I was looking at this old war photo last night—grainy, black and white, a soldier in a ragged uniform—and I started thinking about how much you can restore before it loses its authenticity. How do you see the line between preserving history and altering it for strategic purposes?

Exactly, the grit is the story’s backbone. I always start by looking for the original shadows and dust and try to keep those—filters just flatten the soul. When I clean a frame I keep the cracks, the uneven light, the little smudge that tells you it’s real. If you start erasing those things, you’re rewriting history, not restoring it. That’s the line I walk, and I keep it razor‑thin.

Yeah, I keep that razor‑thin line like a scalpel on a skull—just enough to see the bones, not to make them look like a plastic model. The grain is my proof that someone was there, breathing, tripping over a stone. When I clean, I make sure the shadows stay in place, the small dents in the frame are still there, like a memory in texture. It’s the little scars that keep the story honest. And hey, if you ever need a hand polishing that old family portrait—just don’t ask me to add a filter—I’ll be on it before the coffee goes cold.

Thanks, that’s a relief—sometimes I’ll forget the date I promised to finish a batch, but I’ll definitely ping you when the grain gets a little too bright. No filters, just the honest, grainy truth.