My dad is a photographer. Nowadays he shoots mostly digital, but when I was a kid he used black and white film and printed the photos in our kitchen. Looking back on that time, I remember feeling excited on the nights he would set up this makeshift darkroom, like there was a wild adventure about to happen inside my little Manhattan apartment. He would hang thick, black curtains over the kitchen door and windows and a long clotheslines across the center of the room to hang his photos on while they were drying. The chemicals were poured into red and orange trays. Usually, I was asleep for all of this; but every so often, for reasons I do not remember, I was allowed to stay up and join him in that Halloween-like room that smelled strongly of photo chemicals and looked nothing at all like my kitchen. I would watch, wide-eyed, as blank pieces of photo paper turned into pictures. Sometimes he would even let me swish them around in the tray prior to hanging them. Before printing, my dad wo