A Journey Through Photography: My First Camera Experience
My journey with photography began in the fall of 1978.
My First Encounter with Photography
That year, my father was working between Belgium and France, training nuclear power plant operators. For nearly four years, he trained over 600 personnel on-site, returning home just once a year. Each visit felt like a festival—he’d unzip two long immigrant suitcases and unpack bundles of gifts, his eyes gleaming with joy as he handed them out to the family.
Among those treasures was a Canon AT-1 camera. I still remember the moment I held it for the first time—its weight, the cold metal, the promise of something new. That camera became my gateway into photography.
A High Schooler with a Lens
Back then, it was rare for a high school student to carry a camera around. But I did. I took photos whenever my allowance allowed—no training, no rules, just instinct. I’d press the shutter with excitement, only to be disappointed when the prints came back blurry or poorly exposed. Still, I kept shooting. I remember one photo vividly: a friend laughing under the autumn ginkgo trees, the yellow leaves swirling around him like confetti. It wasn’t technically perfect, but it captured something real—something alive.
University Days and the First Darkroom
In university, my photography deepened. I had more freedom, more subjects, and a growing sense of purpose. But by 1984, everything changed. Our family went bankrupt. For a year and a half, I struggled to afford rent, let alone film. That period left a noticeable gap in my archive—a photographic silence that mirrored the hardship.
One day, I stumbled upon a photo from just before that time: my mother standing in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the window, her hands mid-motion. It reminded me of what I’d lost—and why I needed to keep capturing life.
The Lost AT-1 and the Cheonggyecheon Camera
Around 1985, the AT-1 was lost—someone’s careless mistake. For the next two years, I barely took photos. I bought a cheap camera from Cheonggyecheon for 10,000 won and managed to shoot 40–50 frames. Most were mundane, but one stood out: a rainy street corner, a couple sharing an umbrella, their faces half-hidden. It felt cinematic, even with the limitations.
The Canon A-1 and a New Chapter
In the summer of 1988, I finally got a credit card. I returned to Cheonggyecheon and bought a secondhand Canon A-1 on a 12-month installment plan—340,000 won, when my monthly salary was just 280,000. It was a bold move, but worth every won.
That camera still sits on my desk today. For 37 years, I’ve kept it close, never dismantled it. It’s the camera I used most before the digital age. It holds stories, fingerprints, and the quiet hum of memory.
Immigration and the Rise of Digital
When I immigrated to Canada, my coworkers gifted me my first digital camera. I used it alongside the A-1, capturing vast landscapes, quiet lakes, and the faces of my children as they grew. Slowly, the convenience of digital took over.
Between 2001 and 2015, I went through three or four digital cameras and took over 120,000 photos. That library is more than a collection—it’s our family’s immigration archive. I’ve stored them on memory cards, planning to gift them to my children when they marry. A visual inheritance.
The Shift to Cellphone Photography
In 2016, during a difficult time, I sold my EOS 7D and the legendary EF 24-70mm f/2.8L IS USM lens—worth nearly $2,000—for half the price to cover living expenses. Since then, all my photos have been taken with my phone.
Still, I’ve counted: around 20,000 film photos, 100,000 digital. A total of 120,000 images—each a moment, a memory, a thread in the tapestry.
The Missing Lens and the Mystery
I once owned below lens twice. Strangely, both times it was stolen—once from a hotel room in San Francisco, once at a campsite in British Columbia. I never recovered them, but I remember the photos they helped me take: a foggy morning in Stanley Park, a child’s laughter echoing in the trees.
There was a time I dreamed of becoming a photographer.
But photography, I came to realize, is a profession that demands wealth—both of time and money. In Korea, most photographers either run studios or come from families affluent enough to wander the world with a camera, untouched by the burdens of daily survival. It always felt like a profession reserved for the leisurely few.
To make a living by selling photographs? That path, like fine art, belongs to the rare 1%—those whose names carry weight. For the rest, it’s a life of quiet hunger. So I let go of the dream. It felt too distant from reality, and truthfully, I wasn’t recognized for any exceptional talent. I never found my way into the circles where such dreams are nurtured.
Another passion of mine was astrophotography.
That too, I had to abandon—halted by the steep wall of cost. But once, after a year of working in Canada, I received a tax refund of $3,500. With that, I bought a telescope.
Through it, I saw Saturn’s rings, Jupiter’s four great moons, the canals of Mars, and hundreds of lunar craters. I gazed upon globular clusters, the Andromeda Galaxy, the Orion Nebula—countless celestial wonders scattered across the night sky.
I failed at photographing them. Mounting the camera, aligning the telescope to counter Earth’s rotation, converting analog to digital—it all required additional gear, each piece costing thousands more. Even the vibration-proof carrying case for the telescope was over a thousand dollars. It was, in truth, a luxury hobby. And so, once again, I let go.
Now, the telescope sits quietly at home. When guests visit and Saturn is in a good position, I show them the rings—planting dreams in children’s hearts.
That’s the kind of view it offers. Still, I long for a darkroom of my own. I want to shoot black-and-white film and develop it by hand. I can’t forget the magic of that moment. I did it only once—but once was enough to leave a mark.
