As a leaving present from my last workplace I was given a Diana Mini. I’d seen the Lomography style of photography before but didn’t know anything about the camera and story behind it. Delighted with my new retro chic toy, I sat with Emma DB excitedly loading my first film into the device. A whizz through of the gift box’s delightful Shoot Forever booklet later, I was on my way, snapping through a film that I’d read could deliver up to 72 shots.
As I’m sure everyone who owns a Diana initially experiences, the lack of a digital display initially had my technology addicted mind somewhat thrown. How do I know what i’m taking’s like? Can you not delete the bad ones before the house party ends and pose cooly ahead of instant Facebook uploads? After a couple of outings and a further read up on what the small, blue object can do, my questions moved away from those of a digital junkie and towards that of an analogue advocate.
The beauty of the Diana Mini that I have come to love is the element of surprise in not knowing what you’ve got until the lady at Sainsbury’s photo counter passes you your prints. The lack of batteries required, the mechanical clicks of rotating the film on, the high pitch buzz of the flash bulb warming up and the numerous options available ahead of the shot has me wanting the camera on me everywhere I go.
Numerous blogs and a guy at my new workplace alluded to the potential disappointment of somebody’s first Lomography film’s development but I’m fairly happy with what I got back. Granted, in many instances I’ve gone absolutely overboard with multiple exposures on one frame. I’ve also been tinting the flash bulb with colour sheets way too much and haven’t mastered focus options at all. Luckily though, the leaving treat came with a good three films to try stuff out with. In one wonderful gift, photos have gone from a cheap, predictable, overly staged, instant and filtered commodity to one of surprise and possibility.