Time will inevitably win this war. Despite knowing this, we are willing to battle to the last for our memories.

Trapped in an awkward embrace on Oakland between Otto’s liquor store and a guitar shop, one can stumble upon B&L Photo Lab, 3486 N. Oakland Ave.

Restored portrait photos from the 1800s hang on the walls as a testament to defying time on two accounts: long dead faces lived on, but only after they were resurrected.

Bob and Lauren Pecher go to work every day to help people withstand inevitably being swept away in time’s eternal raging current. It may sound like a simple glorification of a common photo restoration shop.

After seeing the elaborate processes and mind-boggling devices created simply to keep a face from fading into nothingness, it feels more like an understatement.

The Pechers started B&L in 1982. Bob was the one passionate about photography. Lauren was a dental hygienist, and nurse, before photos found their way into her life. It wasn’t until soon after they were married that Bob’s passion became hers.

My knowledge of photography has often left me being that guy standing in front of a group of straining smiles yelling at them, “Which button? Yeah, I pressed that one and … oh, this button.” But I needed to see this.

My first impression of B&L made me wonder if the digital revolution was sinking this place in a tidal wave of binary. Lauren informed me that quite the opposite was happening.

“Before, I photographed the picture that came in. I took it on a 4-by-5 copy camera under those old-fashioned black covers,” she said. “Then I made 4-by-5 negatives, processed those, then made a work-print, work-print was airbrushed, then re-photographed, and then was a final print.”

I painstakingly used my pen to write down her described process, as I cursed in my head, wishing for a word processor.

She continued, “Today, we use the Hasselblad 2 1/4-inch camera with a digital back.”

The digital back cost the Pechers $27,000, a modest price to keep up in technology considering the revolution it brought to restoration.

“After we take a picture with the Hasselblad, it goes directly into the computer where the restoration is done,” Lauren said.

I felt their relief with them. Writing down the steps after the digital revolution didn’t cramp my hand nearly as much as the pre-digital process did.

I was taken to a concrete room in the basement filled with the sound of running water. Pointing to a strange black iron-looking device Lauren said, “These are 100-year-old print washers we bought at an estate sale.”

Kicking a plastic box, she said, “This thing is the new print washer. Doesn’t even come close to cleaning the prints as nicely as those 100-year old things do.”

Even the machines of B&L laugh in the face of time. The layout of the room makes the print washer look as if it had kicked sand in the face of the plastic one — leaving it cowering under a table.

“We’re the only lab in southeastern Wisconsin that still uses rag-fiber silver paper,” Lauren said. “You do it in a dark room, and the photo has a 100 to 150-year lifespan.”

A lab functioning with century-old machines practiced a long forgotten alchemy of photography. They used silver emulsion paper. It actually contained silver.

“There’s a reason photos from the 1880s still look good,” Lauren said.

It’s because that’s when silver emulsion paper came out. In comparison to contested digital printers’ claims, silver emulsion paper has the longest lifespan at 100 to 150 years, compared to 80 years digital. It was all happening, right here, next to a swill-seekers depository.

I asked Lauren what kind of photos they’re usually asked to restore: “Oh, you know, these days color photos are fading, finally. High school yearbooks, wedding pictures and we’ve even done funeral portraits.”

What’s it like being around history and long-dead faces a lot?

“It makes me realize the depth of family history, and our country’s history. These days, people are taking photos less seriously. This is partially due to the materials getting worse,” she said.

Looking at photos on the wall, I tried to cram it all into perspective. Those groups of guys huddled in front of a 1880s general store must have thought they were in the presence of magic when the bulb flashed their faces into eternity.

Today, I go to bars and recover the next morning to giggle over 300 digital photos of one bar, one group of people and 50 different drinks.

Something may be lost. The magnitude of “forever” bore itself on the faces of the black and white men standing at the general store.

Time will inevitably win this war. Despite knowing this, we are willing to battle to the last for our memories.

“I restored a lot of mementos people had on their desks at work,” Lauren said. “This one guy had this little 3-by-3 photo of his daughter. Didn’t look like anything too special. But it meant a lot to him. Unfortunately, he’d kept it with the glass touching. Don’t ever let glass touch your photo. ’Cause then you got to tell them.”

She leaned forward, whispering the next part, as if the enormity of her statement may shake me, and it did, “No, you can’t get it back.”

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