In an age where our phones are bursting with thousands of digital images, there remains a unique magic in the humble photo booth strip. For award-winning author Nova Weetman, these tangible squares of black-and-white photos have become a cherished gallery of friendship, a physical record of connection that she proudly displays on her fridge.
A New Year's Eve Tradition and a Discovery from the Past
The tradition was reinforced for Weetman on a recent New Year's Eve. After watching fireworks and enjoying a night out with a friend, they found themselves in a games arcade, drawn in by the infectious enthusiasm of a group of women cramming into a booth. Their spontaneous decision to follow suit resulted in a grinning, squashed-together strip now secured under a magnet on her refrigerator.
This modern memento found a poignant companion during a clear-out of her parents' house after her father's death. Among boxes of old photographs, she discovered a single rectangle cut from a longer strip, featuring her teenage self with two friends, their faces pressed close. Nearly forty years separate the two images, yet they sit side-by-side as a powerful record of who she was and who she is now.
The Unique Power of the Photo Booth Strip
For Weetman, a strip of photos preserves friendship in a way a single snapshot cannot. "Perhaps it is because the photographs exist as a series of changing poses that suggests evolution or complexity to a friendship," she muses. The very act of being squashed together, staring up at the lens and waiting for the unpredictable flash, often results in wonderfully candid shots that no prepared pose could match.
This ritual retains its power despite the superior technology in our pockets. The joy lies in the anticipation—waiting by the machine for the strip to print and pop into the tray, then crowding around to assess the results. This rarity, this forced pause, amplifies the experience far beyond the mindless snapping of a phone camera.
Tangible Proof in a Digital World
Where phone photos are often taken without thought and rarely revisited, a photo booth strip is tangible and real proof of a moment. These tiny squares, devoid of background context, aren't about capturing an event. They are simpler, purer: a reminder of a mood, a feeling, and the connection between people.
Inspired by her fridge gallery, Weetman has made it a mission. "Now, whenever I’m out late with friends and we pass a photo booth, I drag them in," she writes, to keep adding to this evolving, physical archive of the faces she loves. In a fleeting world, the photo booth strip endures as a small, solid artefact of joy and togetherness.
