Three days into a ten-day trip to Morocco, I ran out of color film.

For years, I had heard tell of the otherworldly allure of the North African region. I had daydreamed about it, envisioning its old-world markets, fragrant tea poured from on high, and mile-long waves with camels meandering in the foreground. The exotic beauty of it had captured my imagination long before I was able to visit. But hasty planning and gross underestimations of the wonders that awaited left me with seven days of overland travel and only one immersion layer to capture the soulful and subtle essence of the ancient African kingdom.

Upon arriving, I found myself surrounded by vastly varying subject matter that felt familiar yet utterly exotic: Chaotic souks with vendors calling over the din that their knockoff wares are indeed authentic; Motorbikes wending their way recklessly through crowds while taking care to avoid wandering kittens and sleeping dogs. Handwoven textiles tumbled out of every window and doorway and barrows overflowed with nuts and freshly picked citrus, still bearing soil from the rolling hills that undulate far beyond the city centers.

The vibrance of it all pressed itself in on me, warm, electric, and inviting. But as I walked down ruinous alleys, across sacred courtyards, and along sandstone cliffs, I clicked my shutter halfheartedly, questioning whether capturing all of this sans chroma was even worth the cost of each frame.

I hold nothing against monochrome photography. But when you’re in a country whose calling card is its oh-my-Allah-ornate architecture, gorgeous cuisine that is somehow both modest and magisterial, and generally breathtaking departure from anything you’re accustomed to, it’s impossible not to want to take every hue home with you.

Almost a year to the day since sipping my last glass of sweet mint tea, I’ve held the contents of every Portra, Kodak, and Ektar roll close to my heart, ashamed to share it because I felt like I had missed an irretrievable opportunity; like I had left something invaluable behind, and not just the jar of Amlou that was confiscated at Vancouver’s airport security (this latter loss still stings).

But, about six months into my year of washed-out woes, I came across a quote by the French-American black-and-white photographer Elliott Erwitt (on the date of his death, no less). He once stated,

“Color is descriptive. Black and white is interpretive.”

Although the observation isn’t overtly emphatic, it got me thinking: Maybe the absence of color in my African archive is something of a gift; a reminder of the magic that can be found when things are left to the imagination.

The late Erwitt’s words brought to mind the concept of reading a book versus watching a film. For me, there are few things in life I enjoy more than reading an excellent book and then watching a film based on its contents. JRR Tolkien, Louisa May Alcott, Kenneth Grahame, J.M. Barrie, John Steinbeck, and Frances Hodgson Burnett’s works are some wonderful examples of this.

If you’ve ever read a great story, you too can attest to the depth and nuance that can be found in its pages compared to any visual work aiming to capture its essence. Within the margins, between each line, and inside the spaces of every word are expanses big enough to hold the vastness of one’s imagination, over and over again. It’s what isn’t there that makes a story infinitely interesting.

In this view, I believe that movies are to color photography as books are to black and white. What’s left unsaid – or unpigmented – is for you, the viewer/reader/audience member, to bring forward. You get to add your unique voice to what would otherwise be a one-way conversation. What’s between the lines is just as important – if not more so – than the illustration on the page. That’s where the magic lives.

So, while I’ll be sure to pack much more color film for all future travels, for now, I can settle into some peace knowing that what I initially thought was missing from each grayscale frame was, in fact, space; opportunity; roomy expanse for discourse, dreaming, and an endless invitation to add something of one’s own to an otherwise fixed moment.

It’s almost as though the Morocco of my daydreams and the one I experienced in real life can now coexist, memorialized both in pigment as well as in boundless iterations and permutations of my (and your) imagination, thanks to what was left between the lines.

Or, as another visual artist once eloquently said,

“Color is everything, black and white is more.”

All photos by Corina Rose Stephens

Locations: Casablanca, Agadir, Safi, Imsouane, Taghazout, Morocco

April 2023