有時看到「勿忘影中人」、「黑狗兄」、「某某某留念」，出現在舊雜誌裡的文字或影像，看那姿勢，黑白分明的眼神，髮型、服裝，現在看來難免好笑，很像電視裡某個有名的搞笑演員，不過卻擁有現世裡沒有的敦厚，真的可以留存一輩子的。 

  曾經有塊玻璃版的照片，印象中大概四根指頭的長寬，0.3公分左右的厚度，淺褐色的影像映在上面，是一家子日本人在老相館面對攝影機的安詳，舊年代裡的認真裝扮，古董藝品店裡翻了出來，還是感動。這種感覺，吃漢堡長大的一代，我想是不會明白的。

  數位革命在台灣熱鬧地唱了幾十年，沖洗店電腦化、拍照數位化，相本光碟化，幾乎每個家庭都有電腦，都有數位、傻瓜相機。台北有名的白光老了，專拍人像的師父退休了，僅存的老相館躲在巷弄裡，默默地積著灰塵，成了老照片。又有誰記得姊姊、媽媽、阿姨曾經梳過奧黛麗賀本頭，帶著珍珠項鍊，拎一只小皮包，或是綁著一條蕾絲頭巾，站在手繪風景的布幔前，望著鏡頭的優雅和耐看都來自於老相機、老師傅、老老的，即將消失的相館。

 期待新時代，只是有時翻閱舊相本，總會覺得那光影沈靜裡就是多了份濃厚的人味，說不完的故事。

Stiff-lipped poses, razor-cut clothes frozen, rigid, and immobile. It's hard not to laugh seeing in old magazines what are now only fragmented remains of the past, yet on pages yellowed with age these same images hold a truth not readily found anymore and a visual honesty that transcends time itself. 

On a photograph four fingers long on each side, the image of a Japanese family, composed and at peace, remains imprinted in sepia upon grimy glass plate. Scavenged from the depths of an antique shop the picture, with a seriousness and veracity reflected in the family's attire, still manages to touch the soul. 

Perhaps it's too much to ask for those brought up on burgers and fries to understand.
 
For over a decade the much-hyped digital revolution has raged across the island: photo development has been computerized, cameras digitized, and albums reduced to disks and folders, becoming in the process intangible and untouchable. Computers have become a commodity. Digital cameras mere accessories. Bai Gua, the fifties singer, has aged; portrait photographers have retired. What studios have remained are now hidden in alleys dank and dark, themselves nearing extinction.

We look to the future, are poised for it, yet in our old albums gathering dust there wil always be an extra bit of warmth, hidden in silence and images cracked at the edges. There will always be a story, of lives and memories now faded, waiting only to be discovered again.

老相館《一》士林。皇冠攝影社

王先生，36歲，相館第二代，有一頭濃黑而捲的頭髮，鼻子很挺，眉眼間有一些中東人的味道，皮膚很白，說話很客氣的。

店小小的，不超過20坪，招呼的門面貼滿大大小小的人像，學生居多。除了拍照，另外撥了一點地方，擺了櫃子賣計算機、電池。每天從七點半到晚上十點半，配合學生作息，勉強撐著。

攝影棚有一個小小的梳妝台，點著昏黃的鎢絲燈，布幔拉起時可以充作臨時更衣室。用一台老舊的mamiya120相機。仍然擁有舊年代手繪的景布。拍照時，個子嬌小、頭髮灰白的阿媽會幫忙整理客人的衣服、髮型，甚至斜斜拿起鎢絲燈，打光。

經營了四十幾年，身高超過180的王老先生退休了，留下小小的攝影社、小小的堅持給孩子。

皇冠攝影社
地址：台北市文林路114巷底
家族式經營，四十幾年

Crown Photography

Mr. Wang, the second-generation owner of Crown, is thirty-six years old, and has a mop of thick, black hair atop white-skinned face. The studio is small, being no more than 70 square meters, and has an entrance plastered floor to ceiling with photos, most of which are student portraits. In a shelf by the front Mr. Wang sells calculators and batteries, and the store, open from seven-thirty to ten at night, struggles to get by on student business.

The studio has a little dresser that with curtains drawn performs double duty as a fitting room. An old MAMIYA120 camera stands in the corner, while a hand-drawn landscape stands in as backdrop. During a photo shoot Mr. Wang's mother峷etite and graying庪ill fix your clothes and hair, and even hold the bare bulb used for lighting.

