If you’ve never taken and developed photos using black and white, 35-millimeter film before, it’s difficult to get across just how much of the magic and artistry of photography has been lost since cameras became another victim of the relentless march of the digital age.

Today, one needs only to set their DSLR’s selector wheel to “P” (automatic programming mode) and go wild snapping 300 shots during a one-hour trek through the woods, not ever stopping to consider the intensity of the lighting, how fast the shutter opens and closes, or how much cloud cover is above you. The hard part of photography — the computing of what settings to use based on your immediate atmospheric conditions — is taken care of for you now.

I only know this because I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to take a class in college called “photojournalism”. What I thought would be an important class teaching me to how to take photographs for news events actually turned out to be something more special.

It was taught by a career photographer who had shot every situation imaginable, and he found the best way to truly teach how to take good photographs was to go back to basics. Every student was expected to get a 35mm film camera (it didn’t matter from where), and then make the trek on the Red Line to Cambridge to the Hunt’s Photo in Harvard Square to get 35mm film; black and white only.

For the next couple classes, we learned everything about the artistry of photography. Aperture, shutter speed, white balance, and ISO; terms I had either never or just casually heard of, let alone understood how they worked. We learned the mechanics of what made a well-framed photograph, utilizing the rule of thirds to make sure that each portion of our shots had something engaging, interesting, or aesthetically pleasing to the eye. No wasted space, and no decision left unintentional.

Using nothing but our newfound knowledge and the hope that things would somehow work out — no preview screen exists on a film camera, and you only get 36 chances to make it happen — we set out on the streets of Beacon Hill to try and put together a portfolio of prints that would demonstrate our understanding of the skill.

Then the third step — the magic. Going into the dark room, developing your film into negatives using clunky canisters and caustic chemicals, praying it didn’t go awry and ruin the reel. Then you’d find the best shot, slide it into the enlarger, and physically scorch the negative onto a piece of photo paper, not knowing exactly how well it would turn out until you went through the three-step chemical bath process. By the end, after much guessing, testing, and re-printing, you felt as though you were a classically trained painter, looking over a creation that you willed into existence with effort and determination.

It is with this background that I implore you to go back and re-read (or read for the first time) our main feature story on Dorothy Elliott, who spent at least a year working as the lone photographer for this publication back in 1963. Some of her work we have included in the story, but much more can be found in the online version of the article.

To say that her work is exceptional would be a grave understatement. She had “the eye” for what would make a great shot, the skill to turn that intangible instinct into a perfectly-composed shot and then, using the magic she so deftly wielded as a trained chemist, turned them into rich prints that 60 years later can transport you right back to a moment in time that may otherwise have been lost forever.

I want to personally thank Dorothy’s daughters, Carol and Jean, for sharing the photos they found from their late mother’s possessions with me, and taking me on a journey through the history of this paper to see what it looked like when true magic graced its pages.