Colin Dullaghan's photos with the keyword: Holga

A view from a makeshift perch on a picnic table at one of Brown County State Park's many scenic overlooks, near Nashville, Indiana. It feels strange to say "no filter" since this was shot with redscale (which is just film wound backward on the spool) through a toy camera that vignettes and distorts the image mightily, but it's technically true -- I processed the film, scanned it and this was the result.

Our 1949-ish house came with a display shelf in the dining room, with this cool textured glass panel behind it. Behind that's the front door we like to leave open, and on certain mornings you get this.

My friend, seeing this one and "Hitcher," asked me what was my thought behind including these blurry photos. I told her that it was, as you might guess, an accident -- the camera's shutter was set to Bulb instead of Normal. But I kept them because I told myself the swooping motion and tilted horizon captured the feeling of that day at the beach. You can see (or at least, *I* can still see) my daughter splashing up on shore in New Buffalo, Michigan, with her cousins and her grandma behind her playing. The white chaos of the surf reminds me how noisy it was there, how bright, how gleefully there was Too Much Going On. I guess that's probably why I forgot to check the camera settings. Now, in the quiet of the process of developing and scanning the pictures, I can enjoy the little echoes.

Veda gets a piggyback ride across the sand from her aunt, who was too excited about a beach day to mind having her picture taken.

My wife and her mom pack up the camper, off to the next adventure. Near Milford, IN

A tree in the courtyard of a church here in Indianapolis. I'd ignored the picture for a long time, but my daughter saw it on my screen the other day and said "That one looks like a storybook!"

Life is not easy. It's especially not easy when you're five. Everything's big. You know the rules, but you don't *make* the rules. There are things you want to happen that you cannot make happen. You must negotiate with people who don't speak your language, or think the way you do, and you almost always lose. Even a family camping trip.. happens in a place you've never been. And that's not cool and fun; it's scary. The car moves and moves and moves and then stops and you're there. Somewhere. Dad and Mom pile out and unpack and pitch the tent as you read, and snack, and wait. You may try to help. But mostly you wait. To see what will happen to you next. If it's hot, maybe at the end of your wait is a walk down to the lake. Everyone's ready for something easy -- easier than setting up a tent and worrying about how tonight will be. And when you get to the lake, you want to go in. Of course you do. Dad goes in with you. Mom didn't bring her suit; it'll be another 20 or 30 minutes until she lets herself be talked into swimming in her underwear with you. For now it's you and Dad. You're working on swimming. You're probably getting it. It feels like you're getting it. You can paddle now, excitedly, and… just… barely… keep your face above the surface. Some of Raccoon Lake gets into your mouth, which you just learned to keep closed as you paddle. Barely. Dad says if you swim to him, he'll catch you. You can hold his hands or put your arms around his neck and he will hold you up, keep you up from the lake. So you swim out. Away from Dad. Across Raccoon Lake, paddling and struggling and, because you cannot help it, smiling. Because this is hard. And you're still doing it. Because the water feels good. Because you are proud of yourself. Because your mom is on the shore, watching you. Because you know that Dad will catch you. At the end of your paddling, when your strength is half gone and your courage all the way exhausted, you circle back and return. Dad is waiting, he is there. But of course he has a camera. He'll put the camera down before you get to him. You know that you will make it. You know that you have succeeded. You feel the sun shining on your face, and, because your ears are underwater, you hear the distant humming of ski boats. You feel the water holding you up, just a little, not enough. But some. Almost there. Almost there.

The owner of a local scrap-exchange crafts place very kindly set aside for me some donated Kodak Vericolor, which expired in July of 1996. I figured I'd try it in my Holga, on an extremely bright and sunny day, but even still -- the negatives came back from the lab with scarcely anything visible. But, happily enough, thorough careful scanning, heavy processing and a conversion to black and white, I was eventually able to get something kind of neat-looking.

Shot on extremely expired Kodak Vericolor in a snowstorm, this was one of the only images that even close to came out. But I like how the heavy grain adds to the frigid, dreamy feel of the scene.