Floriferous Ideas: The Joy of Tangible Memories.

The magic of film photography, and the lasting beauty of preserving memories beyond the screen.

I’ve always loved scrapbooking. There’s something grounding about capturing a moment on my film camera, waiting for the prints to come back, or carefully choosing which photos from my phone to print just to make sure I have something real to hold onto. I find so much joy in sitting down with a stack of prints, flipping through them, and slowly adding them to an album. As I go, the memories start to unfold. It’s a quiet, comforting ritual a way to pause and reflect, to rediscover moments I might have otherwise forgotten.

It’s often the smallest things that stick with me: a blurry photo from a family walk, a laughing face caught off guard, someone’s handwriting scribbled next to a picture. Those everyday details, tiny, seemingly insignificant—end up meaning the most.

Making memories and creating traditions matters to me. So it’s frustrating when I catch myself drifting into hours of scrolling, watching other people’s beautifully edited holiday videos or snapshots of their lives. Sometimes I wonder why I deprioritise my own memories in favour of consuming someone else’s. Maybe it’s the pull of those curated, dreamy photos that look candid but are clearly carefully planned. Or maybe it’s just how easy it’s become to store everything online, publicly, and without much thought.

I often don’t like being in photos. I much prefer being behind the camera, quietly observing, capturing the moment as it unfolds. I always hope the photos I take reflect the joy, the love, and the atmosphere of that time, the way I felt about the people I was with and the space we shared.

That’s one of the reasons I love shooting on film. Have you ever noticed how taking photos on your phone can start to feel too staged? It’s so easy to fall into the trap of chasing the perfect shot. If something isn’t quite right, an eye half-closed, a shaky hand, a shadow across someone’s face, we retake it. Again and again, until the spontaneity is gone. Everything starts to look curated instead of captured.

I also struggle with looking at photos of myself, which is a whole separate issue. But I do want my future family to have photos of me. The beauty of film is that I don’t get to pick and choose. I can’t delete or retake. I can’t obsess over the angle or lighting. The image just exists. And that means the photos often capture something real and unfiltered, even if my eyes are closed or I have a double chin.

Do you ever look back at old photos of yourself, ones you didn’t like at the time or maybe didn’t want to share? I do. And I never regret having them. In fact, I often find myself thinking, I looked so happy. So healthy. So radiant. Even if I didn’t feel that way in the moment. There’s something healing in that.

You’ll always look back at photos of your past self with far more kindness than you had in the moment they were taken. And that’s reason enough to stay in the frame, even when it feels uncomfortable.

Working in a museum has further deepened my love for photography. Some of my favourite objects in the collection are the photographs; people at birthday parties, on beach holidays, in their work uniforms, on Christmas morning, or playing in gardens on hazy summer afternoons. There’s so much soul in those images. They’re ordinary in the best way raw, personal, full of context and story.

A colleague of mine recently shared an album of family photos taken by their grandfather. The photos were beautiful, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since. People with their shirt sleeves and trouser legs rolled up as high as they could go, paddling along the shoreline. Others snoozing in deck chairs, children digging holes and building sandcastles, sisters wearing matching home made outfits, picnics nestled in the sand dunes. Some of the photos were black and white, slightly blurred or unsteady, but full of life. They were real moments of pure joy. My favourite was a photo of a family member fast asleep in his deck chair, still clutching a beach ball. It made me smile instantly!

What struck me most, though, was thinking about the person behind the camera. What an incredible eye they had for joy, for intimacy, for everyday beauty. What a gift to have noticed those moments and to have cared enough to capture them. I want to be that person. The one who notices. The one who sees the beauty in ordinary moments, captures them quietly, and treasures them for years to come.

And yet, despite having more tools than ever to document our lives, I can’t help but feel we’re capturing less. Or maybe we’re just keeping less. Storing memories online is very handy but how often do we reflect on those memories? To me, there’s something irreplaceable about a slightly dog-eared album, lovingly curated by someone who wanted to preserve joy and not just share it. A physical reminder that those moments happened, that they mattered, someone who has taken the time to preserve the memories there is so much heart in that. That is what you want to one day inherit, the scrap books, the photo albums, the old postcards and hand written letters, the ticket stubs…a life lived.

So I’m trying to reclaim that a little. To make more time for taking photos, for being in the photos, printing photos, for putting them in albums, for creating scrapbooks and for remembering.

To savour the life I’m living off-screen, in full colour.

How do you capture your memories? I hope this has inspired you to step into the frame, get creative, and find your own way to preserve the moments that matter.