Pawlet-based artists EveNSteve are excited to announce open studio hours on Halloween weekend, Saturday Nov. 1, from 2 to 4 PM.
On display will be our two most recent bodies of work. The first portfolio, “The Nothing There Is,” uses black and white imagery with cryptic symbology. Several of the works in the series are featured in the current issue of Art New England Magazine. The second portfolio is a new unnamed body of work that celebrates vibrant color and unusual voices.
EveNSteve is the creative team of artist Stephen Schaub and author Eve O. Schaub. Their artworks combine imagery with handwritten text to create evocative landscapes that tell stories and speak to history. They also create award-winning experimental short films detailing their artworks and their art-making process.
EveNSteve’s studio is located at 671 River Road in Pawlet Vermont. To learn more visit EveNSteve.com or @EveNSteveartists on IG.
As we move through 2025 and inch closer to 2026, I think it’s more important than ever to embrace the physical nature of making and sharing art.
Why? Because the digital world is louder than ever. With the rapid rise of AI-generated content and the constant noise of the internet, standing out online is becoming a serious challenge. That’s why I believe the future of being a visible, sustainable artist will hinge on having something people can actually touch—whether it’s a print, a zine, a magazine, or a book.
In my latest video, I talked about why I’m leaning into magazines over books right now. The reason is simple: they’re cheaper to produce, and that means more people can see the work. A well-designed magazine—focused on a micro-project or a short series—lets you move fast, experiment, and share in a tangible way, without the pressure or cost of producing a high-end art book.
That’s not to say I’m against books (I love them, and I’m working on one). But there’s power in the immediacy and accessibility of smaller, physical projects. These formats allow artists to grow by seeing their work in a new light, and give clients, collectors, and friends a way to engage with the work beyond the scroll.
We’re at a moment where physical presence matters. If you want to survive as an artist in the years to come, give people something they can hold.
As we move through 2025 and inch closer to 2026, I think it’s more important than ever to embrace the physical nature of making and sharing art.
Why? Because the digital world is louder than ever. With the rapid rise of AI-generated content and the constant noise of the internet, standing out online is becoming a serious challenge. That’s why I believe the future of being a visible, sustainable artist will hinge on having something people can actually touch—whether it’s a print, a zine, a magazine, or a book.
In my latest video, I talked about why I’m leaning into magazines over books right now. The reason is simple: they’re cheaper to produce, and that means more people can see the work. A well-designed magazine—focused on a micro-project or a short series—lets you move fast, experiment, and share in a tangible way, without the pressure or cost of producing a high-end art book.
That’s not to say I’m against books (I love them, and I’m working on one). But there’s power in the immediacy and accessibility of smaller, physical projects. These formats allow artists to grow by seeing their work in a new light, and give clients, collectors, and friends a way to engage with the work beyond the scroll.
We’re at a moment where physical presence matters. If you want to survive as an artist in the years to come, give people something they can hold.
Digital Should Be Digital: A Reflection on 20+ Years of Film Emulation
For more than two decades, digital photographers have chased the elusive goal of replicating the look of film. From plugins to presets to painstaking editing workflows, we’ve tried to coax analog soul from digital precision. But after years of exploring both mediums—most recently through tests comparing modern cameras like the Leica M11P and Ricoh GR3 to grainy Tri-X—I’m starting to feel like maybe it’s time to stop chasing.
Maybe digital should just be digital.
The problem, as I see it, is this: today’s digital files are just too good. They’re packed with information, ultra-sharp, and astonishingly clean. When we try to throw a grain overlay on top of that, it often feels like swimming against the current. The grain doesn’t integrate—it sits on top, more of a costume than a character. In many cases, it feels counterproductive.
There was a time when everyone wanted the convenience of digital with the aesthetic of film. That made sense in the early 2000s when sensors were still finding their footing. But that ship has sailed. Digital now stands strong on its own. It excels at high resolution, incredible detail, impressive ISO performance, and immediacy. These are not flaws to be masked—they’re strengths to be embraced.
