There is a strange kind of suspension that happens when you find yourself away from home for work. You are technically "on the clock," tethered to itineraries and meetings, yet adrift in an unfamiliar city.
Last year, late in the autumn season, I found myself in Gateshead. The air had that sharp, biting edge that tells you winter is waiting just around the corner, and the daylight was already beginning to drain early from the sky. With an hour to spare between commitments, I slipped out into the streets, camera in hand.
For this walk, I wasn't carrying a clinical, high-resolution digital rig. Instead, I had my Holga GN.
Shooting with a plastic-lens camera requires a complete shift in mindset. You surrender control. The heavy vignetting frames your shots in deep, moody shadows, the plastic lens softens the edges into a dreamlike haze, and unpredictable light leaks turn ordinary architecture into something out of a mid-century memory. It’s photography stripped back to its rawest, most instinctive form—less about documenting a place exactly as it is, and more about capturing how it feels.
Standing in the shadow of heavy scaffolding on one side and a looming, dark brick building on the other, the street felt like an urban canyon. Overhead, a moody late-autumn sky broke through the gloom, while far down the corridor of the street, the elegant spire of the church stood in stark, glowing contrast to the encroaching darkness below.
It’s a scene that could easily feel harsh or sterile on a standard camera. But through the plastic lens of the Holga, the industrial grit and the historical architecture blur together. The construction and the scaffolding aren't just an annoyance; they frame the geometry of the city, turning a routine work trip detour into a cinematic exploration of light and shadow.
