Digging around in boxes last week, I found an old manual black and white camera that years ago I enjoyed tinkering around with, for the love of the grinding sound the advance lever makes when you pull it, and for the vintage, other worldly way things were captured, all in sharp shades of gray and white. There was a finished roll of film sitting in the side pocket, and I brought it to the camera shop out of curiosity, letting them know its probably just overexposed junk, but I might as well find out.
It turns out that half of the roll was taken in Ireland in 2007, and the other half was taken in suburbs outside of Chicago in 2008. In all the time and moving between, the unfinished roll must have jostled around inside or the camera broke; while the first half came out fine, it seems that in the second half, the reel didn’t turn properly, and the photographs were sporadically exposed over each other, like all the moments started violently crashing together, intersecting, bleeding into one another, making everything indecipherable, a beautiful-ugly madness.
Selections from the roll are here.