I lost one of my rolls of film from the Silverstone paddock.
On it was a portrait of Charles Leclerc that I made the day before he won the British Grand Prix. At least I think it was. That's the funny thing about losing film—you start questioning your own memory. Did I actually advance the roll? Was that on a different camera? I'm pretty sure it was there.
I was more upset than I expected. Maybe it was because I'd been carrying cameras around for four days in the July heat. Maybe it was because I knew there was no backup. Digital lets you lose files. Film lets you lose moments. Or at least that's what I thought.
I was there with AWS, filming throughout the weekend with access to the paddock and even the starting grid. I didn't realize until I got there how rare that opportunity actually is. You can't buy a ticket for it. You're standing in the middle of one of the biggest sporting events in the world, trying to remember that this is somebody else's normal Tuesday.
One of my favorite parts of the weekend wasn't even on track. I spent time photographing Ruth Buscombe behind the scenes as she prepared for race-day coverage, watching her work through the mountain of AWS data that eventually becomes the analysis millions of people watch on TV. Seeing that side of Formula 1 reminded me how many people are working long before the lights ever go out.
Charles didn't have to stop for me. It was one of the busiest weekends of his year, there were people pulling him in every direction, and somehow he still gave me thirty seconds. I remember lifting the camera, hearing the shutter, thanking him, and watching him disappear back into the paddock.
The next day he won.
Watching him stand on the top step somehow made the whole interaction feel even sweeter. It felt deserved. Somewhere during the race I realized I wasn't actually mourning the image. I was mourning the idea that I'd lost the memory.
But I hadn't.
Looking back now, that's what stayed with me. Not the photograph. The feeling. The conversations in the paddock. Watching people at the very top of their craft, whether they were behind the wheel, behind a camera, or behind a laptop making sense of millions of data points.
Maybe that's one of the things film teaches you. Not every frame survives. Not every roll comes back. Sometimes the photograph only exists in your head, and sometimes that's enough.
The photos below are the ones that did make it home, shot on Kodak 250D, Gold 200, and Kodak Double-X. Looking through them now, I don't really think about the frame I lost anymore.
Turns out the best photograph from Silverstone might be the one I'll never get to see.