I was in a darkroom, with bags, ready to print. It was a long elongated room, enlargers on one side, baths on the other. I felt a strong sense of dejavu about the room itself, that I had been in there before but unsure when; perhaps it was an amalgamation of all the darkrooms I had ever printed in.
There were other people in the room but they were blurry smudges, faceless figures darting about in the background. The spotlight was on me. Had there been a tiny hole in the wall, the dreamer in me would be watching through it.
I took a sheet of negatives out of a folder and held it to the light. It was a roll of colour infrared film (in the past I had a bout of going crazy with this film & experimenting with it widely). I was always taken by the wonderful array of colours it produced unlike the reality I had photographed. Something changed in between, a chemical reaction that rendered my memory altered.
As I inspected this film, which was cut in strips so 6 frames were on each - the 6th frame on the top row began to move. And it was a little film of me, in it - holding the negatives to the light, deciding on what to print, deciphering the colour - the dream repeating itself. I could see what I was wearing, the rich saturated colours, the concentration on my face, the wonder in my eyes.
I tell myself,
Photography, to you, I must return.
Nothing compares to you.
You are sleeping inside me,
and I will find a way to wake you,
And the soft faint release of the shutter,
I will hear again.