After forty years at the helm the senior Mr. Wang, towering a full 180 cm tall, has finally  passed on his studio, his little mark of labor and love, to a son only now continuing the family legacy. 

老相館《二》白河。每日攝影社

那是白河鎮鬧區，中山路邊的一家攝影社，小小的，店面扁平延伸不超過三坪，木板隔間開了兩扇門，右邊是櫃台，L形只容一個人坐在裡頭收發案件。櫃台的上頭有一個小櫥，放了幾台傻瓜相機和著色示範的照片。其他地方卻是隨意地貼著不同的人、不同年代的照片，都是生活居家的樣子。

從中間的門進去就是攝影棚，也是小小的，門後有個台子，用黑紙襯著，裝了放大鏡，修片用。靠牆一邊擺了舊舊的影印機、一台MAMIYA120相機，另一台是年代更久遠的蛇腹相機，兩三盞燈隨意地放在全開背景紙前面。另一面牆卻是隨意地掛了衣服，放著矮桌，一家子就簡單地窩著，誰肚子餓就去坐下來吃，沒什麼約束的自在。

店是跟人租的，所以攝影棚之後是另一戶人家的客廳，擺了神案，有時工作一半突然會有人從裡面進出，很戲劇性地。

老闆姓吳，個子不高，有三個孩子，最小的是個男的，上小學二年級，胖胖壯壯地不怕生，很可愛。他老婆是個皮膚黯黑的女人，留著短短微捲的頭髮，看到她時總覺得她很喜歡笑，也許，那是小鎮人家特有的熱情吧。

老闆的攝影技術是跟他爸爸學的，他爸爸又是跟他留日一、兩年的叔公學的，算算日子，竟也有四、五十年了，搬過幾次，不過店始終在白河，只是攝影這一行已經不像日據時期那樣受人尊重，拍照要看日子，恭敬地請攝影師去勘景，到時一家大小還要盛裝，把領帶打挺，鞋子擦亮⋯⋯想投資設備，改成沖洗店，可是一套要4、5百萬，小地方市場

有限，競爭又那麼大，我看，再兩年乾脆收了，到工廠上班去⋯⋯

黯淡的燈光下，吳老闆一邊說著話一邊熱情地從角落找出一口小皮箱，裡面裝的是老式、木製的蛇腹相機，4X5的觀景窗依舊鑲著雕花銅片，只是快門再次按下，當年鉲喳、鉲喳的風光現在似乎只剩生鏽的過去。

Everyday Photography

In the middle of what would have to pass for downtown Bai He, Everyday Photography lies off to the side of Chung Shan Road, its long slender footprint taking up all of 20 square meters. There are two doors, the right one leading to the L-shaped front desk above which sits a collection of point-and-shoot cameras and a few color prints. Elsewhere the walls are covered with a ragtag collection of pictures from all eras and backgrounds, their subjects all similarly relaxed, with the casual look of candid shots. 

The other door takes you to the studio itself, furnished with a little stand娞overed in black paper and complete with magnifying glass宧or tweaking negatives. By the wall stand an old copy machine, a MAMIYA120 camera, and an even older bellows camera. By the other wall however, clothes have been strewn this way and that, with a low table to which the family retreats for meals. 

The shop is rented, so directly behind the studio lies the living room of another family, and every so often, in the middle of a photo shoot, people would pop out of seemingly nowhere in quite dramatic entrances. 

Mr. Wu, the owner, has three children, the smallest of which is a stocky boy in second grade. His wife is dark-skinned, with short hair and a penchant for smiles and laughter, something I'm taking to be a trademark of those from small towns.

Mr. Wu learned photography from his father, who in turn learned it from his uncle who once spent a year or so in Japan studying the trade. Altogether it's been four, maybe five decades since the men of the family have entered the business, and though the studio has been moved several times, it's always stayed in Bai He. Things do change however; no longer do people dress up for family portraits, with dress shoes polished to a shine. It's hard transforming the studio to do film development帨he equipment alone costs around four million, and what with the town's limited market, it might only be a matter of time before the studio shutters its doors...

