Yesterday I was going through all my film negatives – you know that dark transparent thing where photos used to come from – and I noticed a funny thing – I was actually holding them tenderly. Like I was afraid that they might fall on the floor and disintegrate. I was carefully holding them by their perforations, gently placing them in little plastic slots and binding them inside a big, thick portfolio book.

And since I only used rangefinders on them (and most were non-metered), maybe even half of them were unfocused, miserably composed, over and under exposed. But still it felt like I was holding something priceless.

I still remember the time I started developing my own black and white film. I was in the University then. We had a dingy, totally claustrophobic-inducing darkroom. I was sharing it with over 50 students.

It was a hot and clammy cell. The vinegarish smell of old chemicals clinging to every fibre of my skin and clothes as I wrestled in the dark, occasionally lighted by a red flickering bulb. I had to agitate the developer with one hand, while I held the doorknob with another in case somebody opened the door. The lock had given up long time ago.

And as I would count in my head to time the developer, I would also pray to the TriX gods that the chemicals I found underneath the sink were good enough to get me one more photo, or merciful heavens, develop a roll of exposed film.

Then, with my brain slightly disoriented from the darkness, my body smelling like it had been dipped in a vat of vinegar, and yes by gods, in a classic example of faith defying chemistry, I would come out with a triumphant look in my bloodshot eyes. Again and again.

This makes me wonder if in the future I will remember with the same intensity my current photo editing room. The number of external hard drives I have underneath my computer desk. The size of my monitor. The quantum power of my latest pentium. The wonder programs I'm using to filter the photos. The speed of wireless digital transfer into the web. The pristine white walls where I place most of my inkjet printouts.

Because it's surprising that after all these years, I still remember vividly that old darkroom where I learned to dodge and burn.

It was a 4x6 mosquito-infested prison. Its walls covered with years of peeling paint and faded wallpaper. If I close my eyes, I could still see the melted power switch above the rusty enlarger.

It was decrepit. It was smelly. It was grimy.

It was the best place on earth. Click.