There’s a quiet ache in standing before a scene, camera in hand, poised to capture something meaningful, and feeling absolutely nothing. It’s not just a lack of inspiration; it’s a wall of frustration, a maddening blindness that keeps me from seeing. The grey streets of Aberdeen stretch out before me, chipped mugs clutter my kitchen counter, drizzle smears the windows from rain, and all I see is the ordinary, flat, uninspired noise. I know the beauty’s there; others pluck it from the everyday with ease, turning cracked pavements into poetry and shadows into stories. But for me, it’s elusive, and that stings. Why can’t I see it? Why does the mundane taunt me instead of revealing its quiet magic? This isn’t a tidy guide with answers, it’s me wrestling with the questions, tracing the edges of my struggle, and searching for a way to break through.

What does “seeing” mean to me in this tangled dance with photography? It’s more than pointing a lens and clicking, it’s a deliberate act of presence, a slowing down to drink in the world’s subtle whispers. It’s noticing the crooked shadow stretching across a wall, the glint of light on rusted metal, the faint tension in a stranger’s glance when they think no one’s watching. For me, seeing is peering beyond the surface, catching patterns and moments that hum with potential, small, overlooked things that could tell a deeper story or stir an emotion if I frame them right. I want my images to hold a quiet poetry, to speak without words, but right now, my vision’s fogged, like I’m rushing past life instead of truly engaging with it.

Why’s it so hard? I’ve been mulling that over, and I reckon it’s a mix of traps I’ve stumbled into, some I thought I’d outgrown, some I didn’t even clock until now. I’ve been chasing spectacle, haven’t I? That rookie mistake of thinking only dramatic sunsets or cinematic street scenes are worth the shutter. It’s a mindset that blinds me to the softer beauty right under my nose, a puddle’s reflection, a faded curtain’s texture. I rush too, snapping shots like I’m ticking off a list, moving on before the scene’s had a chance to breathe. Photography’s not about haste, it’s about sinking into a moment, letting it unfold, and I’ve been rubbish at that lately. Then there’s the pull of validation, shooting for likes, for some imagined audience, instead of what stirs me. That’s not seeing; that’s performing, and it’s left me disconnected from why I picked up a camera in the first place.

But it’s deeper than habits. Maybe my eye’s still raw, untrained. I’m still wrestling concepts like the rule of thirds into instinct, and my visual literacy feels unpolished. Life’s relentless pace doesn’t help either, work, noise, the endless scroll of curated Instagram shots, it’s a barrage that leaves me too knackered or distracted to notice the small stuff. Familiarity’s dulled me too; these streets, these walls, I’ve seen them a thousand times, and they’ve faded into a haze. There’s a whisper of self-doubt in there as well, if I can’t find beauty within myself some days, how am I meant to spot it out there? It’s a frustrating knot, and I’m desperate to untangle it.

So how do I train my eye to see? It’s a skill, not a gift dropped in my lap, and that means I can hone it with intention. Slowing down’s the first step, sounds simple, but when did I last sit still and just look? I could linger with a scene, watching how light shifts, how shadows stretch and fade, how people weave through a space, until something clicks. Studying the masters might spark something too, not to mimic, but to dissect how they distil chaos into meaning, how they wield light or composition to guide the eye. I imagine sitting with a single subject, a peeling door, a rain-streaked window, and tracing its changes through the day, teaching myself its layers, its quiet secrets. It’s about curiosity, isn’t it? Approaching the world like a riddle I’m aching to solve. I am learning so much from the photobooks I have been reading and many comment how I am able to “get it” and see in them, so why not in my own stuff?

Practical steps feel tangible, a lifeline out of this fog. I could carry my camera everywhere, even just round the block, and shoot what catches me, no overthinking, just instinct. Sitting in one spot for ten minutes, seeing how light dances or shadows creep, might wake my senses. Or I could take a mundane thing, a lamppost, a bin, and photograph it from every angle: high, low, close, far, until its potential unfurls. Consistency’s the backbone, shooting daily, even if it’s dross, builds that habit of noticing. Scribbling notes could bridge the gap too, why a texture or hue tugs at me, what it stirs, linking my heart to my frame. These aren’t fixes; they’re practices, a slow rewiring of how I see.

Emotion’s the heartbeat of it all, how does it weave into this art of seeing? It’s the soul that lifts a shot from flat to resonant, the bridge between me and the image and whoever gazes at it. When I’m numb or distracted, I miss the nostalgia in a cracked pavement, the melancholy of an empty bench. But when I let myself feel, sink into the stillness of a grey dawn or the hum of a busy street, it pours into what I capture. It’s vulnerable; my mood shapes my lens, whether it’s soft light for peace or stark shadows for unease. That’s where the mundane turns into poetry, through the quiet stirrings within me. If I’ve been detached, just going through the motions, no wonder my shots feel hollow.

