Being Grateful for Imperfection

Frames from the Field #4: Through imperfect frames, I remember why I choose film.

Back in January, I had a simple idea: to find the oldest camera I could get my hands on. After a bit of searching through Japan’s online marketplaces, I found it — a Kodak Brownie No. 2.

I shot three rolls with it. No fancy settings, just a single shutter speed and two aperture options. It stripped photography down to something pure: seeing, feeling, and pressing the shutter. I made a YouTube video about it too, if you’re curious.

But then, inevitably, the winding knob broke.

I won’t lie—I was really sad. Maybe because in such a short time, I had built a quiet attachment to it. I searched for a replacement but it wasn’t easy. It took two months before I finally found a similar one: a Kodak Brownie Junior No. 2.

Reflecting on the experience, I wondered why I found myself so attached to these imperfect results. And I think it’s because of the feeling behind it—the joy of simplicity, of creating without chasing perfection.

So today, I simply want to share a few of those imperfect frames—and a little piece of what they mean to me.

Maybe to some, these frames are flawed, even broken.

But to me, they hold a quiet joy. Film photography has always taught me to accept what I’m given — to find beauty in the imperfect, the unexpected. And for that, I’m grateful.

In a world that races forward—new cameras every few months, AI weaving into every corner of life—film photography has become my quiet refuge. It’s a way to slow down, to breathe, to look closely at the life unfolding around me. It’s a small act of gratitude, a reminder that not everything has to move so fast.

I also made a video about the Kodak Brownie replacement here, if you’re curious:

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Cheers,