I walk through the same places most days without giving them much thought. But sometimes the light changes in a way that interrupts that nothingness. Recently, I passed a corner I’ve crossed a thousand times, and it felt suddenly unfamiliar.I almost didn’t stop, but the thought stayed with me long enough that I turned back. It wasn’t dramatic. Just light doing something unusual. A small shift that stayed with me before the camera came out.
The place matters less than how the light behaves. Bright patches colliding with deep shadows. Evening accidents where artificial light isolates something ordinary. The setting is almost irrelevant; it’s the way the light rearranges it. Industrial areas just happen to hold more of these little accidents. Nothing is meant to be noticed there, but the light forces you to, which is probably why I drift toward them.
Sometimes it isn’t the light at all. A few weeks ago, a toddler’s toy was caught in the fencing around an open field. Out of place in a way I couldn’t shake. I walked past it the first time. Hours later, going the opposite way, I returned. The natural light had gone, and the toy was still there. Ignored by everyone else. It felt wrong for it to be hanging there, which made it impossible to forget, especially when it seemed almost purposely lit.
Silence can change how attention settles, too. Years ago, I photographed the garbage left outside after Christmas. Always late at night, when the streets were empty except for cutthroat cold air. The bins overflowed with plastic and bright toy wrappers that must have made noise earlier in the day. The contrast made everything sharper. Stillness around remnants of celebration.
Attention isn’t calm for me. My body shifts into a more reactive state. All the restlessness in my legs and hands moves up into my neck and eyes. Narrower vision. More scanning. Most of it leads nowhere, but occasionally it’s exactly right.
The difficult part is when attention gets in the way of being present. I carry a camera almost everywhere, but there are moments when I can’t photograph something I notice. Letting those moments go feels important, even if it’s uncomfortable.
There’s a difference between paying attention and hunting for a shot. When attention leads, things feel grounded. When I’m hunting, the work becomes empty. A quiet imitation of things I’ve seen before. Presence collapses the moment someone acknowledges the camera. That happens a lot during events. The second they look at me, something breaks. I usually tell them to forget I’m there, not just out of politeness but because I need the moment to belong to them again.
I lose attention in other ways too. One time, I waited near an abandoned house by a highway, hoping to catch the light from a taller vehicle passing by to make the scene more intriguing. When it finally happened, the beam was so intense that I was startled and missed the shot entirely. A physical reaction, more than anything else. I still need to go back.
At other times, attention expands without expecting it. During the turtle release project in the Azores, I had a few seconds between shots. Everything was still. In that brief pause, I noticed a flock of seagulls drifting across the sky. Nothing to do with the brief, but it felt connected anyway. Something you see only when there’s a bit of space.
Attention feels partly instinctive, but mostly trained. Early on, I photographed almost anything. Now I let most things go. I wait for the ones that feel like something. The shift happened slowly. I didn’t switch entirely to film, but the idea of making each frame matter stayed with me. I weigh the shot before taking it. Let the moment settle before deciding.
Right before the shutter, a small checklist runs through my head. Tiny adjustments. Corners. Light. Distractions. The thoughts get quieter until they disappear. What’s left is a kind of stillness that feels both focused and empty. Closest to a soft flannel shirt on a warm day. Comfortable but weightless.
The quietest forms of attention aren’t all the same. In Doñana, I waited for a fallow deer to look my way. I was excited and patient at the same time, completely inside the moment. On the flight to Faial, passing by Pico felt like the opposite kind of quiet. Overwhelming peace. Too much to photograph. I didn’t even reach for the camera. I just looked and hoped for a great view on landing as well.
Attention moves between those two poles without warning. Sometimes it pulls you in. Sometimes it asks you to let go. Most of the time it’s just a small shift inside, a signal that something is happening, even if you’re not sure what. And maybe that’s enough.
