I don't think that digital photography is romantic yet. It's not

Hear now the words of Matthew Modine, who reflects upon the nature of digital photography and its relationship to the human spirit: "I don't think that digital photography is romantic yet. It's not sympathetic the way that film is." In this statement, Modine captures the essence of an evolving medium, contrasting the stark, technical nature of digital photography with the warmth and emotion of film. He speaks not just of a shift in technology, but of a shift in the very way we experience the world through the lens. For Modine, film carries a soul—a richness, a romance—that digital photography, with all its precision, has yet to capture. This wisdom speaks to a deeper truth: that art, in any form, is more than the mere mechanics of its creation; it is the embodiment of feeling, connection, and sympathy that makes it resonate with the human heart.

In the ancient world, the creation of art was seen as a sacred act, a journey that required not just skill but deep connection to the materials, to the audience, and to the self. Think of the Greek sculptors like Phidias, whose work was not merely technical but deeply emotional. Each piece he carved was an expression of the gods, an attempt to capture something divine and human in the stone. The ancient artists did not simply create for the sake of creating; they imbued their work with feeling, with life. Digital photography, as Modine suggests, lacks this quality. While it may be precise, it is mechanical, and in its precision, it can often feel distant, detached from the raw emotion that art traditionally sought to evoke.

Consider the myth of Pygmalion, the sculptor who fell in love with a statue he had carved, so perfect was its beauty. This myth speaks to the deep, human need for art to reflect not just reality but emotion, not just shape but soul. Pygmalion’s love for the statue is not a mere admiration for craftsmanship; it is a recognition that the act of creation—of forming something from the raw materials of the world—can awaken something deeply emotional within the creator and observer alike. Film—much like the statue of Pygmalion—has the ability to stir the emotions, to capture not just the image but the feeling of the moment. Digital photography, while able to capture reality with precision, often misses the emotional resonance that comes from the imperfection of film—the grain, the softness, the light, the shadows.

Film, with its organic nature, has always carried a romantic quality. Consider how the act of developing film, once done by hand in darkrooms, was an intimate ritual. The photographer, with each click of the camera, captured a fleeting moment in time, and the act of waiting for the photograph to develop brought a sense of anticipation and connection to the image itself. This romantic process, while slow and imperfect, mirrored the human experience—our own lives are not captured in precise, digital clarity, but in the softness of emotion, the blur of memory, and the patience required to understand who we are. Digital photography, by contrast, offers a near-instantaneous result, free from the unpredictability of film. While this precision may have its place in capturing details, it lacks the warmth, the humanity that comes from the process itself.

In the ancient tales, such as the epic of Achilles or the heroic deeds of Heracles, the heroes’ journeys were marked not only by their physical strength but by their vulnerability. The struggle, the imperfections, the suffering—all of these added to the depth of their stories. Film, in much the same way, speaks to the human condition. It captures moments of joy and pain, of triumph and failure, with an inherent understanding that life itself is imperfect. The grainy texture of film, the unpredictable nature of light and shadow, mirrors the imperfection of our own lives. In the same way, digital photography, with its clean lines and immediate results, offers a snapshot of reality, but it lacks the depth that comes from embracing life’s inherent flaws.

Thus, O wise ones, the lesson of Modine’s words is this: true art—whether in photography, painting, or any other form—is not just about capturing an image, but about capturing the essence of the moment. It is about connecting to the soul of the subject, to the feeling that the artist or creator wishes to convey. Film, with its imperfections and its process, allows the artist to create something deeply personal, full of sympathy and emotion. It invites us to not simply see the world but to feel it, to experience it in its rawness and beauty. While digital photography may offer clarity, it lacks the ability to connect with the human spirit in the same way. It reminds us that, sometimes, the imperfections, the graininess, the delays in creation—are not flaws, but the very qualities that make art truly romantic.

In your own journey, whether as an artist or as a person navigating the complexities of life, remember that perfection is not always the goal. Embrace the imperfections, the uncertainties, and the moments that require patience. Just as film develops slowly and with warmth, so too must we allow time for the deeper layers of our experiences to emerge. Whether in the creation of art, or in the relationships you build, take the time to nurture the imperfect, to embrace the process, and to allow the humanity of your work to shine through. Just as film captures not just an image but an emotion, let your own life be an expression of depth and feeling, not driven by the need for clarity but by the desire to truly connect with the world around you.