The Last Roll

I’ve always remembered my two grandfathers with tremendous love and gratitude. The two of them left with me a legacy that, together with my parent’s unending guidance and care, have for the most part defined who I am today.

My two grandfathers were as different as two men can be. Alfredo, my father’s father, was a college graduate and an engineer at heart. Neif, my mother’s dad, was a businessman that probably did not finish high school. Neif was born in Lebanon and came to the Americas in the early 20s. Neif had vision and passion. Alfredo was born in Mexico – of Lebanese parents. He was meticulous and precise.

Alfredo was not a tender guy – i don’t ever remember being held or kissed by him – he was practical. He discovered, perhaps earlier than anyone else, that i was a really smart kid. While other grandfathers were teaching their grandsons how to build kites, Alfredo taught me algebra and Euclidean geometry. He used to sit me down and give me extremely complex math problems – probably to keep me quiet while the adults talked (i was his oldest grandson, and apparently a handful) – and I was not allowed to talk or get up until i solved them correctly. He challenged me constantly and never once treated me like a child. To this day i love math, and it is undoubtedly thanks to him. Alfredo also taught me one of the most valuable lessons i ever learned: to respect and thank my parents.

Neif loved life. And he loved his family. He loved traveling. He loved good food and good wine. He loved movies. The first memories i have of him is probably from when i was 3 or 4. He would take me on “walks” through his back yard, and the end of which we would inevitably pee in some tree. “It’s good for the plants,” he would say every time. Neif taught me how to play backgammon – and how to win every time. He taught me that everything is negotiable and to never pay full price for anything. He bought expensive suits at Sack’s on 5th Avenue and demanded 30% discount, which he often got. Neif, with his brother Michael, built a movie theater empire in Mexico. One of the happiest memories of my childhood is sitting with him in one of his otherwise empty crown jewel movie theaters watching Star Wars – over and over again – eating popcorn from a bulk-sack as he smoked cigarettes next to me and my brother.

These two men were as different as two men can ever be. They saw each other every day at the Lebanese Club in Mexico city. Fittingly, Alfredo played dominoes with other equally clever old guys. Neif played backgammon. Despite seeing each other every afternoon and politely saying hello, they rarely talked, and when they did it was only to make small talk. They had very little in common. One of them was larger than life. He knew life was to enjoy and people existed to be loved. The other was precise and calculating. He loved his family, but it was hard to notice. They only shared two things in common: their two grandsons (my brother and I) and their love for photography.

Neif owned a Leica R2. Alfredo owned a Carl Zeiss Contaflex and a Rolleiflex. They both taught me to love photography from a very young age. Neif would teach me to compose, to find subjects and perspective. Alfredo would teach me to focus precisely, to determine depth of field and shutter speed appropriate for the amount of light. And they both told me to always shoot transparency film when you wanted your photos to last for a long time.

One time in New York, almost thirty years ago, Neif bought me my first roll of Kodachrome Professional – the professional version of Kodak’s transparency film – and allowed me to borrow his revered Leica. When the film was developed weeks later i saw in awe how beautiful my pictures were. Every landmark building in New York had been recorded from unusual angles at dusk, when the light colored them in hues of pink, orange and purple. The chairs in front of the public library were a shade of deep green in stark contrast to the filthy stone floor beneath. The twin towers of the World Trace Center appeared made of gold with the sun shinning between them. The pictures combined the precise focusing and perfect depth that Alfredo would approve of, with the profound inspiration and artistic angle that Neif would enjoy.

As the years passed I became a Nikon addict. I bought my first film camera, a Nikon N2000 in 1985. Years later, after I had gotten a stable job, I bought my first Nikon F3. I owed a string of professional Nikon film cameras, F4, FM2, F100, before buying my first digital: a Nikon D100. From there I moved up to a D1H, a D2x, a D300s, and finally a D3s. I have probably taken a hundred thousand pictures in my life, including thousands on Kodachrome film. Subjects ranging from my children and my wife to street vendors in Mumbay. From the planets and the moon to individual atoms of Silicon on a wafer. From the Eiffel tower at sundown, to the Temple of Heaven at dawn. And yet, I believe my best pictures ever came from that first roll of Kodachrome.

When Afredo died, I inherited the Carl Zeiss. However, by the time Neif passed away, the Leica had been lost. Since then I never passed on the opportunity to look at the used Leica shops across Switzerland, Germany and New York for a mint R2. Finally, three years ago I found one at B&H in downtown Manhattan. I paid an arm and a leg and walked out the proud owner of an obsolete piece of technology that had nothing but sentimental value. To accompany this irrational behavior, I overpaid for one last roll of Kodachrome. You see, Kodak had announced they would discontinue the lauded film and rolls were in short supply.

The last roll sat in the fridge at our Boston suburban house for two years. Finally, somehow, I decided it was time to shoot that legendary film for the last time. Fittingly I decided I would try to reproduce that first roll. So, last week at the end of a business trip, I secretly took to the streets of New York with my new old Leica on hand and the last roll firmly loaded.

Thirty years had passed since that sunny afternoon in the summer of 1981 when I first borrowed Neif’s Leica. And I couldn’t help but to cry. I really don’t know why I cried. Was it the fact that I never really told either one of my grandfathers how much I loved them? Was it the fact that my life has taken me so far from my roots? Or was it plain and simple nostalgia? Whatever it was, the streets of New York seemed strangely lonely, even as I walked among thousands of people. Every click of the exquisitely precise electronically controlled mechanical shutter resounded in my head like a bullet shot and I wondered if every human being enjoys living in the past as much as I enjoyed that warm afternoon in May while I cried and shot. Slowly, but surely the day winded down. My last shot was that of a fully illuminated Empire State building reflecting the golden shade of the setting sun. the only pictures missing from my roll were those of the now destroyed World Trade Center, and fittingly I shot only 34 of the 36 available slides.

The story, alas, does not have a happy ending.

I continue walking down 5th avenue towards Abe’s, the best professional film processing lab in the world and I wonder if I really want to see those new-old pictures. Will they be as good as that first ever roll? Were those shots really as good as I remembered? To say that I am a very decisive man is probably a huge understatement. And yet today I am not sure whether I want this last roll of Kodachrome 125 developed. I finally reach Abe’s on 18th street, having not yet made my decision. I reach the counter and I am greeted by an ancient looking Jewish man. He looks frail, and yet full of life. He has deep blue eyes and – strangely – an impossibly pleasant smile. He looks at me and simply says “How can I help you, young man?” Non-commitally I ask how long does it take them to process Kodachrome. His eyes fixed on mine, he smiles again and informs me that they stopped – that everyone stopped – processing Kodachrome a few months ago. The chemicals are no longer being made by Kodak. The film cannot be processed. Ever. He watches with a strange look as yet another tear rolls down my cheekbone. I quickly swipe it and pretend to rub my eyes. He asks simply: “Tired?”

I look at his smile, his eyes, and I can’t help but travel back 30 years in time and reminisce once more. About Neif and Alfredo. About the simplicity of a child taking a photograph. Of appreciating beauty without time or agenda. And I respond: “No. Just sad.”

“Why, don’t be sad. I can sell you a very good, brand new digital camera. You won’t need to use film anymore”

“Well… Could you give me a discount?”