In the dim half-light of the studio Mr. Wu, all the while chatting to me, searches out with great enthusiasm an old chest containing a wooden bellows camera. The 4x5 viewfinder still has edges decorated with copper carvings, yet what remains of its former glory can only be found in a past now rusted. 

老相館《三》苗栗。雪峰攝影社

林先生是竹南這小鎮裡的人，在鬧區不遠的清閒路上開了家攝影社。安靜的騎樓下，鵝黃的老式推拉門裡擺著簡單的玻璃展示櫥窗，裡頭放了四張大大的照片。手工染就的彩色照片，一擺三、四十年，照片裡的人始終笑抿著嘴，瞪著童貞的眼神，人來人去，無非永不褪色的青春。

店名叫雪峰，是竹南有名的老像館之一，經營了三、四十年。除了拍照，也幫人畫油彩人像。十天、一個月畫一張，就是仔細、鮮活。在這小鎮，像林先生和他太太這樣堅持的並不多，畢竟，時代變了，很多像館就像其他地方一樣，該收的收，沒收的也都改了裝潢，成為快速沖印店，沖印著一些廉價的照片、情感和故事。

林先生六十幾歲，頂上是禿了，兩邊有著半白的頭髮，臉是圓的，卻經常帶著紅紅潤潤的童心、熱忱和一些老師傅認真工作的驕傲。有時棚裡放著日本音樂，流行小調，有時夫妻倆安靜地看電視。孩子大了，說退休，完全不做也是不捨。人，畢竟要動，老了少了力氣還是要動動腦，不能閒著。至於工作，認真是必需的；惜福，也是。林先生對照片裡的光影厚度是認真的，聊天中有時笑著現代彩色沖放的隨便，很多時候平而沒有立體感，更別說對藥水的講究。而因為惜福，很多舊年代裡的拍攝用具，經過他巧妙、充滿研究精神的手，都完整地保留了下來。像懸在牆上，油彩繪就的背景布；舊時的銀色傘燈；玄關邊給客戶拍攝時坐的，瘦長黑檀木扶椅⋯⋯時間的光影裡，一切似乎都閃爍著溫潤的感情和綿延不絕的生命。

午後的陽光傾斜，靜靜地穿越窗戶落在老式的沙發木椅上，逆著光的溫度計大大地懸在牆上。在這個十幾坪的攝影棚裡，悠遠、輕柔的日本音樂中，時光似乎始終未曾老去，雪峰始終蒼翠，林先生的臉隨著話始終紅潤，舊年代的人情依然厚厚地活著，像陽光，熱熱地讓人感動。

雪峰攝影社    苗栗縣竹南鎮中正路三十號    老闆：林金山

Snow Peak Photography

Mr. Lin from Chu-Nan has a studio right around downtown, nestled in a quiet street off the hubbub of Main Street. Beneath the verandas off the street, mustard-yellow French doors open up to a display shelf plastered with pictures, each developed by hand and each more than a few decades old. From these photos innocent eyes have observed the shifting streetscapes out front, remaining unchanged even as their subjects have now grown up and left town. 

The studio, more than 30 years old, is named Snow Peak, and is one of what used to be several famous studios around Chu-Nan. Other than portrait photography the studio offers portrait painting, and whether it takes ten days or even up to a month, the result is without exception detailed and lively. And yet times have changed, and while some around Snow Peak have folded, others have now become 1-hour film developers, churning out photos and stories that are in comparison cheap, flat, and without emotion. 

Mr. Lin, 60 years old and balding, retains behind his rotund face a child-like enthusiasm and a master掇 pride in what he does best. Sometimes the strands of Japanese music drifts through the studio, while other times husband and wife watches the television in silence. Their children have grown up, and yet the heart does not give up easily a passion lasting decades. In our conversations Mr. Lin derided modern film processing for being too lax, and flat in its absence of the human touch. Strobes, hand-painted backdrops, even the sandalwood bench upon which customers have perched娗ll these Mr. Lin, with a heart filled with gratitude, have preserved with expert and loving hands. Steeped in time, all these seem to take on life, reflecting the very warmth and emotion invested upon them. 

The day ends, with the afternoon sun slanting silently to land upon benches dark with age. Within the crowded confines of the studio, and amongst the lulling sweeps of 70 music, time seems to remain suspended, and the peaks forever green.