Why I Shoot Film



Yeap, I have completely abandoned digital photography. No, I’m not a purist and no, I’m not a film snob. I just don’t enjoy digital photography as much. The output’s too perfect, too flawless…the pictures come out so clean. Frankly it bores me. And I also think it made me lazy and complacent.


I like the look of film: the grain, the dust, the textures, but I also enjoy the process of developing negatives.


I develop black and white negatives at home, with either Rodinal or caffenol, depending on the look I’m trying to achieve. It’s messy and time-consuming (developing film can take as long as 45 minutes on some days), but its rewarding. Even the mistakes look nice. Point is, with all the hours you put in, you realize that photography isn’t a cakewalk. And it can be very frustrating. But it makes you appreciate the art form, and it makes you work just a little harder.


This is a natural progression for me (I think). From the amateurish, DLSR-wielding TG of two/three years ago. I prefer to take risks now, and I’m not scared to try new things. And with film being such an unpredictable medium, it makes it all the more exciting.




When The Year Grows Old

photography, Poetry
photographs of old women, teegee villanueva, tg villanueva

Woman 1 & 2, 2016. Photo by Teegee Villanueva


I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
How she disliked the cold!

–When The Year Grows Old by Edna St. Vincent Millay

William Stafford

photography, Poetry
Woman Asking For Alms, Dumaguete City, 2016. Photo by Teegee Villanueva

Woman Asking For Alms, Dumaguete City, 2016. Photo by Teegee Villanueva

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.”

The Way It Is, William Stafford (1914-1993)

Waiting Shed

photography, Poetry, travel
waiting shed, farm, loneliness, solitude, photography by teegee villanueva

Waiting shed, Negros Oriental, Philippines. Photo by Teegee Villanueva


The married couple sleep calmly in their bed–he with his palm on the
hip of the wife, and she with her palm on the hip of the
The sisters sleep lovingly side by side in their bed,
The men sleep lovingly side by side in theirs,
And the mother sleeps, with her little child carefully wrapt.

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep,
The prisoner sleeps well in the prison–the run-away son sleeps;
The murderer that is to be hung next day–how does he sleep?
And the murder’d person–how does he sleep?

The female that loves unrequited sleeps,
And the male that loves unrequited sleeps, 20
The head of the money-maker that plotted all day sleeps,
And the enraged and treacherous dispositions–all, all sleep.

I stand in the dark with drooping eyes by the worst-suffering and the
most restless,
I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them,
The restless sink in their beds–they fitfully sleep.

Now I pierce the darkness–new beings appear,
The earth recedes from me into the night,
I saw that it was beautiful, and I see that what is not the earth is

I go from bedside to bedside–I sleep close with the other sleepers,
each in turn,
I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers, 30
And I become the other dreamers.

From The Sleepers, by Walt Whitman