Teaching kids film photography
My phone currently holds 14,342 photos. It is a staggering number, isn’t it? Yet, if you asked me to close my eyes and describe the last ten pictures I took, I probably couldn’t tell you.
We live in the age of the “digital deluge.” We snap in bursts of ten, check the screen immediately, delete the imperfections, and snap again. We are so busy documenting the moment that we often forget to actually inhabit it. Somewhere between the cloud storage notifications and the infinite scroll, the magic of capturing a memory has been replaced by the convenience of storing data.
I found myself craving something heavier. Something with weight, consequence, and a mechanical heartbeat. I wanted to hear the distinct clunk-whir of a shutter that can’t be undone.
This desire for tangibility is what led me back to my old 35mm camera—and it is exactly why I decided to put it into my children’s hands.
It wasn’t just about teaching them composition or lighting, though those are valuable artistic lessons. It was about a much quieter rebellion. in a world built on instant gratification and high-speed connections, I wanted to give my children the gift of waiting. I wanted to show them that a moment doesn’t need to be perfect to be beautiful, and that some memories are worth waiting for.
Table of Contents
Disconnecting to Connect: Putting Down the Smartphone
There is a peculiar paradox in modern parenting: we have never photographed our children more, yet we have arguably never looked at them less.
When we shoot on a smartphone, the device acts as a wall. We experience the birthday party, the soccer game, or the walk in the park through a glowing 6-inch screen. We tap the shutter button absentmindedly, relying on the “spray and pray” method—taking twenty rapid-fire shots in the hopes that one turns out okay. The result? We spend the moment managing storage space and checking angles rather than actually being present.
Film changes the geometry of that interaction.
When my son picks up his camera, he isn’t looking at a screen; he is looking through a piece of glass directly at the world. Because a roll of film has only 24 or 36 exposures, every single click has a “cost.” He knows he can’t just delete a bad shot, so he slows down. He pauses. He studies the light falling on the leaves or the way his brother is laughing.
By handing him a camera that doesn’t connect to the internet, I am teaching him that photography isn’t about content creation; it is about observation. It forces a shift from consuming a moment to curating one.
Watching him stand in a field, squinting slightly as he adjusts the focus ring, I see a level of mindfulness that is rare in our digital lives. He isn’t checking to see if he looks good in a selfie; he is completely absorbed in the beauty of what is in front of him. He is disconnected from the network, but he has never been more connected to his surroundings.
The Magic of Waiting: Teaching Patience Through Film
“Can I see it?”
That is the first question every child asks after the shutter clicks. In a digital world, the answer is always yes. We immediately tilt the screen down, review the image, critique the smile, and often retake it. But with film photography for kids, the answer is a gentle, “Not yet.”
This is perhaps the hardest and most valuable lesson the medium offers: delayed gratification.
In an era of same-day delivery and instant streaming, the concept of waiting for something good is almost foreign to the younger generation. When we shoot a roll of 35mm film, we introduce a gap between the action and the reward. My daughter knows that once she presses that button, the moment is captured, but the memory is stored away in a black canister. She has to wait until we finish the roll, wait for us to mail it to the lab, and wait for the scans to arrive in our inbox.
This waiting period builds a sense of anticipation that digital simply cannot replicate. It turns the arrival of the photos into an event. When the prints finally arrive, we sit down together to look through them. The excitement is palpable. “Do you remember that day?” “Look how tall the grass was!”
Furthermore, film teaches acceptance. There is no “undo” button on a vintage camera. Sometimes the focus is soft; sometimes there is a light leak; sometimes eyes are closed. By teaching kids film photography, we teach them that these imperfections aren’t mistakes to be deleted—they are authentic parts of the story. We learn to love the photos not because they are pixel-perfect, but because they are real.
Capturing the Seasons: From Sunflower Fields to Pumpkin Patches
One of the first things you learn when shooting film is that light is everything. Unlike digital sensors, which can artificially boost brightness in dark settings, film craves light. This technical limitation actually becomes a creative advantage because it encourages us to get outside and chase the sun.
