Field Note 02 - Landscapes on Film

I never really worked with film outside of a photography class I took in high school. For years, I had the idea of trying it again, but I always held back. Film always felt complex, and there was always the possibility of getting it wrong.

Recently, I decided to give it a real attempt.

I went out to photograph Cañón San Cristóbal in Barranquitas. The day was completely overcast, and the light felt flat across the landscape. There were no strong shadows, no contrast, just a soft and quiet tone over everything. The trails were easy to walk, and the park itself was well maintained, but once you reached the viewpoints, the landscape opened up into something much larger.

The canyon stretched out in front of me, deep and wide, with layers of green fading into the distance. It's the kind of place that doesn't need much to feel impressive. It was the right place to begin.

I brought a roll of 200 ISO film, but I didn't fully think through how the overcast conditions would affect my exposures. At the time, everything felt right. I framed the shots, trusted my settings, and moved on.

Shooting film immediately changed the way I approached the landscape. Every frame required more attention. There's no screen to review, no histogram to guide you. You make a decision, press the shutter, and move on without knowing the result.

Because of that, I found myself slowing down. I took fewer photographs than I normally would with digital. I spent more time observing the scene before committing to a frame.

At the same time, there was uncertainty.

I thought I was capturing strong images, but I also had the feeling that something might be off. The light was weaker than I expected, and I didn't fully compensate for it. Still, there was no way to confirm it. The moment passed, and the frame was already taken.

After finishing the roll, the images remained unseen. They existed, but only as latent images on the film, waiting to be revealed.

Developing the film myself was the part that made me the most nervous.

It had been a long time since I last handled the process, and every step felt like something that could go wrong. Loading the film into the tank, mixing the chemicals, timing each stage - all of it required attention.

There's no undoing anything in this process.

As the film moved through each stage, I kept thinking about the images I had taken. Whether they were exposed correctly, whether the development would go as planned, whether I had already made a mistake without realizing it.

When I reached the final bath, I paused for a moment before pulling the film out.

I wasn't sure what I was going to see.

Then I pulled the film out of the tank, and slowly, the negatives came into view.

The landscapes were there.

Faint, but visible.

Despite the mistakes, despite the uncertainty, the images had survived the process. And more than that, they came out better than I expected. That moment replaced all the tension with relief.

It confirmed that the process works, and that I can do it.

From photographing the landscape to developing, drying, scanning, and editing, the entire process forced me to slow down.

There are no shortcuts.

Every step requires time, attention, and patience. From the moment you press the shutter to the moment you finally see the image, everything is delayed. Nothing is immediate.

Film changes the relationship between the photographer and the landscape. It forces you to trust your decisions and accept the results, whether they meet your expectations or not.

It also makes you more aware of your mistakes.

And more importantly, it makes you more patient.

That might be the most important thing this process taught me.