I had a dream last night that can only be about the death of film. Myself and a group of photographers – some young, some old – met in the foyer of a shiny skyscraper. Me were introduced to a besuited a host who led us into a lift, then a cable car that took us diagonally downwards to the base of another skyscraper that was still under construction, all exposed girders and empty spaces. Another lift ride up, we found ourselves on a floor which was bare, just plasterboard walls and hanging clear plastic. It reminded me of something from Die Hard.
We each took a seat around a table, and constructed our own mini pyre from a dozen or so rolls of Tri-X. The cardboard boxes formed a sort of tinder pyramid, and the rolls of film were placed atop. Only then was it explained that this was more of a suicide cult. We would each light our fires, and the fumes given off by the burning silver emulsion would render us peacefully unconscious, then kill us, like carbon monoxide. As the flames started to lick, one of the photographers said he would like to die with his favourite lenses next to him. Everyone agreed this was a wonderful idea, and I started to work out which lenses I should honour, eventually deciding upon the Leica 35mm pre-asph Summilux, and the 50/75/150mm trio for the Mamiya 6. But as we rose to grab them from our camera bags, the host got agitated and tried to stop us, eventually admitting that the lenses had already been confiscated and were no longer ours.
It all gets a bit hazy after that. I remember feeling drowsy, and something about a bell tower.