I know there are many photographers who use film emulations because they like the way it makes their images look. And if you’re one of those people—great. I’m not telling you not to use them. I’m just saying you’re not really emulating a film—you’re emulating a style. And a style that’s only loosely based on the original. The reality is, unless you’ve actually worked with a specific film stock or have true reference samples pulled up beside your digital image, it’s hard to know just how accurate those emulations are. In most cases, from my experience, they’re far more dramatic than the original films ever were: more saturated, more contrasty, grainier. So instead of thinking of them as accurate replicas of film stocks, think of them more like filters—a look you’re applying to suit your creative vision. Nothing wrong with that at all, just let’s call it what it is.
It’s also important to remember that back when digital photography first began, camera manufacturers were working very hard to convince film photographers to make the leap into digital. One of the easiest strategies was to promise that digital had “film-like qualities,” or to support third-party emulation software to help ease that transition visually. But emulation wasn’t only about replicating a filmic look—it had technical utility too.
Early digital cameras had lower bit depth, smaller sensors, and more limited tonal range. In that context, adding grain—either in-camera or in post—helped smooth out tonal transitions in images. Grain acted like a visual glue, bridging abrupt shifts in brightness or color and hiding early digital’s weaknesses. It was even more important in printing. At that time, inkjet printers were far less advanced: fewer ink channels, less refined screening software, and rougher tonal rendering. Adding a small amount of digital grain—even imperceptible to the viewer—could help prevent posterization and create a print that simply looked better. In those early years, emulation was as much about function as it was about style.
But today? The story is different.
The reality is, in 2025, we are blessed with so many amazing films still being made. I keep telling people—this is the golden era of analog photography. Yes, film is expensive, but the fact that Tri-X, XX, Cinestill, Ektar, and so many others are still available is incredible. If you’re after the look of Tri-X, and you can, just shoot Tri-X. What a gift to have that option. If you’re curious about the look of a specific stock—shoot it. We’re living in a time when these materials are still here and usable.
Now, I get it: not everyone has the luxury of time or budget. There are tight client deadlines, fast-paced shoots, art directors who want real-time previews, and turnaround demands that make digital not just convenient but essential. If you’re working in those conditions and want a “film look,” emulation might be your only viable tool—and that’s fine.
But if you’re going to emulate film, it’s important to understand that most of the software out there is tuned to be dramatic. The colors are pushed, the contrast is high, the grain is exaggerated. It’s film-as-style, not film-as-truth. That’s not necessarily bad—but it does place the responsibility back on the artist. If you want to emulate film authentically, take the time to study real film. Look at scans. Shoot some rolls when you can. Learn the nuance. Learn the subtlety. Because without that foundation, your emulation becomes a kind of fiction—a nice one, maybe, but a fiction all the same.
So Where Does That Leave Us as Hybrid Photographers?
I’ve long advocated for blending analog and digital technologies—it’s what led me to start the Figital Revolution. And nothing about this reflection changes that.
Saying digital should be digital and film should be film doesn’t mean the hybrid approach is obsolete. In fact, it frees us.
It frees us to fully embrace what digital brings to the table—its speed, clarity, and resolution—and to let analog keep its seat at that same table. And if you still want to mix them, that’s completely valid.
But I do believe we’ve entered a new era: digital now has its own look. Its own feel. Its own expressive language. Trying to bend it into film’s shape may actually work against the very qualities that make digital so powerful in the first place.
Why Choose When You Can Create Freely?
What I’ve always loved is that we don’t have to choose. Digital and film aren’t enemies. They’re tools in an expanding toolbox.
When I need immediacy or want a hyper-clean aesthetic, I reach for modern digital gear. When I want grit, mood, or a sense of texture breaking apart at the edges, I grab a Minox spy camera or load grainy 110 or 35mm film.
As artists in 2025, we are incredibly lucky. We have choices. And maybe the real evolution in image-making isn’t about making one format imitate the other—it’s about recognizing what each does well and using that to our advantage.
