To Look Is Not to See
The way we encounter the world is, by nature, restless. We flit from one thing to the next, glancing but not truly grasping. This is the era of screens and scrolls, where the act of looking is as shallow as the light they emit. Yet, somewhere beyond this incessant visual churn, there remains the quieter art of seeing—a form of attention that requires not just the eye but the mind, the body, the soul.
This distinction between looking and seeing is at the heart of my work as an artist. Looking is a transactional act—it processes an image for what it immediately offers and then moves on. Seeing, by contrast, is an act of surrender. It requires us to linger, to let go of the need for immediate meaning, and to allow the world—or an artwork—to work upon us.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty called this the embodied encounter. To see is to feel with more than the retina; it is to bring one’s physical presence into dialogue with the seen. I think of this often while walking or running, the rhythm of my footsteps pulling me into sync with the terrain. The exhaustion dulls the automatic categorization of trees, rocks, clouds—and instead, I become porous. What remains is texture, scale, and light—pure perception.
Art has always sought to disrupt the autopilot of experience. This is the challenge I set for myself in my own work. My SAXUM series, for instance, resists the pull of the singular focal point. These works are large in scale because they aim to give equal weight and presence to every detail—from the grains of sand to the rugged textures of the rocks and the expanse of the massif—enveloping the viewer in the texture, tone, and quiet immensity of the landscape. No single element demands your gaze; instead, the entirety of the frame invites you to let go of looking for something and simply let the landscape come to you.
THE SCIENCE AND SPIRIT OF PERCEPTION
Seeing is not passive. It is a practice, an active engagement with the world that requires time, presence, and openness. Neuroscientist Anil Seth describes perception as a “controlled hallucination,” shaped as much by our minds as by external reality. To see, then, is to challenge the filters and assumptions that dictate how we experience the world.
Art plays a crucial role in this process. It interrupts the patterns of the mind, forcing us to slow down and reconsider what we think we know. When we allow ourselves to truly see a work of art—or a landscape, or even a fleeting moment—we begin to uncover the depth and richness that looking alone cannot provide.
SEEING AS A RADICAL ACT
In a world of speed and distraction, to see is a radical act. It requires patience and a willingness to be changed by what we encounter. This is why I create photographs that resist easy consumption. They are not about immediate answers or grand statements; they are spaces for contemplation, where seeing becomes a dialogue between the viewer and the work.
When was the last time you truly saw? Not glanced, not looked—but saw? When did you last linger with an image or a moment long enough for it to change you?
Perhaps this is the gift of seeing: it transforms not just the world around us, but the way we inhabit it.
To Look Is Not to See
The way we encounter the world is, by nature, restless. We flit from one thing to the next, glancing but not truly grasping. This is the era of screens and scrolls, where the act of looking is as shallow as the light they emit. Yet, somewhere beyond this incessant visual churn, there remains the quieter art of seeing—a form of attention that requires not just the eye but the mind, the body, the soul.
This distinction between looking and seeing is at the heart of my work as an artist. Looking is a transactional act—it processes an image for what it immediately offers and then moves on. Seeing, by contrast, is an act of surrender. It requires us to linger, to let go of the need for immediate meaning, and to allow the world—or an artwork—to work upon us.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty called this the embodied encounter. To see is to feel with more than the retina; it is to bring one’s physical presence into dialogue with the seen. I think of this often while walking or running, the rhythm of my footsteps pulling me into sync with the terrain. The exhaustion dulls the automatic categorization of trees, rocks, clouds—and instead, I become porous. What remains is texture, scale, and light—pure perception.
Art has always sought to disrupt the autopilot of experience. This is the challenge I set for myself in my own work. My SAXUM series, for instance, resists the pull of the singular focal point. These works are large in scale because they aim to give equal weight and presence to every detail—from the grains of sand to the rugged textures of the rocks and the expanse of the massif—enveloping the viewer in the texture, tone, and quiet immensity of the landscape. No single element demands your gaze; instead, the entirety of the frame invites you to let go of looking for something and simply let the landscape come to you.
THE SCIENCE AND SPIRIT OF PERCEPTION
Seeing is not passive. It is a practice, an active engagement with the world that requires time, presence, and openness. Neuroscientist Anil Seth describes perception as a “controlled hallucination,” shaped as much by our minds as by external reality. To see, then, is to challenge the filters and assumptions that dictate how we experience the world.
Art plays a crucial role in this process. It interrupts the patterns of the mind, forcing us to slow down and reconsider what we think we know. When we allow ourselves to truly see a work of art—or a landscape, or even a fleeting moment—we begin to uncover the depth and richness that looking alone cannot provide.
SEEING AS A RADICAL ACT
In a world of speed and distraction, to see is a radical act. It requires patience and a willingness to be changed by what we encounter. This is why I create photographs that resist easy consumption. They are not about immediate answers or grand statements; they are spaces for contemplation, where seeing becomes a dialogue between the viewer and the work.
When was the last time you truly saw? Not glanced, not looked—but saw? When did you last linger with an image or a moment long enough for it to change you?
Perhaps this is the gift of seeing: it transforms not just the world around us, but the way we inhabit it.
