In the darkroom of memory, these frames still hum.
Before pixels and presets, there was film. Unpredictable, stubborn, alive. I’ve been diving back into my early negatives: 35mm wanderings, medium-format reveries, 4x5 acts of devotion. They come from a time when each frame was a breath I didn’t yet know I was holding.
These aren’t just old photographs; they’re small spells from the beginning. The moments that taught me to listen before I looked. The first whispers of what would become a lifelong practice of breathing with light.
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cuyahoga county fair c.y2k
Before I had words for liminality, I found it in the flicker of Ohio neon. Ferris wheels, fried dough, and a kind of small-town magic already fading at the edges. These frames come from the midwest that raised me: tender, gritty, full of spectacle and ache. Through slow shutters and long exhales, I started to see how Americana could both dazzle and haunt, how the ordinary could shimmer right before it disappeared. These photographs breathe with that memory, a meditation on beauty, longing, and the spaces between becoming and gone.
san francisco c.y2k
What began as an assignment for a college documentary class became a chapter that changed me. I picked street musicians almost by accident but once I stepped into their world, I couldn’t leave. I spent countless days and nights on San Francisco’s sidewalks, camera in hand, learning to see through rhythm and rain. These artists, drummers, sax players, singers, guitarists, steel drums. Taught me more about presence and resilience than any classroom could. Larry Hunt, the legendary fire-eating “bucket man”, was one of them; a force of sound and soul whose beat still echoes through the city’s concrete.
They’re about presence. About what it means to bear witness to a song that’s both survival and offering. This was where I learned to photograph not from distance, but from breath’s length; inside the sound, inside the story.
street photography through the ages
These are the pictures that happened in between everything else. The ones I found while wandering the city with a camera and a fistful of Tri-X. College days, long nights, and an instinct to chase whatever felt alive: house fires, protests, concerts, quiet corners, Folsom Street Fair.
It was journalism, documentary, anthropology, and art all at once. A study in being awake. I wasn’t trying to make statements then; I was just learning how to see. Looking back, I realize these images are a record of becoming. The city breathing through me, and me trying to catch my breath in return.
Still Moments
Across decades and assignments, certain photographs resist categorization — scenes that feel suspended outside of time. Whether it’s a quiet hotel room, a sign glowing in the night, or a street corner caught between stories, these images share a sensibility rather than a subject. They invite pause, reflection, and a kind of gentle wonder for the fleeting beauty that lives in the ordinary.
©WILLIAMCLICKENGER