From silver to pixels: the transformation of photography and the nostalgia for lost intimacy

There was a time when taking a photograph required patience. A time when every shot carried weight, form, and anticipation. It was the era of analog photography, of film - before the transformation of photography reshaped how we capture the world.

We took fewer pictures, but we observed more.

Every photograph was a small act of meditation, of choice: just the right light, a fleeting expression, a moment that would never happen again.

Photography was a ritual, and every developed photo carried with it the imprint of time, of material, of human error.

Then digital arrived. And it was like going from a caress to a click.

With the advent of digital cameras first, and smartphones later, photography became democratized. Anyone, at any moment, could take a picture.

In theory, it’s a triumph: never before have we had such access to the ability to freeze time. But what have we really gained? And what have we quietly lost?

Analog vs digital photography - Black and white Film

Easy shots and fragile memory

In the transition from analog to digital photography, we have gained in quantity but often lost in emotional quality. Not so much in image resolution, but in the depth of our gaze, in the ability to truly observe. Today, we shoot compulsively, to not lose anything - and end up remembering nothing.

Photos pile up on our phones like sand in an hourglass.

Thousands of images, few truly seen, even fewer truly relived.

In the past, photos were printed. Touched. Smelled. Placed in albums, passed from hand to hand, kept in drawers like secrets. Every photograph was a bridge to a memory, a thread that connected us to others and to ourselves.

Today, photos live in digital clouds, forgotten among thousands of files.

Paradoxically, we photograph everything but feel more disconnected. More alone.

The inner eye and the time for contemplation

Analog photography forced us to see before shooting. To imagine. To compose.

Every image was an emotional investment. The limit of 24 or 36 exposures per roll of film was a school of attention: it taught us to select, to wait. And in that waiting, an inner space was created - where photography truly came alive.

Digital photography, instead, has sped up the process. Today we see through a screen.

We use filters before even understanding what we want to see.

And often, we shoot to show ourselves, not to remember.

Psychology teaches us that the way we record memories is deeply tied to the emotional intensity of the moment. When we shoot with smartphones, we often live the experience halfway because part of us is already projected into the idea of sharing it.

The moment is no longer inhabited; it is consumed.

Empathy, intimacy, and the gaze that caresses

Yet, photography remains - and can remain - a gesture of love. A gaze that rests on the other with attention. Saying: "I see you, I accept you."

Intimacy is not dead, but today it must be sought with greater awareness.

I believe it is. And perhaps now, more than ever, it is needed.

Empathic photography is not based on technique, but on connection. It is a shot born not only from the eye, but from the heart. It is the kind of image that makes you feel seen, not just looked at. It creates a space of recognition between the photographer and the photographed.

Even with a smartphone - an instrument often associated with speed and superficiality - it is possible to create authentic, intimate, vibrant images. Because what truly matters is the intention behind the shot.

A distracted gaze produces an empty, cold, perhaps aesthetic photo, but one devoid of life.

A present, deep, respectful gaze, instead, is capable of capturing the fragility, strength, and uniqueness of the other. Transforming that click into a gesture of listening.

When we photograph with empathy:

• we take the time to enter into a relationship,

• we ask ourselves: who am I in front of, what do I feel, what is really happening here?

• we suspend judgment, frenzy, and performance.

  
  

And in that silent space between two people, something real happens.

The camera then becomes a prosthesis of the soul, not an obstacle to the relationship.

It is not the tool that creates empathy: it is our willingness to engage, to be touched by what we see. It is choosing to photograph not to "get" something, but to give back something: a gaze, a memory, a presence.

In this sense, photography can still be an ethical and poetic act. A way of saying: "I see you, and this moment matters." And if that act also passes through a cellphone, it matters little.

It is the heart that clicks, not the device.

Perhaps it’s not about going backward, but about going inward. Reclaiming the time of looking, of the slow gesture, of choice. Asking ourselves: why am I taking this photo? For whom? For what? To remember, to preserve, to say "you matter to me"? Or to fill a void, to scroll away anxiety, to prove that we exist?

Photography can still be a poetic act. A way to freeze the ungraspable. But we must learn to photograph with the heart before the camera. To truly see before clicking.

Landscape photography - film

The return to slowness: shooting like before

Maybe, then, the answer lies in slowing down.

Rediscovering the magic of a thoughtful, meditated, awaited shot.

Returning to photographing like we used to doesn’t mean rejecting technology, but reclaiming the spirit with which we once shot: a contemplative, intimate, essential spirit.

Printing a photo, framing it, giving it as a gift. Carrying a camera to observe for the joy of observing, not just documenting. Taking fewer shots but deeper ones. Looking at a face and trying to capture its inner light rather than just the perfect external one.

Returning to photographing like before also means fully living the moments. Not letting them slip away while we’re busy recording them. It means loving the gaze, not the image.

It means, ultimately, reconnecting: with ourselves, with the other, with time.

Because photography is not only what we see. It is what we choose to feel.

Loredana