A cramped room. The glow of a lone red lightbulb. A blank sheet of paper floating in clear liquid. An age-old process nearly lost to time.
But not here.
Gary used tongs to press gently upon the paper, submerging it in the tray of clear solution. He was precise, making sure it had plenty of time to bathe.
He then took the developed print and hung it on an old clothesline with a pair of wooden clothespins.
Gary loved the smell of the developing agent, the near darkness, the solitude.
What pictures he ultimately developed almost seemed like an afterthought.
The Weekday One Hundred 