There’s a particular kind of frustration I know well: driving through a landscape, or walking somewhere, and you either don’t have your camera, or you do but can’t actually stop. The light is right. Something catches your eye. But stopping isn’t possible—or so you tell yourself.
I’ve lived with this for a long time. The friction between seeing and acting. Between the impulse to photograph and the resistance of circumstance.
Then, finally, I stopped.
There’s this street I drive past constantly. Awkward to park, never really conducive to shooting. But I made myself pull over. And once I got out, once I started walking around—exploring the area—I found more than I’d expected.
An old car, covered, sitting in a garage for years. A small chapel. A house that needs renovation. I just walked around, let myself be guided by what I saw. 15, maybe 20 minutes. And in that time, things revealed themselves.
What interests me in these small actions is what you might call grittiness—that worn, everyday quality. The covered car especially. It’s been there long enough to become part of the landscape. And then there’s this small leaf on the hood, which somehow completes the composition, makes it something I wanted to look at.
When you start walking, you let the place guide you. You see what’s actually there, not what you came looking for.
Here’s what I want to say: not everything you photograph needs to be exhibition-worthy. Not everything needs to be extraordinary. Sometimes you make photographs simply because you’re a photographer, because you see, because you’re observing.
And there’s something worth protecting in that.
The invitation isn’t to make important work all the time. It’s to actually stop. To get out. To walk around. To let yourself be guided by attention rather than intention.
Look around. See what’s there. Not everything will speak, and that’s fine. But if you don’t stop, you’ll miss it entirely.
