In the past few months, two of my favorite film-photography bloggers have ceased posting.
I found Mike Connealy’s blog shortly after I restarted my camera collection in 2006. He was doing what I aspired to do: using old film cameras and writing about the experience. Despite his obvious and considerable photographic skill, he wrote of his journey of discovery, sharing his ups and downs with his cameras and his technique. I found it to be compelling, and it has led me to be transparent as I write about my own photography. Mike has mastered many aspects of black-and-white photography, especially the use of light and shadow. His work has heavily influenced mine. Mike’s Flickr space shows his best work; go take a look.
Paul Giambarba is an artist and graphic designer best known for his iconic branding of Polaroid during the company’s best years. I learned of him in 2008 while researching to write this post about my first Polaroid camera. It remains a great thrill that Paul himself left the first comment on that post. I’ve followed his blog about analog photography since. It has introduced me to many talented film photographers, past and present.
What Mike and Paul share in common is what one might call advanced age. Per Wikipedia, Paul is in his late 80s. Mike doesn’t reveal his age, but a couple self-portraits in Mike’s Flickr space suggest that he’s roughly of Paul’s generation.
In their farewell posts, Mike writes that he’s said everything useful he can think of; Paul writes that it is time to let his work stand and to be content with it.
I want to exclaim, “No! Your work is interesting! I’m still learning from you! Keep doing, keep sharing! ” But what do I know of 80? Does one wish to crown a lifetime’s work and bask in its satisfaction? Does one find futility in continued exploration? Does one scale back activity to match flagging energy and drive? Does one simply find newly fulfilling things to do?
Yet how else other than through the Internet would I have had the opportunity to peek into the mind of anyone of this generation? To come to know a fragment of them as whole people?
I’m grateful. But sad nonetheless.
