A Funny Story

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Broke and Blessed: A Semester with the View Camera by Tracy Ann Simmonds

It was twenty years ago, and I was in college walking around with a 30-pound view camera like I had something to prove. Maybe I did. Maybe we all did.

Everyone else was chasing digital dreams. DSLR buzz was in the air, Photoshop was the new religion, and I was out here unfolding what looked like a haunted accordion on a heavy duty tripod, chasing light with a dark cloth over my head. People stared. Sometimes they laughed. I didn’t care. None of my friends cared about what anyone said ever! That's just how we roll.

That semester taught me everything I didn’t know I needed.

View camera work is slow—deliberate. There’s no shooting 300 frames and picking the best one. Every shot had to be earned. You compose upside-down on the ground glass, your back aching, trying not to breathe too hard in case you shift focus. It was humbling. And kind of holy.

I had to learn patience. Stillness. Intention. I started seeing the world in planes and lines, learning how to tilt and swing the lens to bring a whole scene into focus or isolate one sliver like it was a secret. And it was a secret—this was knowledge from another era, passed down like folklore. Everything I touched felt analog and alive.

And let me tell you, nothing makes you respect the craft like carrying a box of 4x5 negatives through the freezing Chicago rain, praying your trusty messenger bag doesn’t betray you. 

But when I finally nailed one shot—just one—it hit different. It was quiet. Timeless. Unapologetically mine.

Looking back, that class did more for my eye than any digital workflow ever could. It forced me to slow the hell down and see—not just shoot. It taught me about light, shadow, form, and intention. And in a weird way, it gave me language for things I didn’t know how to express at the time.

So if you’re a young artist or even a not-so-young one, don’t sleep on the old tools. The ancient ones. The heavy, dusty, slow-ass ones that demand your attention and your full body. They’ve got stories to tell—and you might find your own in the process.