Different genres demand different eyes, don’t they? Landscape’s a patient vigil, waiting for the sky to soften, the loch to ripple just so, finding harmony in nature’s sweep. Portraits call for empathy, searching for a flicker of character, a hint of vulnerability in someone’s stance or gaze. Street photography’s a jolt, quick, curious, snagging fleeting tales from the urban swirl, like a hurried step or a bird lifting off a bench. I’m still clumsy at shifting between them, landscapes stretch my vision wide, portraits pull it close, street keeps it darting, but each one’s a lesson in seeing anew.

Patience, though, that’s the backbone I keep tripping over. I’m terrible at it, I am neurodiverse and it’s kind of my thing and it shows. Seeing isn’t instant; it’s lingering until the light falls perfectly, until the moment ripens. I’ve lost shots rushing off too soon, but the ones I treasure came when I stayed, watching, breathing, letting the scene speak. It’s a discipline I need to embrace, because beauty hides in the pause, not the scramble.

How do I find beauty in the mundane, then, that thing I’m yearning for? It’s about reframing, peeling back the layers of the everyday. A puddle’s not just water, it’s a mirror distorting the sky, a canvas of abstract shapes. A faded curtain’s not mere fabric, it’s a tapestry of colour and wear, a testament to time. That cracked wall outside my flat? It’s a map of resilience, stubborn and etched. The bin bags by the kerb? They’ve got rhythm, a gritty end-of-day whisper. It’s there, waiting to be noticed, if I slow down and let it sing.

Exercises could jolt me out of this rut, shooting in black-and-white for a week might strip it back to light and form, cutting the clutter. Or I could pick one object, a mug, a gate, and capture it ten ways, forcing myself to see it fresh each time. Wandering with no plan, just looking for thirty seconds before I click, might curb my haste. Even sketching, dreadful as my hand is, could make me linger on details I’d skip. It’s about stirring my senses, stretching them until they wake.

Editing’s a quiet ally, how does it lift my vision? It’s not about fakery; it’s refining what I felt. Boosting contrast might tease out a wall’s grit, tweaking tones could echo the mood I meant to catch. Cropping shifts the tale, aligning the frame with what I saw in my mind’s eye. It’s a second chance to sharpen my intent, not a patch for poor seeing.

What separates a snapshot from a photograph? A snapshot’s a reflex, quick, thoughtless, a mere grab. A photograph’s deliberate, a distillation of what I’ve observed and felt, a story I’ve chosen to weave. One’s a record; the other’s a gift, alive with purpose.

And that intent, how does it shape the photograph? It’s the whole game. If I’m chasing solitude, I’ll frame tight, mute the noise, let the stillness breathe. If it’s life’s pulse, I’ll widen it, catch the motion, the mess. My heart steers every choice, where I stand, what I keep, what I cut. Without it, it’s just a picture; with it, it’s mine.

I’m struggling because this isn’t innate, it’s a craft I’m still forging. My eye’s green, my mind’s scattered, my patience frail. I can’t yet see the line between what’s there and what’s art because I’m not giving myself the space to look deeply. But it’s not the end, it’s a beginning. This wrestling, these questions, they’re my path forward. I’ll keep at it, pausing, feeling, seeking the poetry in the everyday, until the mundane stops mocking me and starts unveiling its stubborn, quiet grace. The beauty’s there, waiting. I just need to see it, one frame at a time.

Deep down, there’s this fierce, almost desperate yearning to see like the masters, those titans of photography whose eyes pierced the veil of the everyday. Henri Cartier-Bresson, with his “decisive moment,” could freeze a heartbeat where light, movement, and emotion sang in unison, as if he felt the world’s pulse. Ansel Adams gazed at landscapes with a near-spiritual clarity, his dance of light and shadow turning rugged earth into something eternal, almost divine. Dorothea Lange saw straight into the human soul, her lens catching the raw dignity and quiet ache in every face, every weathered hand. Vivian Maier, with her gentle, street-level stare, spun the ordinary bustle of city life into tales rich with humanity and texture. What ties them together is this profound bond with their world, patience to wait, empathy to feel, courage to chase the subtle until it gleamed extraordinary. I crave that vision so intensely it’s like a fire in my chest, to see beyond the surface and craft images that echo through time. But am I trying too hard, reaching for it all too fast? Maybe this frantic grasping is what’s clouding my sight, rushing me past the stillness and depth these giants mastered. I’ll keep yearning for their way of seeing, but perhaps I need to soften my grip, let it unfold, tender and slow, one frame at a time.

Am I going to keep trying, absolutely. Am I overthinking, most definitely. Do I love it, bet your arse.

Regards

Alex