If you’ve never been on a photowalk before, you probably imagine one of two things. Either: A deeply serious group of people silently photographing brick walls while discussing focal lengths… Or: Twenty-seven people in expensive jackets fighting over the same pigeon.

I shot a roll of 11-year-old KONO! Reanimated Donau, ISO 6…With mixed results

I’m going to shoot another roll of Kodachrome 64 in this often ugly and topsy-turvy world of 2026. I’m using a Nikon FE with a beautiful 50mm f/1.4 Nikkor lens. What’s the point shooting a film, revered colour film, that prompted Paul Simon to sing about it, and a film to be made commemorating the fictional moment of the last roll to be developed at Dwayne’s Photo in Parsons, Kansas…With Ed Harris.

There is a moment, and I have found it, where the fair is not yet a fair. It is something quieter. Something almost unsure of itself.

For two weeks, I decided to shoot a roll of black and white film every day. That was the rule. One roll. Every day. No excuses.

As photographers, we often describe the process in terms of instinct. Seeing. Reacting. Responding. But another vocabulary lurks beneath the surface. Hunting. Stalking. Sniping. Words that imply distance, control, and extraction. They reveal an uncomfortable truth about power and proximity. About who is observed and who gets to walk away unchanged.

I developed the roll in this wild mixture, and the results were quietly strange in the best way: soft contrast, glowing highlights, and delicate marks left behind by the plants themselves.

Following on from my last piece about loneliness in shooting film, I’ve been thinking about what comes after that solitude, about the quiet trust we place in process, in chemistry, in time.

It isn’t just about making pictures; it’s about learning how to stand still in the world, to listen to it quietly, and to feel both part of it and apart from it at the same time.

That’s what expired film does best: it reminds you that photographs aren’t about perfection. They’re about chance, about the way time alters everything.

So when Leica dropped Monopan 50, my inner film nerd did a little dance.

What struck me most was the honesty of it. These weren’t images chasing perfection. They were simply there - clear, precise, and unashamedly ordinary.