Between light and trust

When I first picked up a camera years ago, Carlos Machado was already someone I admired. His portraits had a quiet confidence that stayed with me. They never seemed interested in perfection. Instead, they felt intimate, honest, and deeply human. At the time, I never imagined that one day he would stand in front of my lens.

Life has a strange way of connecting people through places.

After Fashion Week, I traveled to Milan with no expectations beyond slowing down for a few days. Somehow, Milan did what it always seems to do: it brought two stories together. Mine, carrying a brand-new medium format camera I barely knew how to use, and Carlos', trusting me enough to become part of my very first project on film.

Buying this camera felt like buying a promise.

For years I had romanticized film photography. I loved its imperfections, its slower rhythm, the way every frame demanded intention. But the moment I finally bought my Mamiya, excitement was quickly followed by fear. Film doesn't forgive the way digital sometimes does. There is no screen waiting to reassure you. Every decision feels permanent. Every click costs something.

And yet, maybe that's exactly why I needed it.

These photographs were made with that uncertainty. Armed with little more than a light meter app, instinct, and an incredible amount of trust, I found myself learning to let go. I wasn't chasing technical perfection. I was trying to stay present—to pay attention to light, to silence, to the conversation unfolding between Carlos and me.

The soft palette of Kodak Gold surprised me. The warm skin tones, the gentle grain, the imperfect edges... everything felt slower, almost as if the photographs had been waiting patiently to exist. Film has a way of softening certainty. It doesn't simply record light; it records atmosphere, hesitation, and time itself.

There was one moment I remember more vividly than any photograph.

Halfway through the session, I had to change the roll. My hands froze. I was terrified of ruining everything. Until then, every frame felt fragile, as if one wrong move could erase the entire afternoon.

Carlos didn't laugh or rush me. Instead, we grabbed my phone, found a tutorial, and figured it out together. As we stood there, waiting for the film to catch properly, he gently pointed out something I hadn't noticed before: the way I was speaking to myself. Every mistake became proof that I wasn't ready. Every uncertainty turned into self-judgment.

He reminded me that I deserved the same patience and respect I so easily offered to other people. That I didn't need to know everything before I began. The fact that I was trying meant I was already learning.

Looking back, I think that roll contains more than photographs. It holds the exact moment I stopped expecting certainty from myself.

When I look at these images now, I don't just see Carlos. I see the beginning of a different relationship with photography. One built less on control and more on trust.

Trust in light. Trust in instinct. Trust in the beauty of not knowing exactly how things will turn out.

These are the first photographs from that journey.

The digital images will come soon. But it felt right to begin here—with the quiet grain, the soft colors, and the first roll that taught me far more than I expected.

Sometimes the first roll of film isn't just the beginning of a project.

Sometimes it's the beginning of a different way of seeing the world.