KEVIN ARELLANO
CREATIVE DIRECTION

01 Rediscovering My Love for The Viewfinder



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In the fall of 2018, I had the opportunity to study for a semester at the Royal College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden. It is an extremely competitive school with a low acceptance rate and students from all over the world. The opportunity came through my jazz professor, Stefan Karlsson, who was a respected pianist with strong ties to Sweden. Because of him, I was able to take part in an exchange program that I honestly never imagined I would be accepted into.

At that point in my life, I had completely put the camera down. I was about two years into my collegiate jazz degree and fully committed to music. Most of my days were spent transcribing, practicing, studying theory, listening to records, and playing with other musicians as much as possible. I was focused, driven, and willing to give everything to improving as a musician. That work earned me a scholarship and the chance to continue my studies abroad. I did not realize it at the time, but that semester in Sweden would end up reshaping more than just my musical perspective. It became a period where I slowly realigned myself creatively and rediscovered my love for photography.
 

During the exchange program, I became close friends with Evita Bambāne, a bass player from Latvia. Like most of the exchange students, we naturally spent a lot of time together. We were far from home, navigating a new country, and communicating in English as our common language. One day during a jam session, Evita took a photo of me. I did not think much of it at first. It was not until later that I realized she had shot it on film.

At the time, I was not particularly interested in film photography. Back home in the United States, most people my age were using DSLRs, and mirrorless cameras were just beginning to become popular. Film felt outdated to me. It seemed expensive, inconvenient, and unreliable. I was shooting digitally on a Sony A7 and tended to overshoot because I was still learning. I liked having the freedom to experiment, review my images immediately, and try again. Film felt restrictive.

But when I saw the photo Evita took, something stood out. It had a quality that felt different. It felt more honest and intentional. It made me curious.



Not long after that, Evita invited me on a photo walk and let me borrow one of her film cameras. We spent the entire day walking around Stockholm, photographing our friends, random streets, flowers, and anything else that caught our attention. I loved the experience, but there was one part that drove me crazy. I could not see the photos. The waiting was brutal. I kept wanting to check the back of the camera out of habit, but there was nothing there. You had to trust your instincts and move on.

A few days later, when we picked up the developed film, I finally saw the results. That was the moment I truly fell in love with film photography.


From that point on, I knew I wanted my own film camera. The problem was money. I was on a tight budget and could not work in Sweden because of my visa. I was living off savings and scholarship funds, so even spending around one hundred dollars on a camera felt unrealistic.

One day, while shopping for winter coats at a second-hand store, Evita suggested we check the electronics and camera section. She told me that you could sometimes find good cameras for cheap, even though it was always a gamble. Some worked perfectly, others had issues, and you never really knew what you were getting.

We searched through shelves of old equipment until I came across a Chinon CA-4. It was simple, affordable, and seemed to be in decent condition. It felt like a risk, but one worth taking.



On October 2nd, 2018, I purchased my first film camera, the Chinon CA-4.

I am not going to claim that it instantly changed my life, but it did change the way I approached photography. With only thirty-six exposures on a roll, every shot mattered. There was no screen to review images and no immediate feedback. Each frame forced me to slow down, observe more carefully, and be intentional with what I captured. In many ways, it reflected the same discipline I was learning through music. Listening closely, leaving space, and being deliberate with every note.

Here is my first roll with that camera.



That Chinon became more than just something I picked up at a thrift store. It marked a turning point in my creative life and reignited my passion for looking through a viewfinder.

Later that semester, Evita, Chris, and Tanakrit and I went on a backpacking trip in northern Sweden. The landscapes were quiet and vast, the air was cold and clean, and the light felt endless. I brought my camera and shot as much as I could. Looking back, I am grateful that I documented that time the way I did.


Buying that first film camera was not just about learning a new medium. It was about learning patience, trusting my instincts, and embracing limitations instead of fighting them. Some of the most meaningful creative shifts happen quietly, without any big announcement. For me, it happened in a second-hand store in a foreign country, holding a camera I almost did not buy.