My step-pop gave me his old Zeiss Ikon camera a few years ago. I still don’t really know how to wrangle it, and I only remember to pull it out every few months to snap a few photos. But every time I get a roll of film processed – shot with this old camera whose former life and travels I can only muse over – I’m reminded that there’s something about analogue that can’t be faked.

It’s the authentic shortcomings, failings and unpredictability, the honest and earnest results of a machine functioning within its limitations, and within my limitations. It’s the quirks and flaws that make a thing indelibly unique.  

And the other thing I really love about this camera is that it channels nostalgia. I don’t really believe that the leaves of my mum’s hydrangea bushes are such a deeply saturated green, or that the skies over North Melbourne are ever that blue. But in my memory, as on film, the colour of flowers against sky is that poignant, the ocean horizon on an overcast day is that desolate, the statues in Japan were that solemn, and my dog is that crazy that she’s often just an out-of-focus blur.