In this episode of the podcast (episode 563), I want to first say Happy Solstice and how nice it is to start getting those longer days. I discuss the moment when a photograph and photographer stop explaining everything or at least trying to. Not because we fail,, but because it can’t explain everything nor should it.
Most of us are taught to search for photographs. We head into the world with a sense of purpose, a checklist of things to photograph, or an idea of what would make the outing worthwhile. Searching is active can feel productive. It also quietly demands that the photograph arrive already formed, ready to justify itself and how well we did in the clicking of the shutter
Seeing is different. Seeing has no urgency. It does not require the world to perform on command. It asks only that we stay.
I notice that when I am searching, my attention narrows. I move faster. I recognize patterns quickly and dismiss what does not fit. The photographs that come from this state often easily explain themselves . There is nothing wrong with that, but there is a limit and it can be borning over time. AFterall, once the photograph has finished explaining, there is nothing else left to see.
Seeing begins when searching exhausts itself. When I stop asking what I am going to make and start paying attention to what is already there. For me this is rooting in boredom or frustration when nothing else is working. Nothing is happening. The light is flat. The scene feels unremarkable. Yet, if I stay, something subtle begins to emerge. A relationship. A rhythm. A small shift in how I now look at things in the world. These photographs do not announce themselves. They do not resolve quickly. They often feel unfinished, even to me. And that is precisely what gives them room to breathe.
A photograph that stops explaining does not close the conversation. It opens it. It allows uncertainty to remain intact. Instead of delivering meaning, it makes space for it. This kind of image asks the viewer to linger, to bring their own attention and experience into the frame. Seeing without searching is a discipline. It requires patience, restraint, and a willingness to leave with nothing. It means trusting that not every photograph needs to declare its purpose.
Some of the most meaningful work I have made came from moments when I stopped trying to find something and allowed myself to simply be present. When the photograph arrived slowly. When it did not explain itself. When it asked me, and eventually the viewer, to stay.