Everything has a story to tell – if we let it.

The camera I am holding tells the story of my family. Purchased in London, my grandparents presented it to my father in 1965, right before he departed Southampton. As a British photographer for several different steamships, this camera documented his travels across the world. It also captured the moment he met my mother, a tap dancer who lived on West 57th street.

Although the Rolleiflex 2.8f is often regarded as the “king” of twin lens reflex (TLR) cameras, to me it was simply the “funny looking camera” my dad was always holding. The one that required him to look down instead of through, and the one that punctuated a string of memories from which the kaleidoscope of my childhood was documented.

But I never really understood how special the Rolleiflex was until I inherited it. 

For the last two years, I have spent many hours learning the magic of film photography – and often the hard way. Through countless mistakes, I’ve wrestled with aperture and shutter speed. I’ve learned how to read the built-in light meter. I’ve practiced the art of framing a shot. I’ve studied how to capture the rich textures and tones that help a black and white photo tell a story. 

Above all, I’ve come to learn that street photography is my favorite genre. When I take my father’s camera out, I like to call it “taking the Rollei for a walk.” What captures my interest is often unexpected and simple. Sometimes it’s the architecture of “old New York” colliding with modern buildings. Sometimes it’s steam billowing from a construction site. Sometimes it’s my daughters. Sometimes it’s a particular slant of light in the morning or the evening. 

No matter what, the magical part of film photography and “taking the Rollei for a walk” is feeling like my dad is walking beside me, too – and that his camera is still telling a story.

Feel free to join me on Instagram for my next walk with the Rollei!

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