Paper is the new film.
Supporting ensembles for affordable camera film were overtaken due to tech advancement and people sleeping. Paper books could suffer a similar fate.
The price of printing a Kodak picture went up dramatically as the supporting network of resources (chemicals for film developing) and the specialized equipment means of production (camera factories) became more and more rare — all due to other goods competing for market space, advancement of technology, and low public awareness of antiquity and planned obsolescence. We call this collection of tornadoes that obliterate products from market “rising costs.”
The scarcity-induced price climbing of what was once an affordable disposable film camera industry (and more), creates a parallel between the fate of photo and book printing, shedding light on the overarching economic dynamics at play.
The surge in film printing prices mirrors the financial infeasibility found in the book printing industry, where for some books, such as specialized references and manuals, the cost of printing is too high to justify, rendering them perpetually confined to the digital realm. That is, for some books(⁰), the cost of printing is too high to make it worth physically printing. Film media from single shot cameras suffered a similar fate.
This is a lesson in how supporting economic gears can become diminished in number, to the point that the new suppy/demand equilibria usher the price higher for various elements until they exceed potential return (since the market has been inundated with similarly priced alternatives that did not suffer a price rise due to limited means of production).
As the substance of tangible media crumbles under the relentless march of digital dominance, the reminiscent charm and the sepia-tone yester-year beauty of both paper and film are sequestered into chambers of antiquity, becoming coveted treasures in a world ruled by screens and digitalia. This transformation doesn't just highlight the obvious demise of physical media but rather delves deeper into the intricate machinations of supply and demand economics that underpin these shifts.
The chemical concoctions required for film development, the precision tools and specialized machineries that cradle the creation of cameras, and the nuanced craftsmanship in printing books, all these components, find themselves becoming relics in a forgotten era, their scarcity transforming once commonplace goods into revered artifacts of a bygone time. As these source elements grow scarce, their value inflates, transforming once commonplace goods into niche commodities surrounded by a halo of nostalgic luxury.
The price escalation of these tangible forms of media is not merely a byproduct of scarcity; it is a reflection of the economic tectonics that shape market landscapes. In a world inundated with accessible, affordable, and infinitely reproducible digital alternatives, the tangible forms face an incoming battle against obsolescence and redundancy, mainly because it is in the minds of the People that these products are obsolete and redundant.
While we traverse the labyrinth of lost arts and antiquated technologies in most parts of the world, it is essential to glance towards cultures that breathe life into relics, preserving antiquity with a reverence that is both deep and profound. Japan’s meticulous and venerable approach to the preservation of traditional goods and crafts casts a fascinating counterpoint to the mainstream narrative of obsolete abandonment.
Japan, with its distinguished heritage and profound respect for craftsmanship, epitomizes the synthesis of tradition and innovation. A quintessential example is the enduring art and craft of making Hasami, the traditional Japanese scissors. They are not merely tools; they are embodiments of centuries-old craftsmanship, treasures that encapsulate the essence of Japanese cultural heritage.
In Japan, objects like the Hasami are not perceived through the lens of obsolescence or utility but are cherished as heirlooms, each with a story, a lineage, a soul. They are lovingly maintained and revered, passing through generations as symbols of tradition and artifacts of timeless value. This cultural disposition is reflective of a societal fabric that values the specialness of a manufactured artefact(¹).
The crux of the matter lies in the fate of film, a medium that traversed the realms from luxury to common-oddity, and onward to obsolescence, and back to luxury. It’s evident that the collective societal mindset tends to uphold only one principal, affordable media commodity at a time. To sustain paper, film, and digital mediums simultaneously and affordably, a requirement arises for three distinct markets, each with dedicated audiences and consumers. Otherwise, the survival of these artforms hangs by the slender thread of aficionados and enthusiasts' interests and initiatives.
We are at a crucial juncture, where advancements like 3D-printing are consistently reducing replacement and repair costs. One can now 3D-metal-print parts for vintage items like Porsches, emphasizing universal progress in tooling and component replacement. This innovation is the crowning glory of the industrial revolution’s mo•ti•va•tion: providing an outfrastructure — a localized minifactory iteration of infrastructure, for replaceable, regularized, and standardized components — ushering us into a renaissance of industrial abundance. The right to repair is actually more important than ever, and largely goes unacknowledged as such.
In conclusion, it is crucial to recapitulate the essential facets of this discourse:
The technological landscape is perennially in flux, molded by the shifts in the market and the evolving cravings of the audience.
Rapid and abrupt transitions often lead to the abandonment of older technologies, resulting in market collapses and technological voids.
The preservation of the antiquated yet cherished technologies is conceivable through concerted efforts or group-cultural methods to maintain their production means, ensuring their affordability in the long run.
Bringing mini-factories to the point-of-repair is further advancement in the latest phase of Industrial Progress. Law, notably, lags behind.
Understanding these recapitulation points lays down the foundation for a coherent conclusion on the transitory dance between advancement and obsolescence and its shaping of societal progression.
In essence, the intricate dance between advancement and obsolescence shapes the cadence of our societal progression. The fading whispers of bygone industries are a poignant reminder of the transient nature of relevance and the relentless churn of economic tides. The current dynamics between digital and tangible mediums are a symmetric whirlwind reflecting our values, priorities, and our collective vision for the future. The thoughtful integration of the old with the new might just be the keystone for a richer, more diversified societal tapestry, where progress does not necessitate the erasure of the past but enriches it, allowing the ephemeral charm of antiquity to coexist and flourish alongside the boundless possibilities of the future.
In light of these reflections, a provocative thought emerges: Perhaps it is time to reflect— are we, as a society, willing to surrender the tangible remnants of our cultural heritage to the relentless march of digitalization? Can we forge a future where the resonant echoes of bygone eras are not drowned out by the clamor of relentless progress, where the meticulous craftsmanship of the past is not relegated to the dimly lit corridors of antiquity, but is celebrated and integrated into the fabric of our adapting civilization? It might just be that our pursuit of advancement and our reverence for the past are not mutually exclusive, but rather, complementary threads weaving the rich tapestry of our collective journey.
(⁰) A notable example is the popular Clojure language book, "Clojure the Essential Reference," which is too expensive to print into paper form, causing it to remain exclusively in the digital domain.
(¹) I enjoy writing artefact with an e; it is an old spelling, and I have a preference for my 1910-era dictionaries.