Film Newborn Session at home in Auckland, New Zealand
There’s something about the way a film camera slows everything down — a session shot on film becomes more intentional and deliberate. Maybe it’s because we’re used to the speed of everything these days, everything rushing forward, but film photography pulls you back. Especially when it comes to newborns.
It’s not just about capturing their faces—tiny, still pink from the womb—but about the moment itself, caught in the thick amber of nostalgia. Film photographs feel like memories even before they’ve fully developed.
With film, you’re taking part in a slower, more intentional dance. The light leaks in through the lens, and the world pauses for just a second. A second that matters. A second that won’t happen again. Babies, they won’t be this tiny tomorrow. Their fingers uncurling from fists, their eyelids heavy from sleep. Digital snaps—they’re clean, sure. But clean’s not what you want for a newborn. You want the little imperfections, the light leaks, the grain, the soft shadows that seem to hold the moment more tenderly on film.
The thing about film is that it’s timeless. Not in the forced, “vintage filter” kind of way. More in the sense that when you hold the print in your hand, you’re holding something that could be from any era. It’s as if film photography never needed to catch up with time because time itself slows down when the shutter snaps. You could be holding a photograph from the ‘80s, from the ‘90s, or from yesterday—it holds a timeless nostalgia that is so important. You want your children to look back on these photos and not think, “what was the photographer thinking with that edit?!”
Newborns are like that too, I suppose. They’re new, but they carry something nostalgic about them. A reminder that life repeats itself in tiny cycles, over and over, as steady as breath. Their faces, their weight in your arms—they’ll change so fast, but the photographs won’t. And with film, you have only so many shots, each one measured, each one counted.
That’s what makes it so special, really. The imperfections, the preciousness of each image. It’s not just a snapshot—it’s a moment you’ve invested in. Each shot on film is a hope that what you’re seeing through the viewfinder will be just as tender when it’s developed.
And when you hold that photo later, weeks or years down the line, it’ll have that same warmth, that same weight. A little piece of that day still tucked between the frame and the paper, waiting to unfold every time you look at it.
Film doesn't forget like we do.
Sure, film’s expensive. People balk at it sometimes—each roll, each frame, each print. And then there’s the waiting. It’s not like digital where you can snap hundreds of shots, pick the best one, and move on. But maybe that’s exactly why it’s worth it. You’re not taking a hundred shots. You’re taking one. One that counts. When something costs more, you treat it differently. You don’t rush it. You don’t waste it. You put value into every frame, and somehow, that value stays in the photograph long after it’s printed.
Newborn photos are a once-in-a-lifetime thing, after all. Those first few weeks slip by in a haze of diapers and midnight feedings, and suddenly they’re gone. Film makes you slow down, pay attention. The cost, if anything, is a reminder that these moments are rare, and capturing them should feel rare too. When you’re holding a film photograph of your baby years from now, it won’t matter how much it cost. What will matter is that you’ve got something tangible, something real, from a moment that you can't get back.
