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The giant Fuji Instax 210 sat on the camera shelf for a few months. It’s black and plasticy and clunky with zero charm or cultural cache´.  When I took it out for a walk recently, the manufacturer supplied skinny nylon webbing strap dug into my shoulder and the camera rattled whenever it banged against my back. I’ve taken almost a whole packet of film. The photos are terrible.

The one up top is the best I’ve done so far, and it was mostly an accident of framing and the high-key morning sun. The rest are poorly composed with boring subjects that are either too dark or too bright. The photos look like the ones I took in middle school with my Kodak 110. Flashbulb bleached faces dead center in the frame, the colors muddy and exposures off.

But I have fun when I’m taking the pictures. Even when I take crappy ones. It’s a little bit of artistic time travel. Back to a time before I had any idea what I was doing, and I wasn’t bothered that I didn’t have any idea. It was just cool to point, shoot, and see what I got.


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