I’ve been dipping back into my archive recently and finding myself lingering over moments long forgotten.
This is one of such frame from the early 1990s. It’s not technically perfect. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Shot on a 1940s Leica IIIa I’d picked up for £100, this frame was made just days before the shutter finally failed and frustratingly ruined a handful of subsequent films.
The photograph was taken at the foot of one of the three multi-storey blocks in Sighthill, Edinburgh where I’d been staying in a flat there for a few nights. It was a quickly grabbed image – the kind you make on instinct and it instantly transports me to a time when simply carrying a camera invited conversation. Kids would shout, “Take our picture, mister!” and mean it. They were delighted when you actually did.
Back then, I thought nothing of wandering into places others avoided, driven by curiosity and the urge to see. It was a confidence born of youth, one I’m not entirely sure I still carry in the same way.
The flats themselves, once a fixed feature of the Edinburgh skyline, were demolished in 2011. They’re likely missed by few, but for me, they remain tied to a particular moment when cameras were mechanical, mistakes were permanent, and photographs felt like small acts of connection.
