Surrender and Control

I’m particular to an obsessive degree — and this week, that got tested.

I’ve always found comfort in precision, in knowing that if I plan enough, things will turn out right. But both photography and drawing reminded me that control is fragile, and perfection is an illusion that can dissolve in an instant.

The Setup

For one of my darkroom assignments, I had to photograph still-life scenes in the studio using the school’s medium-format camera. I was so excited. I reviewed the assignment twice, watched a YouTube demo, and carefully loaded my film. Everything seemed perfect — until I noticed the frame counter read 10 instead of 1.

I could hear the film advancing, but the numbers weren’t changing.

Shit, I thought. I’m going to have to shoot blind.

This kind of situation derails me. My brain started spiraling — Did I load it wrong? Was my exposure off? All those still-life setups I’d planned so meticulously (I even bought a whole fish from the Asian market!) suddenly felt like trash. I had built my process on the assumption that care equals control — that if I just followed every step perfectly, the results would obey. Film doesn’t work that way.

I told myself to just get through the roll. Tomorrow, I’d redo everything with my professor’s help.

Take Two

The next day, my professor watched me reload the film. Everything looked fine. He reassured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong — other students had run into the same issue. That was encouraging.

I shot my second roll and even scheduled time to shoot a third just for fun — and for the reassurance that I would get at least two solid photographs (hello control issues).

Then came the email: the back of the camera was malfunctioning. There was no backup. If we needed to keep shooting, we’d have to use our 35mm cameras.

Bummer, I thought. But surely I’ve got at least two good photos. The second roll went so well!

The Portrait Roll

At the same time, I was working on my 35mm portrait assignment. One Sunday, I brought my camera to my mom’s house where some of my family had gathered for lunch. The light was wonderful. The moments came easily. I couldn’t wait to develop that roll — that’s the best part of film, the anticipation.

Then I developed my still-life film, and disaster struck again. The film hadn’t been moving through the camera properly. The second roll was actually even worse than the first.

No problem, I told myself. It’s just an assignment. I could still make a couple prints with what I had.

The Breaking Point

Yesterday, while shooting the last few frames on my first roll of portrait film, I finished it off and rushed inside to load another. In my excitement, I forgot to rewind the film.

I opened the camera back — and exposed everything to light.

I felt sick. All those beautiful shots of my family, gone.

I bemoaned my ill luck and idiocy. Loudly and repetitively. My husband tried to calm me down by speaking philosophically: things happen that are out of our control, and it’s best to brush them off and move forward.

I wanted to throw something.

I didn’t want to brush it off — I wanted my photos back. I wanted him to validate and share my disappointment. I said as much, on the brink of rage, and he reminded me gently that I was a hard worker, and that I would continue to produce good work because of that.

But I couldn’t let it go. I kept thinking: If only I’d slowed down. If only I hadn’t forgotten that one step. The images existed only for those few seconds when I pressed the shutter — and then they were gone. Dead film.

Maybe it wasn’t just the film. Maybe it was everything else that had gone wrong that week, and this was the final straw.

The Drawing

Meanwhile, I had just finished my long-term drawing homework. In drawing, you can make mistakes and still find your way back. You can rework, layer, fix, and start again. There’s something forgiving about it.

My long-term drawing project this semester was proof of that. It was the largest piece I’d ever worked on — twenty hours over six weeks. For six weeks, I stared at my bedroom window, capturing the same scene over and over as light and life shifted around it.

At first, I was obsessed with accuracy — every angle, every proportion. Was my perspective accurate? This led me to fixating too long in one place and made me blind to the whole picture. Then, somewhere around eight hours in, I let go. I began to see in value instead of line, in feeling instead of perfection.

By ten hours in, I was sick of all of it. The scene had become dull to me. My small graphite pencil couldn’t work the page fast enough. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

At fifteen hours, I realized it didn’t matter that the plants had turned, the bottles had moved, or that I’d rehung the towel three times. The space had changed. It was out of my control. Each new layer, each adjustment, became part of the story. It helped me identify and clarify what was actually important to emphasize in that space and what to generalize.

First five hours

Approximately 10 hours in

12 hours

15 hours

20 hours and counting

That was it — things were going to change. Things were out of my control. Acknowledging that in my drawing allowed me to let go and cross the finish line. To find the essence of what I wanted to put on the page and to put it down quickly.

I wish there were better words to explain that meditative state, but maybe I haven’t reflected long enough on it.

The lesson I had just learned from twenty hours of drawing the same scene had completely vanished from my mind when I ruined my film.

Drawing still forgives. Painting still forgives. They evolve as you do.

But Film…

Film doesn’t forgive. The evidence of effort can vanish in a moment of impulse.

And maybe that’s the real lesson. Sometimes things disappear before we’re ready — the image, the moment, people and places we love.

Drawing teaches patience and revision. Film teaches surrender. One invites us to build upon our mistakes; the other forces us to accept their permanence sometimes. Both are important life lessons. Both remind me that creation — and life — depend on our ability to adapt even when things fall apart.

The question is, can I?

Sincerely,

Rebekah