Where modern optics are designed to correct, suppress, and polish, older lenses allow light to express itself in ways that feel alive. The edges aren’t always sharp. The coatings flare in unpredictable halos. The bokeh swirls or doubles or melts away entirely. What many engineers considered flaws, photographers now treat as signatures — fingerprints left by history on light itself.

When an image is exposed on film, it isn’t yet a photograph. It lives invisibly in the emulsion, suspended between existence and nothingness — a latent ghost of light. At this stage it can still be erased, fogged, or lost entirely, but it is there, waiting. Only when it meets developer does it reveal itself, and only when it meets fixer is it frozen forever. That alchemy — the moment when something ephemeral becomes permanent — is what makes film different. Memory doesn’t just appear; it is conjured, stabilised, and preserved.