The Secrets of Collodion

The sun filtered through the windows of Isao’s workshop, casting luminous rectangles on the aged light oak floor. Dust particles danced in these beams, suspended in time, projecting delicate trembling shadows onto the walls. The slightly acrid scent of collodion mixed with that of old wood, creating an almost solemn atmosphere. Isao cherished these mornings when light became almost tangible, allowing him to mold it like a malleable material. Today, he had decided to dedicate his entire day to photographing the Victorian mirror, which now stood in a corner of his workshop.

Methodically, Isao arranged his equipment with the precision of a surgeon preparing his instruments. The mahogany large-format camera, inherited from one of his old professors, was set up on a massive tripod facing the mirror. Beside it, a table covered with black fabric held the glass bottles of chemicals necessary for preparing wet collodion plates. This ancient technique, long abandoned by most contemporary photographers, had become his signature. Wet collodion required a dexterity and patience that few still possessed.

He took a meticulously cleaned glass plate from the previous evening. The slightest dust particle or the faintest trace of grease could compromise the entire process. With fluid, practiced gestures, he poured the collodion — a viscous mixture of nitrocellulose, ether, and alcohol — onto the plate, tilting it carefully to ensure an even coat. The collodion spread like a liquid veil, catching the light in bluish reflections.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

Isao waited for the collodion to reach a syrupy consistency before swiftly carrying the plate into the adjacent alcove, a room shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by a faint red light. There, he gently submerged the plate into a bath of silver nitrate. Time was of the essence: the collodion had to remain wet throughout the entire process. This was both the challenge and the magic of this technique — a race against time, a balancing act between chemistry and light.

Once sensitized, the plate was placed into a holder, and Isao returned to his workshop. He adjusted the focus of his large-format camera one last time, his face concealed beneath the black cloth that shielded him from ambient light. On the ground glass, the inverted image of the Victorian mirror appeared with astonishing clarity. The intricate frame’s gilded scrollwork, the patina of time — everything was there, frozen in this ghostly reflection.

He inserted the sensitized plate into the camera, removed the protective slide, and triggered the exposure. Eight seconds of communion between light, silver, and glass. Eight seconds in which time itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, he closed the lens and hurried back into the darkroom.

For him, the developing process always held a certain magic. Under the action of the developer — a solution of iron sulfate, alcohol, and acetic acid — the latent image began to emerge on the plate, like a ghost rising from the abyss. First, vague outlines, then increasingly distinct details.

And then Isao froze.

On the plate, the mirror appeared — but it was not empty as it should have been. A female figure took shape on its surface, a woman in period dress, her vaporous silhouette emerging like a spectral apparition. This was no ordinary reflection — he had been alone in his workshop at the moment of exposure.

“This is impossible,” he murmured, his fingers trembling above the still-wet plate.

He fixed the plate in the chemical bath, then rinsed it thoroughly. The image remained. The woman was still there, her gaze seeming to pierce through the years to meet Isao’s. A chill swept over his skin, rising from the base of his spine to his nape. His breath caught as his eyes remained locked on the spectral figure taking shape in the glass. The words of the old antique dealer echoed in his mind — that story of a curse he had so quickly dismissed.

Perplexed, he decided to repeat the experiment. His rational mind desperately sought an explanation — chemical contamination, a handling error, a ghost imprint left by the developer — but deep within him, a more primal certainty whispered that what he was witnessing defied all logic. He prepared a new plate with even greater care, adjusted the lighting differently, slightly modified the exposure time. Minutes passed in absolute concentration as he repeated each step with obsessive precision.

The result was identical — no, even sharper. The young woman was still there, but her image had gained definition. Her face was now more distinct, her finely drawn features revealing a beauty from another era. Her hair was styled in an elaborate updo, typical of the mid-19th century. Her dress, with bare shoulders and a cinched waist, evoked the romantic portraits of the past.

But it was her gaze that unsettled Isao the most. There was an intense depth in those eyes, a troubling mixture of melancholy and urgency. They seemed to look directly into the lens, as if the woman were aware of being photographed, as if she were trying to communicate through layers of time and emulsion.

Isao sank onto his stool, the plate held in his hands. The red glow of the darkroom gave the scene an eerie atmosphere. There had to be a rational explanation. Perhaps the mirror contained an old latent image, somehow embedded within its structure? Some daguerreotypes occasionally exhibited this strange effect, where an image seemed imprinted into the medium.

He returned to the workshop and examined the majestic mirror from different angles. The reflective surface was ordinary — he saw only his own weary, perplexed reflection. No trace of the mysterious woman.

Determined to understand, he prepared several more plates, systematically altering different variables: the collodion’s chemical composition, the silver bath’s concentration, exposure time, the shooting angle. With each new attempt, the woman’s image grew clearer, as if she were gradually adjusting to being captured by his camera, as if she were learning to manifest more distinctly.

By the sixth plate, Isao noticed that details of the environment around her had begun to appear: a fragment of period furniture, what seemed to be an artist’s easel in a corner, a window with heavy drapes. It was as if, through the lens, he was capturing not just the mirror, but an entire space existing elsewhere, in another time.

Night had fallen when Isao arranged all the plates on his light table. Chronologically aligned, they told a disturbing story: the tale of a presence taking shape, asserting itself more with each new attempt. On the last plate, the woman had slightly moved — her hand now extended forward, as if reaching toward the mirror’s surface — or perhaps reaching for Isao himself.

The photographer rubbed his face with tired fingers. His eyes burned after hours of intense focus. He had to be rational. Perhaps his subconscious was playing tricks on his perception, projecting shapes onto the collodion’s random grain. Or maybe the mirror had unique optical properties he did not yet understand.

Yet, he could not ignore the visceral sensation that these images were not random. There was intention in that gaze, consciousness in the way this woman seemed to evolve from plate to plate. As if she were trying to reach something — or someone.

Isao poured himself some Gyokuro green tea into a chipped cup and returned to contemplate the plates. The woman had an oval face with high cheekbones, full lips that did not smile, and those eyes — those deep eyes carrying the weight of a tragic story. Who was she? Why did she appear in his mirror? And why only through the wet collodion process?

Dawn was breaking when Isao carefully stored the plates in a preservation box. He had not slept, his mind swirling with questions and hypotheses. One thing was certain: he would return to the antique dealer. He had refrained from delving deeper into the matter the first time, but that restraint now weighed heavily on him. The old woman probably knew more than she had let on.

Before leaving his workshop, he cast one last glance at the mirror, resting in deceptive stillness. In the pale light of dawn, its surface appeared perfectly ordinary, reflecting only the room’s contours. Yet, Isao could not shake the feeling that, in some way, he was no longer alone in this space. As if a silent presence now watched him, patiently awaiting recognition.

He hesitated, running his fingers lightly over the mirror’s surface, then slowly locked the workshop door and stepped into the quiet streets of Kyoto, where daily life had already resumed, oblivious to the bridge that may have just been forged between two eras, two worlds, through a forgotten photographic technique and a mirror full of secrets.