There are photographs you plan. Scenes you seek out. Light you wait for.
And then there are the others – the ones that almost go unnoticed. Where the subject is still, the light soft, and nothing is loudly asking to be seen. And yet it’s in those very moments that something stirs.
I call it the soul of the image.
It takes quiet. Not just around you, but within. I’ve learned that when I chase photographs, they tend to slip away. They rarely show up when I try to control them. They arrive when I’m open.
A gust of wind in the dune grass. A stranger’s glance through a window. A shift in the shadows that lasts a second. I think it’s about looking into the world, not just at it.
Quiet images rarely have a clear beginning or end. They are like fragments – a thought, a sigh, a memory you can’t quite place.
A photo of an empty bench by the sea could speak of sorrow. Or hope. It doesn’t just depend on the subject, but on the space we fill it with as viewers.
When I go through my photos, I’m not necessarily looking for the technically perfect shot. I’m looking for resonance. A feeling, a glance, a tone. Often, it’s the images that first seemed “too simple” that stay with me the longest.
Some of my strongest photographs are the ones I almost deleted.
People often speak of photography as a way of seeing. For me, it’s just as much a way of listening. To surroundings. To silence. To what the image wants to say – if I don’t interfere too much.
It’s not about forcing meaning, but allowing it to emerge.
I believe we long for quiet. Not emptiness – but openness. Something we can project our own stories onto. Images that don’t explain everything but invite something.
When I speak of The Soul of the Image, I don’t mean anything mystical or grand. I simply mean: that small breath an image takes when we let it.
