral nature of digital imagery, where files can be effortlessly deleted or duplicated without degradation, may detract from the perceived permanence and archival value that analog photographs inherently possess. This shift affects not only the physicality of photography but also its perceived value as a historical document and emotional relic.
A New Way of Seeing
Maybe our longing for the past through analog photography is not merely about the aesthetic qualities nor technical intricacies of the art form; it’s a deeper desire to reconnect with the aura that once was and, perhaps, could be again. Doing away from the theoretical discussions at this point, let me present some interesting interviews about a year ago with different photographers—amateurs, hobbyists, and professionals. Despite their differences, a common thread among them is a profound connection to film photography.
Talking about film photography in individual interviews, I noticed how everyone had a different reason for pursuing such intricate and expensive art. I conversed with an amateur film photographer named Francis Vianzon, who recalled that film was significantly cheaper way back, around a hundred pesos. For him, pursuing film photography allows him to slow down, being a ‘fly on the wall,’ experiencing and humanizing the subjects from his perspective. What’s interesting is that film photography likewise allows him to steer in a creative direction he was going for—something a lot of regular people don’t; quite an antemundane, really.
Another photographer would be Ulric De Guzman, whose style leans towards documentary photography, allowing him to pursue an observer effect in his works. What he liked about film photography is its ambiguity: “You’ll never know what you’re going to get,” he said. Similar to Francis, Ulric liked the process of analog film because it’s a tactile experience: although cliché, he said such allows you to slow down.
I’ve also talked to another film photographer whose camera collection has amassed 300; quite frankly, I haven’t caught up with him yet, so perhaps more was added to his collection. For Adrian Gabriel, “film photos, other than capturing subjects in film also serve as a screenshot of a memory for the photographer. They remind me not only of the instance that I took the shots but also of the day that was, the people I was with, what other things happened that eventually lead to that blurred photo of people laughing, of scattered lights against a dark city scape, of the first crack of sunlight breaking through the mountain peaks.”
Perhaps film photography teaches a person not to let the good life pass them by. The personal accounts of Francis, Ulric, and Adrian illuminate a shared yet individualistic journey toward capturing moments that might otherwise fade into obscurity. Whatever reason an individual has in capturing life through film, this medium not only captivates with its tactile nature and unpredictable outcomes but also enriches our experiences by slowing down our interactions with the world. Through film photography, we are offered a fresh lens to view life, reconnecting with a bygone era’s enchanting aura and discovering new perspectives on the timeless art of capturing moments.
June 2024
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