So here’s where I’ve landed:
Let digital be digital. Let film be film. And let art be whatever it needs to be.
Are Modern Digital Cameras Too Sharp to Look Like Film?
Over the past few days, I’ve been conducting a test that has left me genuinely shaken—and deeply curious about the direction of photography in 2025.
I’ve been comparing three cameras: the Leica M11-P, the Ricoh GR III, and the Ricoh GRD IV from 2011 (with its legendary 10MP CCD sensor). Alongside them, I’ve been looking at good old Kodak Tri-X 400 processed in D-76 1:1. And here’s what I’ve found: replicating the look and feel of film—especially something as iconic as Tri-X—is nearly impossible with today’s top-tier digital cameras. Why? Because they’re simply too good with regards to resolution.
Let me explain.
When you shoot with the Leica M11-P, what you get is an image that’s almost unnervingly sharp. The micro-detail and micro-contrast are off the charts. It doesn’t matter what lens you put on it—it cuts through the scene with clinical precision. And while that’s technically impressive, it’s also the very thing that makes it difficult to achieve that classic filmic feel. The images are so sharp, so “perfect,” that no amount of digital grain or post-processing seems to bring them back into the aesthetic world of analog film.
Even the Ricoh GR III, with its 24MP APS-C CMOS sensor (no AA filter), delivers an image so crisp and contrasty that it almost feels too clean. It’s beautiful, yes—but unsettling. It’s not just detail; it’s hyper-detail. The images feel… louder than life. And maybe that’s part of the problem.
In contrast, the GRD IV from 2011—only 10MP and CCD-based—has an elegance that feels closer to film. There’s a softness, a gentler falloff in the tones. And, of course, real Tri-X has a depth, an irregularity, and a humanity that no software seems able to mimic convincingly.
This brings me to a larger question: Has our visual aesthetic as a culture changed?
We know film photography has seen a resurgence over the past five or six years, but in the grand scheme, it’s still a tiny sliver of the overall photo market. Digital dominates. And yet, many of today’s digital tools and presets aim to emulate film—but they can’t fully hide the fact that the underlying image is just too sharp. Most emulation software simply overlays grain onto a razor-sharp digital file. It feels fake. It looks fake. And we can see that it’s fake.
That’s why I turned to Real Grain 3 by Imagenomic for this test. It was the only software I found that actually reduced structural detail in the digital file in a meaningful way before applying the grain. It felt closer to the real thing—not perfect, but better. Because true film isn’t just about grain—it’s about the relationship between grain, light, focus, and depth. It’s about imperfection.
I don’t know what this all means just yet. I’m still processing (pun intended). But what I do know is that we’re living in a time where cameras are producing images so sharp, so clinically perfect, that it may be time to ask: Is this the look we want for photography going forward?
Or is there a growing desire—conscious or not—for images that feel less precise and more emotional?
The masters—Koudelka, Cartier-Bresson, early Salgado—shot on film. Their images breathe. They have edges that aren’t always sharp. Grain that adds to the story. I worry that we’re losing that sensibility in favor of sheer technical brilliance.
This is just me thinking aloud, but maybe it’s something we all should sit with.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the way we see—and how much information we actually need to perceive the world in a deeply human way. There’s a point at which resolution becomes not only unnecessary, but counterproductive. When we enter the realm of 4K, 8K, even 12K projections/ TV’s, something begins to feel off. The image is technically stunning, yes—but emotionally sterile. That hyper-clarity, like the hyper-smoothness of 60 or 120 frames per second (HFR) in video, may work for video games, but in cinema it often feels jarring, even unpleasant. It’s no accident that 24 frames per second still feels the most natural to our eyes—it has a rhythm that mirrors the way we actually experience motion.