Chasing the “Golden Hour”
I teach my children that the best “studio” isn’t inside; it’s the hour just before sunset, often called the Golden Hour.
As you can see in the photo above with the sunflowers, the light during this time is low, soft, and warm. It wraps around the subject rather than hitting them harshly from above (which creates dark shadows under the eyes). Film stocks—especially consumer-grade ones like Kodak Gold or Fujifilm—absolutely sing in this lighting. They turn greens and yellows into rich, vibrant hues that editing filters try to emulate but never quite replicate.
Teaching my kids to identify this light has changed how they see the day. They notice when the shadows get long and the light turns honey-colored, knowing that is the time to grab the camera.
Seasonal Storytelling
Beyond just lighting, seasonal family portraits on film capture the texture of the year. Because we aren’t taking photos every single day, the ones we do take become markers of the season.
For autumn, we focus on earth tones. In the pumpkin patch photo, the film picks up the intricate textures of the dried grass, the knit of the sweater, and the smooth orange rind of the pumpkins. There is a warmth to these analog images that feels synonymous with the coziness of fall.
By taking the camera into these environments—whether it’s a bright summer sunflower field or a rustic autumn harvest—the photo becomes less about “posing” and more about exploring. The children interact with their surroundings, touching the pumpkins or hiding in the flowers, while the camera simply acts as a witness to their exploration.
Teaching kids film photography Beyond the Camera: Styling and Creating Lasting Memories
The beauty of teaching kids film photography is that it encourages thoughtful choices at every stage—from finding the light to developing the prints. This intention shouldn’t stop at the shutter button; it extends to the styling and, crucially, to the final display of the image.
Styling for Timelessness
When choosing outfits for a film shoot, the goal should be timelessness, not trends. Film loves visual texture—knits, wool, natural fabrics, and patterns (like the lovely patchwork dress we shot). This applies equally to the accessories worn by the parent.
For the parent, accessories should complement the rustic, natural settings without overpowering the focus on the children. Consider the detail in a piece of jewelry, like a simple, layered necklace that catches the sunlight. In the images above, you see how mixing metals and textures—like combining a chunky statement coin piece with delicate gold chains—adds depth and bohemian chicness to an otherwise simple top. These small, thoughtful additions enhance the overall storytelling quality of the analog photograph.
The Print & Hold Philosophy
The final, non-negotiable step in the analog process is the physical print.
In a digital world, an unprinted photo is a memory waiting to die on a hard drive. But when you shoot on film, the result is inherently physical. You get the negatives, and you get the prints. These tactile objects are the ultimate antidote to the digital deluge.
By committing to printing these moments—the golden hour joy in the sunflowers, the cozy warmth of the pumpkin patch—we solidify the memory. We create an object that can be touched, framed, and passed down. This is the legacy we are developing, frame by frame. The print you can hold is the story your children can inherit.
Developing a Legacy, One Frame at a Time
We began this journey by looking at the overwhelming numbers in our digital lives. We live in a world where memories are stored in the cloud, often ignored, and rarely felt.
The Analog Renaissance is not about rejecting technology; it is about choosing intentionality over convenience. By putting a 35mm camera into the hands of our children, we are gifting them much more than a hobby:
- We teach presence by forcing them to disconnect from the screen and truly observe the light, the scene, and the moment.
- We teach patience by making them wait for the thrilling reward of the developed print.
- We teach them to value quality over quantity, where a single, perfectly composed photograph holds more weight and narrative than a hundred rapid-fire snapshots.
The photos we take on film—whether they are soft portraits taken during the golden hour, or stylized shots enhanced by a simple layered necklace—become tangible heritage. They are physical pieces of art, complete with grain, texture, and beautiful, unedited light. These prints are what we can pass down: not a file on a fading hard drive, but a genuine, tactile memory.
This is the power of teaching kids film photography. It ensures that the stories of our family will continue to be told, not just through fleeting pixels, but through light, chemistry, and the simple, enduring magic of the film grain.
