Finding my way back

For decades, photography had been stitched into my days. It was the thing I kept coming back to, the way I made sense of what I saw, the work that quietly organised my time. Walking away, even for a while, gave me the kind of space I hadn’t allowed myself in years. Questions I’d kept parked in the back of my mind finally came forward, what actually matters to me, what do I still want, what do I need if I’m going to be okay. Nothing arrived in a neat package.

The replies came in their own time. With a bit of distance, I started to notice what in my life had been asking for attention, and what I could finally stop carrying.

Somewhere in that stretch, I began putting my own wellbeing on the list, not as an afterthought, but as something that deserved a real place.

Then, about halfway through those years, I found myself back in the darkroom. Prints again. Commissions again.

The old rhythm returned and, for a while, that familiarity felt like shelter, steady hands doing a job they’d done a hundred times. But the longer I stayed, the more I felt the enjoyment thinning out. I could still do it, of course.

The materials made sense to me, I knew what a print was asking for, I knew how to get there. Still, I wanted to be in that room less and less, and I couldn’t ignore that.

It reminded me of what can happen with love when it changes shape. You don’t stop caring. There’s shared history, tenderness for what you once had, and a clear memory of how much it mattered. You try to hold on because it meant something. And then, slowly, you understand that memory alone can’t keep a feeling alive. Sooner or later you admit it, the right thing is to let it go.

So I sold the darkroom.

Friends were stunned. To them, I’d always been the person with a camera, the one surrounded by trays and paper and the quiet, particular world of prints. I got it, their surprise made sense. By that point, though, my own decision had settled in my body as something true. It still feels true. I haven’t regretted it, not once, and I haven’t had that nagging voice asking if I made a mistake.

The darkroom gave me a lot, and I can be thankful for those years without insisting they continue. What started to matter more was looking after myself, my health, my time, the people I care about, and the simple freedom to have a day that doesn’t end with proving I produced something.

*Mens sana in corpore sano.* A sound mind in a sound body. I’d heard it before, but only then did it land in a way I could actually feel.

And then, slowly, curiosity came back. I began opening boxes again, going through photographs, prints, notes, all the bits that had collected over the years. Experiments that went nowhere, missteps that taught me something, small breakthroughs, decisions I could finally read with calmer eyes.

I started wanting to spend time with that material, and I caught myself thinking, what can I make from this now. That’s what has grown into REVELARTEURS and Edeldruck.

With REVELARTEURS, the photographs come forward again, along with their stories and the knowledge behind them. Edeldruck is where the hands-on side can live, processes, formulas, working notes, the kinds of details that might actually help someone when they’re standing at their own worktable.

There won’t be new prints coming out of my darkroom. I’m comfortable with that. What I can offer now is what I earned the slow way, years of practice, experience, and yes, the mistakes that taught me what no tidy success ever could.

I like placing that knowledge somewhere it can be found, challenged, tested, used. It feels good to watch something from my working life become useful in someone else’s hands. It keeps me close to photography, while leaving room for the life I want to live now.

I turned the lights off so I could see clearly again. This is what I can see now.