Film photography is not only about pressing the shutter. It is also about trust, patience, chemistry, interpretation, and care.
At Berlin Photo Studio, Mengfan Yang works at the heart of this process. As a photographer and Master Lab, she moves between image-making, film development, scanning, darkroom printing, and teaching. Her work connects technical precision with a quiet sensitivity for memory, light, and human intention.
Before dedicating herself fully to photography, Mengfan worked for almost eight years in the tech industry, including companies such as TikTok, Uber, and Mobike. But her way of seeing was shaped much earlier, through Chinese calligraphy: balance, rhythm, empty space, and the relationship between elements on a page.
In this interview, we talk with Mengfan about why she chooses film, what happens inside the lab, what makes a strong negative, and why analog photography is still such a powerful way to understand the world.
Interview with Mengfan Yang
Can you introduce yourself and tell us how photography entered your life?
My name is Mengfan. Before becoming a photographer, I worked as a product manager in the tech industry for almost eight years, at companies like TikTok, Uber, and Mobike. Photography started as something completely personal.
I grew up practicing Chinese calligraphy, and I think that shaped the way I see images. Calligraphy teaches you about balance, rhythm, empty space, and the relationship between different elements on a page. When I eventually picked up a camera, I realized I was looking for similar things through photography.
Over time, photography became more than a hobby. It became a way of understanding people, places, and my own relationship with the world. Eventually, I left the tech industry and decided to dedicate myself fully to photography and darkroom work.
Why do you choose to work with film?
Film asks for a different kind of attention.
With digital photography, there is often a temptation to constantly check, adjust, and repeat. Film creates a small distance between taking the photograph and seeing the result. That distance forces me to trust my decisions.
I also enjoy the physical nature of the medium. Light leaves a trace on a piece of film. Then that piece of film moves through chemistry, time, and handling before becoming an image. The process feels tangible and alive.
Most importantly, film is not only about the final image. The entire journey matters.
When you go out with a camera, what are you usually looking for?
I’m usually not looking for dramatic moments.
I’m interested in small gestures, quiet interactions, and situations that people often overlook. Things that seem ordinary but carry a certain emotional weight.
Many of my photographs come from simply walking and paying attention. I think photography is often less about finding something extraordinary and more about noticing what is already there.
How do you know when a photograph works?
For me, a photograph works when it stays with me.
Technical qualities matter, but they are not enough. Sometimes a photograph is imperfect but keeps returning to my mind days or even years later. That’s usually a sign that something deeper is happening.
A good photograph creates space for the viewer. It doesn’t explain everything. It leaves room for memory, imagination, and personal interpretation.
What was your first experience inside a darkroom like?
Before entering a darkroom, I had already developed black and white film at home. I knew the technical process and understood how a latent image became a negative.
What surprised me was printing. The first time I watched an image slowly appear on photographic paper under the safelight, it felt completely different from developing film. Until then, photography had mostly been about capturing and processing images. In the darkroom, I realized that making a print is another creative act altogether.
You are no longer simply reproducing a photograph. You are interpreting it. Small decisions about contrast, exposure, cropping, dodging, and burning can completely change how an image feels.
That was the moment I understood that photography doesn’t end when the shutter is pressed. The print is not just an output. It is part of the language of photography itself.
What does being the Master Lab at Berlin Photo Studio mean to you?
It means responsibility.
People trust us with memories that cannot be recreated: family photographs, important trips, personal projects, and sometimes images that took years to make.
My job is not simply to process film. It is to understand the photographer’s intention and help bring the image to its best possible form.
I enjoy the technical side of the work, but what matters most is preserving and translating someone else’s vision with care and consistency.
What is something customers usually don’t see about film development and scanning?
Most people only see the final scans.
What they don’t see is how many decisions happen in between. Temperature control, chemistry management, agitation methods, density evaluation, color balancing, dust removal, scanner adjustments — every step influences the final result.
Film development is often described as a mechanical process, but in reality, there is a lot of interpretation involved. Two labs can process the same roll and produce noticeably different results.
What do you notice first when you look at a developed negative?
Density.
Before I think about composition or content, I look at how the negative holds information. Are the highlights controlled? Are the shadows open enough? Does the negative contain the full range of tones that the photographer intended?
After that, I start looking at the image itself and how the different elements interact.
What is the difference between a technically good negative and an emotionally strong photograph?
A technically good negative contains information.
An emotionally strong photograph contains meaning.
Ideally, a photograph has both. But if I have to choose, I will always choose the image that makes me feel something. Technical perfection alone rarely stays in people’s memories.
Many of the photographs we remember throughout history are not perfect because of their technique. We remember them because they reveal something true about the world.
What do you enjoy most about teaching analog photography?
I enjoy watching people slow down.
Many students arrive feeling nervous about making mistakes. Film can seem complicated from the outside. Then, somewhere during the workshop, they realize that the process is much more approachable than they imagined.
The most rewarding moment is when someone develops their own film for the first time and understands that they can do it themselves. That sense of discovery is wonderful to witness.
How would you describe Berlin Photo Studio in your own words?
Berlin Photo Studio is a place where photography remains hands-on.
It is a space where people can learn, experiment, make mistakes, ask questions, and stay curious. We work with traditional processes, but we are not interested in nostalgia for its own sake.
What matters to us is helping people build a deeper relationship with photography, whether they are shooting their first roll of film or working on long-term artistic projects.
What do you hope people feel when they receive their scans from Berlin Photo Studio?
I hope they feel excited to look through their images.
Not because every frame is perfect, but because the photographs still carry the feeling of the moment when they were made.
If someone opens their scans and feels that the images look like their photographs — not our photographs, not a lab’s interpretation, but their own vision brought to life — then I think we have done our job well.
Closing
Mengfan’s work reminds us that analog photography is not only a medium, but a relationship.
A relationship with time, with mistakes, with chemistry, with light, and with the people who trust the lab with their memories. Behind every scan there is a chain of decisions, and behind every decision there is care.
At Berlin Photo Studio, film development is not treated as a simple transaction. It is part of a larger photographic journey — from the moment the image is taken to the moment it returns to the photographer as something visible, shareable, and alive.
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