Exploring the Intersection of Travel, Film Photography, and Psychology

Travel, Film, Psychology

You see, the thing about 35mm films—real films, mind you—is that they're just so goddamn genuine. There's something undeniably sincere about capturing life on film, not the digital nonsense everyone's obsessed with nowadays. Here's a rundown of some popular 35mm films, the kind you'd use if you're trying to capture something real, something honest, along with what each one feels like, deep down:

1. Kodak Portra 400

   • Natural skin tones and a way of handling light that's almost forgiving.

   • Makes you feel warm, cozy, like you're peeking into someone's private moments, capturing their little genuine moments of joy or melancholy.

2. Kodak Ektar 100

   • Fine grain, vivid and saturated—almost ridiculously vibrant.

   • Gives you that burst of optimism and excitement, makes ordinary scenes feel full of life and drama, like you're seeing everything for the first time.

3. Fujifilm Superia X-TRA 400

   • Economical, decent all-around performance, pretty reliable even when the lighting’s all messed up.

   • Captures life's spontaneous, unscripted moments—the kind of casual authenticity you'd see walking around the city or in those unexpected little snapshots of life.

4. Ilford HP5 Plus 400 (black and white)

   • Praised for its wide exposure latitude and versatility in developing.

   • It makes you contemplative, thoughtful, a bit introspective. It’s perfect for images that tell deeper stories, the kind that stick with you and haunt you quietly.

5. Kodak Tri-X 400 (black and white)

   • Known for stark contrasts and that gritty, unmistakable grain.

   • Tri-X isn't subtle. It's dramatic and honest, almost painfully so. It's the sort of film you'd use to tell a story that hits you right in the gut—raw and uncompromising.

6. Fujifilm Velvia 50 (slide film)

   • Famous for incredibly saturated colors and high contrast.

   • It hits you immediately, full force, and makes your jaw drop. Velvia is for capturing those breathtaking scenes—the kind you'd swear could change your life just by looking at them.

And there's this feeling—this god-awful uncertainty—that hits you right after you press the shutter button. Did you get it right? Did you capture the moment, or is it just a mess, blurry or underexposed, lost forever? You don't know, can't know—not until you finish the roll, and then you wait, almost painfully, for it to develop. Days, sometimes weeks of waiting, carrying around a gnawing little anxiety, mixed with this sort of hopeful excitement. And when the photos finally come back, the relief—or disappointment—hits you hard. It’s a feeling you can’t quite shake, a truth only film can give you.

Another thing about film is that you keep coming back to those photographs. You look at them differently, more often, than the thousands of snaps on your phone. Film photos aren’t just pictures; they're little moments preserved, tangible proof of something you once felt or saw. You revisit them again and again because they mean something deeper, something digital can’t quite replicate.

Every film has its own quirks, its unique way of seeing the world. You don't just take pictures—you tell the truth, or at least your own version of it. And these films, each one, they're tools for getting at something real, something you can actually feel.