On arriving, performing, and the courage to photograph as yourself
In February, I went out for three or four photo walks into nature and the park nearby. The pictures that stayed with me, the ones that felt the truest, were the ones that happened in the space I entered when I finally put down the ideas and images in my head.
The first walk: arriving
The first walk was to the Erptal, a small creek at the eastern edge of Berlin. I arrived there almost in the dark. The ground was still covered in snow and ice.
On the way there, I noticed something happening within me. A kind of laying down. Like arriving home and taking off your coat, putting your keys on the hook. I was putting down the images I had already formed in my head, my ideas and concepts
In that empty-handed state of being, I found something I hadn’t planned: leaves floating in the cold air, rust-brown against the pale winter light. Almost like butterflies. I didn’t decide to take that picture. It simply revealed itself, because I was there and I was present.· ·
The second walk: knowing too much
I went back. In daylight this time. I could hear birds. I could feel the first warmth in the sun. The ice was mostly gone, but there were still patches on the grass that caught the light.
I knew where I was going. I knew what I was looking for. And I found it: The creek running over rocks, the bare trees bending in their own reflections, the water blurring everything into something almost painterly.
It’s a good photograph. But when I look at it, I feel a subtle distance from it. Like I’m watching myself make a point.
The first visit was raw and honest. This one feels more performative. Not dishonest, but made for someone. And in the making-for-someone, something was lost.
We have the desire to be seen. And at the same time, the fear that it is not safe to show up as we truly are. Between those two poles, we make something more performed than expressed.
The flowers in the rotting leaves
The third walk was in the park nearby. Same intention: find the first signs of spring. But this time I slowed down. I stopped thinking about what I was looking for.
And I found flowers breaking through rotting leaves. The picture is not sharp. It moves. It’s imperfect.
That imperfection is exactly what I love about it. The spontaneity is visible. You can feel the moment in the blur. I was surprised, that I didn’t have time to compose myself before pressing the shutter.
Sometimes the most truthful photographs are the ones we almost didn’t take.
The flowers at home
The last picture I took at home. A flower arrangement, photographed against a dark background, where the light quietly reveals petals and buds.
What I love about this one is the gaze I can feel in it. A kind of gentle curiosity. I was allowing myself to look at something that was not perfect and to find it beautiful anyway.
There is a safety in that photograph. A sense of nowness. This is here, this is enough, this is what I se
Why do we photograph?
I used to think photography was about capturing a moment before it passed. Or about creating an accurate and actual representation of my inner and outer world.
For me, photography is a practice that pulls me into the here and now. The photo is not the point. The attention is the point. The act of slowing down enough to actually see – that is the practice.
When I photograph for myself, without thinking about what others will think about the photos, something universal appears. The specific becomes transparent, and something larger shines through.
That is what I am trying to share here. Not my photographs. But the experience of being present long enough to take them.
