In 2018, I work in the dark room, a makeshift antechamber entered through the wall of a regular classroom, at my son Ben’s middle school once a week. I watch earnest eighth graders who could otherwise be instantly gratified by digital images patiently agitate paper enlargements of flowers, of siblings in torn jeans, of grandparents, bikes, and balls, and of the Golden Gate Bridge, in various chemicals in a sulfur-tanged space.