Whenever I walk into a store and see the latest ultra-high-definition TVs, I’ll admit—I’m impressed for the first few seconds. But soon after, I find it overwhelming. There’s too much contrast, too much edge clarity, too much information bombarding my eyes. It stops being pleasurable. I find myself drawn instead to projection screens, where the light is reflected rather than emitted, or to older formats like 1080p, which feel more organic. In fact, we no longer even have a television in our home. When we did, I deliberately avoided buying a 4K set for precisely this reason—it just didn’t feel right.
This experience ties directly into how I think about photography. For years, the photo industry has been pushing the idea that “more megapixels equals better images.” But in my view, once you move beyond 18 or 24 megapixels—especially on full-frame 35mm sensors—the results often feel too sharp, too clinical. The images don’t feel better. They feel harsher, and in many cases, less human. That’s why I keep advocating for cameras with lower resolution—whether they’re small-sensor CCDs or large-sensor cameras like the Leica SL2-S, which tops out at 24 megapixels.
To my eye, the Leics SL2-S or the newer SL3-S produces images that feel far more filmic than, say, the 60-megapixel Leica M11-P. The latter may be technically superior, but the former feels better—more atmospheric, more alive. But again, I have to ask: in 2025, does “film-like” still matter? For those of us who lived and worked through the film era—who spent time in darkrooms, making prints by hand—it means something. But for younger photographers raised entirely in the digital realm, their visual reference point is different. The razor-sharp, hyper-detailed digital aesthetic may be what feels natural to them.
Still, I believe we’ve reached a kind of saturation point—a “peak resolution” moment. The photography industry, like many others, has long thrived on planned obsolescence. Resolution has been an easy metric to sell: higher numbers = better product. But I think that spell is finally breaking. You can see it in the analog resurgence: people are craving imperfection again. They’re seeking texture, atmosphere, and soul—qualities that can’t be measured in pixels.
After all, what has been one of the most beloved movements in the history of painting? Impressionism. Not because it rendered every detail with precision, but because it gave you just enough to feel something real—and let your heart and imagination do the rest. That’s what film, and lower-resolution analog mediums, do so beautifully. They don’t overwhelm you with data. They invite you into an experience. Not perfection—humanity.
This is part of a new series I am writing — no video or images— just philosophizing on art and other random thoughts.
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Over the next few days, I’m running a comparison test between real 35mm Tri-X—shot in a Yashica T4 Super and developed in D76 1:1—and two digital cameras: the Ricoh GRD4 (CCD) and the Ricoh GR3 (CMOS). My goal is to see how closely these digital cameras, using film emulation techniques, can approximate the look of true Tri-X.
Of course, the Tri-X will be scanned, and anyone who has worked with film knows that scanned black-and-white film doesn’t look quite like a darkroom print. Add to that the fact that most film emulation software—regardless of the developer—tends to overcook the “film look.” Whether it’s grain, contrast, or tone curves, these presets often exaggerate characteristics rather than replicate them authentically.
That’s where experience matters. Only by having spent time with actual prints can one truly begin to dial in these emulations with any degree of accuracy. But that raises a deeper question: does it even matter in 2025? Most photographers today shoot digital. Those of us working in film or hybrid workflows are a small minority. So when someone selects a Tri-X or Fuji Acros preset, is the goal accuracy—or just style?
If you’ve never seen a Tri-X darkroom print, how would you know what it’s “supposed” to look like? Film emulation today often functions less as faithful reproduction and more as aesthetic shorthand. And yet, I’m still interested in doing this side-by-side. I suspect one thing that will become clear is that the higher resolution of the GR3 actually works against it—making it harder to convincingly simulate the look of 35mm film.
This is something I keep coming back to in these tests: once you get past 18 to 20 megapixels—think Leica M9 territory—it becomes difficult to mimic the visual character of 35mm film. High-resolution sensors in compact or full-frame digital cameras often push images into a zone that looks more like medium format, or even large format. Even when you apply film emulation, it often looks too clean, too detailed. It doesn’t feel like 35mm.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’ve moved on. Maybe this is just the new aesthetic standard. I’m not sure. These are just my thoughts as I explore this further.
Figital Revolution 