The Art of Seeing

When I picked up photography again, I was living in Crockett, California—a small, blue-collar town along the Carquinez Strait. I loved the area for its many hiking trails winding through the hills. Much of it was open space: few trees, scattered bushes, and vast stretches of bare land.

At first, I kept thinking I needed to go elsewhere to find compelling subjects. The land around me felt too familiar, too bare—like I had already seen everything it had to offer.

But I kept going out. Not because I expected to find something new, but because some part of me needed the quiet. The rhythm of walking. The way the hills opened up under the sky. And little by little, something started to change—not out there, but in me.

At first, I didn’t realize it. But looking back, I see now: I had been blind.

I wasn’t seeing the deeper beauty that was already there. It only revealed itself when I changed how I looked at the landscape. I began noticing the way light and shadow danced across the hills, how dramatically the time of day could shift the mood, how seasons and weather transformed everything.

Each day brought a new variation—clouds drifting in unexpected shapes, sunlight piercing through mist, golden hour casting a warmth that made everything glow. Even the wind played its part, bending tall grasses in waves, making the land feel alive, almost breathing.

Some days were quiet and still, with a softness to the air that invited reflection. Other days felt restless, with shifting skies and fast-moving weather. The landscape was no longer static—it became something I could listen to, respond to. A dialogue formed between me and the land. I was no longer just observing; I was in relationship with it.

Colors I once overlooked began to stand out—the pale green of new spring growth, the rust-gold of dry grass in the late sun, the deep umber of soil after a rare rain. Subtle things. Fleeting things. But once I noticed them, I couldn’t unsee them.

What had once seemed barren now felt full of presence, full of story.

And in that process, I learned something that stays with me: there’s often so much more than what we perceive with inattentive senses.

The surface rarely tells the whole story. Once I started returning with intention, the hidden layers slowly revealed themselves.

I learned to finally see—not just with my eyes, but with presence and patience.

And after that, the landscape was never ordinary again.