The moment I knew I was done with film photography

I’ve always shot film. Over the past few years, I’ve shot nothing but Fomapan 400 black-and-white film through my beloved 1965 Leica M2.

It’s a setup I know intimately, one that’s seen countless rolls pass through its chamber, each frame a meditation in light, contrast and composition. But for a while now, quietly and without drama, I’ve been entertaining thoughts of giving it all up; of finally going digital full-time and, more specifically, investing in a dedicated monochrome camera.

These were just private musings, flickers of curiosity. That is, until a family camping trip turned that whisper into a firm, unshakable truth.

It was the kind of trip where I always bring only one camera – my Leica M2. Six rolls of film deep, I was in my element, chasing light through the trees and documenting the quiet joy of family time outdoors.

But it was on the seventh roll where everything changed. I had left my digital camera at home, staying loyal to the analog routine, but a creeping feeling of regret began to stir. Then, one moment turned it into certainty.

We were at the campsite playground. My daughter, full of life and joy, asked if I’d go on the old wooden play train with her. Of course, I did. She took the driver’s seat, turned to look back at me with a grin, and there it was – soft, angelic light bathing her from behind, the scene full of life and emotion.

I could see the photograph before I took it: the glowing highlights, the dark fall-off in the background, the gentle tones that would print so beautifully. I took two shots, then went to turn the camera to portrait orientation for the final, perfect third. That’s when it happened.

As I advanced the film lever, I felt resistance. A sickening snap. My heart dropped. My bulk-loaded cassette had failed. The film had torn. I knew instantly the roll was ruined.

Desperately, I fumbled for the darkest place I could find - under my jacket, back in the tent – anywhere to retrieve what little I could. But it was gone. Not just the perfect third frame, but all the images from that morning. That photo, that fleeting expression, that soft glow, was gone forever. And in that moment, I said to myself: I’m done with film.

I know this is all part of the analog experience. The imperfections. The accidents. The rituals of shooting film have always been part of the charm – until they’re not. This time, it struck a deeper chord. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even disappointed in the Leica M2. It wasn’t its fault. If anything, it was mine for trusting a bulk-loaded roll without properly taping the leader.

But the whole experience left me empty. I no longer felt that joy – just a hollow sense that I’d let the moment slip through my fingers when it could’ve so easily been captured.

So, that photo will live only in my mind now – a daydream lost to a ruined strip of acetate. And with it, my film journey quietly ends. It’s a strange, bittersweet ending, but I know it’s right.

I’m ready to fully embrace digital again, to trust my camera not to falter when the light is just right and the subject is everything.

A digital Leica, with its monochrome soul, will now carry that torch forward. Film gave me so much, but sometimes letting go is the only way to move on.

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