The darkroom I rent on Sundays belongs to a retired press photographer named Gia who has opinions about everything except, mercifully, my negatives. For two years I printed other people's selects there: photographers would hand me a marked contact sheet and I would make the prints they had already chosen. Good practice. Zero decisions.
This month I printed my own edit for the first time. Twelve frames from three rolls, chosen by me, printed by me, no one to blame but me. I taped the contact sheets to the wall above the enlarger and stood there with the red pencil for longer than I will admit in writing. Frame 14 or frame 15. The one where I look certain, or the one where I look honest. They are never the same frame.
What surprised me is how physical the taste is. On a screen I would have flicked past half of these in a second each. Under the loupe, with the safelight humming, every frame costs something to consider, so you consider properly. Paper is expensive and time is slow and the combination makes you serious.
I came home with nine prints, not twelve. Three of my choices died in the developer, and they deserved it. The nine that survived are pinned above my desk, curling at the corners the way resin paper does, and I like them more than anything I have ever posted.