A few weeks ago, I talked about my collection of old radios. And I want to thank all of you that sent me your comments about radios.

Today, I want to talk to you about another collection of mine: old cameras. Boy, do I have some cameras. And they are dated, some of them, back to 1930. Yes, almost a hundred years ago.  I have an old Yashica. I have an old Paxima that used to be my dad’s first camera. I have an Agfa accordion camera and the original instant Polaroid camera. In my collection of SLR cameras: my original Minolta, my Canon, and the last SLR camera I ever bought, my Nikon N90.

I know those names may mean nothing to you, but for me, every camera is very meaningful. I remember when I got them, where I got them, and what was the most meaningful photo I took with them.

I think I got my love for photography from my father. He loved cameras. Every time something new came out, he wanted it: the newest camera, the newest gadget, the newest way to capture what was happening around us. And then it was my friend Rafi that taught me really what you can capture on camera.

But back to my dad. My dad used to take that 8 mm camera and film us all. And there was something funny about those movies. There was no sound. So you would watch yourself years later, jumping around, waving at the camera, doing absolutely nothing, and somehow thinking you were making a movie.

Then my father would send film away to be developed, and we waited. That was part of photography back then. You took the pictures, you finished the roll, you took the film to the store, and then you waited.

Your film may be 24 exposures, or sometimes 36. And if you were going on vacation, you had to think about it. How much film do I bring? Do I have enough? Do I want to waste a picture? Because once you took it, you can’t go back and erase it. You were done.

Then came the big change. Five or six days of waiting for your photos to come back turned into 24 hours developing. And then came the one-hour photo. One hour, can you imagine? We thought that was incredible.

Today, you take a picture and see it immediately. You take another one, and another one. You take 50 pictures and delete 48.

Back then, taking pictures felt different. You took the picture, you waited, and when you finally got the envelope back, there was a little bit of excitement to open it. Which one came out? Which one is better? Who was looking at the camera? Who had their eyes closed? What did we capture? “I never took that picture.” “Oh, I didn’t remember taking that one.” And sometimes the photograph became more important because we had to wait for it.

That is what I love about these old cameras. Every one of them tells a different story. I might have taken thousands of photos with these cameras.

I remember taking my Nikon, the older model, on my trip to Kilimanjaro. And my guide told me, “What are you doing? This is going to be so heavy on you.” And he was so right. But when I start feeling the weight of the camera, it was a little too late. But then I was able to capture the scenery and the people. But that story I will save for the anniversary of the climb.

Back to the old cameras. What I love about them, that there was a time when you didn’t get everything immediately. You took the pictures, and you waited for development. And while you were waiting, life was happening.

Same as the records. You put a record on the turntable, and you listen. You didn’t skip to the next song after 15 seconds. You didn’t have thousands of songs in your pocket. You had a few records, you knew them all, and you knew where the scratches were. And that, also, for another time.

This direct connection between waiting for the photos and waiting for the music, both gave you a moment to stop. So this evening, let’s pause. No screen, no notification, no button to skip. Just a lineup of old music, new music, and everything in between.

This is Eitan Battat, and please stay with me for the next couple of hours.