Karly

If you’re on Instagram or TikTok, you’ve probably noticed that everyone is saying 2026 is the year they are going analogue. People are sharing statistics about the rise in dumb phone sales, posting photos of their Hobonichi planners, showing off film rolls, instant cameras, scrapbooks, and all sorts of cosy tools that promise a slower way of living. It’s very sweet and very charming, and it’s also a tiny bit funny because we are talking about going analogue in the exact same places we claim we want a break from.

This isn’t a criticism of anyone, and it’s certainly not a criticism of the trend. I love analogue. I genuinely do. I collect vinyls and CDs, even if most of them arrive in cardboard parcels from online orders, and I travel with a small pocket notebook to write down little highlights. That notebook turned out to be one of the most meaningful objects I carried this year because I asked Allie Esiri to sign a page of it after our interview. When I unpacked after my London trip, I realised that almost everything I brought home, aside from a few beauty treats, was paper. Stickers, notebooks, pens, postcards, museum handouts, receipts that meant something in the moment and kept meaning something when I tucked them into my Nähe pouch.

I also own more cameras and tiny photo printers than anyone reasonably needs, although I do not think this is overconsumption. I think it’s commitment. I want my life to exist in tangible form. I don’t want my music to live only on Spotify or Apple Music, and for what it’s worth, I didn’t even get a Spotify Wrapped this year, which felt strangely liberating (I did get an Apple Music one, though, because that doesn’t restrict international use). I don’t want my happiest memories to stay trapped in my phone, waiting to be backed up or forgotten. I don’t want to reach a certain age and realise I cannot remember what I felt or thought simply because I never wrote it down. And although my Kindle is a lifesaver because my dust allergy is unforgiving, I still reach for real books when I can, because there is something about the weight of a page that a screen cannot replace.

Analogue, for me, is not about rejecting the digital world. It is not about perfection or purity. It is about presence. It is about choosing to hold something instead of scrolling past it. It is about making room for slowness in a life that rarely slows down on its own. It is about memory, and the way objects help us keep it.

Watching VHS Tapes at the BFI (and the Wisdom of Basement Steve)

One of the most unexpected joys of my London autumn was spending time at the BFI viewing library on Stephen Street. I’d requested access to a run of VHS tapes from a British medical drama that originally aired in 1996, and to my surprise, they said yes. I didn’t know what I’d find or whether the tapes would even work, but they did. And over the course of the next month, I returned not once, not twice, but four times, because I couldn’t stay away from the experience. Not just the show, which became quietly absorbing in its own dated way, but the space itself, the ritual, the rhythm, and the person who made it all feel like a kind of home.

Steve, who calls himself Basement Steve, is the BFI’s chief film technician and the heart of the Stephen Street basement. Every time I came back, he made sure I had tea and biscuits, and more often than not, we ended up chatting before I disappeared into my little viewing room. He didn’t just ask polite questions. He told stories. On my second visit, he casually mentioned that Tessa Thompson had been in the day before, and then pivoted into a conversation about time. Not in a productivity sense, but in a life sense. He told me that the most important thing in the world is time, and I’m inclined to agree. Especially after spending so much of it with a show no one else I know has ever heard of, watching on a machine that clicks and hums in a way that feels almost like breathing.

There are no headphones at the BFI basement. No distractions. You get your own room. You press play. You watch something no one else is watching, in a space that asks nothing from you except your presence. And then you step out into the soft glow of the corridor, where Steve asks if the viewing was useful or interesting, and you obviously end up chatting a bit more.

Analogue, at its core, is not just about old technology. It’s about slowness, privacy, and care. It’s about having the space to sit with something that wasn’t made for trending pages or instant reaction. It’s about the luxury of not having to share unless you want to. Watching those tapes in that little room reminded me that not everything has to be useful or seen. Sometimes, it’s enough that it happened, and that you were there, and that someone made you tea.

So Am I Going Fully Analogue?

Of course not. I love analogue, but I’m not trying to disappear from the internet or pretend I’ve moved into a remote cottage with no signal. I’ll definitely be documenting my analogue rituals, especially my journaling setup, not because I feel the need to perform anything, but because it’s fun. I like filming my pages. I like the feeling of a pen on paper. I like sharing small routines and stationery finds and seeing who else gets excited about the same things.

And while I do have a soft spot for typewriters, I’m never switching to a dumb phone. I’ve got friends in the UK, Europe, Thailand, the States, and different parts of Mexico, and I’m not about to ask them to send postcards just so I can commit to the aesthetic. Let’s be honest. I literally run a literary platform with someone who lives halfway across the world. We are not resorting to snail mail to keep Nonsense & Lit alive. I need texting. I need Wi-Fi. I need the internet to send interview files, moodboards, and updates about fonts. I may love paper, but I also love Google Docs.

I’m not choosing between digital and analogue. I’m just learning to use them differently. Analogue makes me feel more present. It helps me slow down. It reminds me that not everything has to be shared, even though some things are too lovely not to. Watching tapes in the basement of the BFI was one of those things. And since this post would not be complete without saying so: thank you to Basement Steve, for the tea, the biscuits, the stories, and the reminder that the most important thing in life is time.

If this post has made you even slightly curious, I’d really urge you to visit the BFI, especially if you’re someone who loves film, archives, or the quiet intimacy of watching something just for you. I know the Mediatheque at Southbank is free and much more well-known, but if you’re able to, check out the Stephen Street site. It’s quieter, less crowded, and the viewing experience feels a little more personal. You get your own room, you choose your tapes, and if you’re lucky, you’ll also get a cup of tea and a good chat with Basement Steve. Truly one of the best things I did in London.