The Art of Paying Attention

One of the biggest things I have learned as a photographer is that the more knowledge you have about what you're doing, the better you become.

There are so many ways to gain that knowledge. You can read about photography, watch tutorials, learn from other photographers, or study the technical side of a camera. My favorite way, though, has always been to simply play around and figure things out for myself.

Sometimes that works beautifully. Sometimes it doesn't.

Photography has so many variables that I'm learning there are certain things you can't fully understand until you experience them yourself. Light, weather, time of day, the direction you're facing, your camera settings, and even where you're standing can completely change a photograph.

As my own style continues to develop, one of the things that has surprised me most is just how dramatically the time of day can change not only what a photograph looks like, but how it feels.

Early morning can create softness and stillness. Golden light can bring warmth and depth into a landscape. A sunset can turn a place you've seen hundreds of times into something completely different. When the light is low, even familiar trees and trails can suddenly have mystery and mood.

I'm learning to pay attention to those differences instead of simply looking for something beautiful to photograph.

Finding Inspiration in the Same Place

Something interesting about my photography is that many of my photographs have come from the same place: Buffalo Park in Flagstaff, Arizona.

And honestly, it's perfect—if there is such a thing.

Buffalo Park is part of my normal, everyday life. Its two-mile loop is where I like to run and walk. There are workout stations along the trail where I can stop and do pull-ups and other exercises. There is beautiful scenery everywhere, and the people I meet there are almost always friendly.

It's simply an amazing place to spend part of your day, and I feel incredibly fortunate to have it right down the road from me.

But photographing the same place over and over has taught me something I didn't expect.

The same place is never really the same.

The mountains haven't moved. The trail is still there. Many of the same trees are standing in the same places.

But the light changes. The clouds change. The seasons change. The colors change. The weather changes.

And I change.

One morning I might notice the way sunlight is coming through a group of trees. Another day it might be the shape of the clouds over the mountains. Sometimes it's a huge landscape that catches my attention, and sometimes it's something small that I probably walked past a hundred times before finally seeing it.

I think that's becoming one of the things I love most about photography.

It teaches me to really look at a place instead of simply passing through it.

Knowing a Place Changes How You Photograph It

There is another advantage to returning to the same place again and again: eventually, you really start to know it.

I experienced that firsthand recently when I went out around 3:30 in the morning because I wanted to experiment with photographing the Milky Way and somehow line it up with the peaks.

At that hour, Buffalo Park is a completely different place.

It's dark—really dark—and you're trying to think not only about the photograph you want to create, but where you need to be to create it.

I remembered there was a particular trail that I thought would give me one of the best angles toward the peaks.

That familiarity suddenly mattered.

During the day, finding another trail or changing your position isn't a big deal. At 3:30 in the morning in complete darkness, knowing where you are and where a trail leads becomes a lot more important.

That experience made me realize that learning a location is another form of learning photography.

Every time I return to Buffalo Park, I'm building a mental map. I'm learning where the mountains appear between the trees, which trails open into wider views, where the light falls and where I might want to stand the next time the conditions are right.

Sometimes I don't even realize I've learned those things until I need them.

That morning I wasn't just relying on my camera or trying to figure out settings. I was relying on all of those ordinary runs and walks I had taken there before.

You don't always need to travel somewhere new to find a new photograph.

Sometimes you need to know one place well enough to see what everyone else walks past.

Sometimes the Photograph Finds You

Another thing I've learned is that it's not always the biggest scenery that makes the best photograph.

It's not always about having the right gear or even being the most skilled photographer, either.

Knowledge and experience absolutely help, but sometimes there is another part of photography that you simply can't control.

Sometimes it's luck.

Sometimes it feels like divine timing.

It's that moment when the light, the clouds, the landscape, the weather and everything else seem to come together at exactly the same time—and you just happen to look in the right direction.

The more I photograph, the more I realize how much of it is simply being present enough to notice when that moment happens.

And sometimes that means having patience.

Recently, while I was out walking, I came across a photographer and his wife, who is an award-winning photographer. They could see that the clouds were moving in a certain direction over the mountains, and instead of rushing to take the photograph immediately, they waited.

They knew the photograph they wanted hadn't happened yet.

So they stood there and let the clouds move.

There was something else about that moment that stayed with me, too. They both shared this passion. Hearing them laughing and talking together while they waited for the scene to develop was genuinely refreshing.

Photography wasn't simply about getting the picture.

They were enjoying the experience of being there together.

Eventually, the clouds moved into place.

That's something I'm beginning to understand more myself. Sometimes taking a better photograph doesn't mean doing more.

Sometimes it means waiting.

Waiting for the sun to move. Waiting for a cloud to cross the mountains. Waiting for the light to hit a tree. Waiting for something ordinary to become extraordinary for just a few seconds.

And then being ready when it does.

I think that's one of the beautiful things about photographing nature: you have control over where you go, when you arrive, where you stand and how you use your camera—but nature gets the final say.

You can't make the clouds move into the perfect position. You can't force the light through the trees. You can't tell a sunset what colors to create.

You can learn. You can prepare. You can practice.

And then sometimes, you just have to be there.

Letting Go of Expectations

Being in the same place almost every day has also taught me to let go of expectations.

Every day is different.

There can be days—or even an entire week—when I go out and don't come home with a photograph I really love.

I've learned that doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean the place isn't beautiful anymore, and it doesn't mean I've somehow lost my ability to see it.

Because that moment can come in the blink of an eye.

The light can suddenly change. A shadow can fall differently. The clouds can move into just the right place. Something you've walked past countless times can suddenly look completely different.

And if you're paying attention, there it is.

Not Everything Needs to Become a Photograph

Photography has also taught me something that might sound strange coming from a photographer:

Not everything is worth taking a photograph of.

The world is full of amazing and beautiful things.

When you start looking at everything with an artist's eye—really noticing the light, shadows, depth, colors, shapes and individual details—it can almost become overwhelming.

There is beauty everywhere.

But seeing something beautiful doesn't mean I have to photograph it.

I'm learning to be selective.

Instead of automatically pulling out my camera every time something catches my eye, I'm learning to stop and really look.

What was it about this moment that caught my attention?

Is there a photograph here?

Does the light create something interesting? Is there depth? Is there a feeling? Is there a story?

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Sometimes I take the photograph and realize later that it wasn't as special as it felt in the moment.

And sometimes I don't take a photograph at all.

I think becoming more selective is part of developing my own style. I'm not trying to collect a photograph of every beautiful thing I see.

I'm trying to recognize the moments that make me feel something and figure out how to capture that feeling in a photograph.

What Photography Is Teaching Me

I'm still learning, and I hope I always will be.

I'm learning about light and timing. I'm learning how much knowing a location can change the way I photograph it. I'm learning to wait. I'm learning to let go of expectations. I'm learning that knowledge matters, but sometimes luck and timing matter too.

Most importantly, I'm learning to pay attention.

Photography has changed the way I look at the world around me. A place I've visited hundreds of times can still surprise me. A tree I've passed every morning can suddenly look completely different because the light hit it differently that day.

Maybe that's one of the greatest things photography has given me.

It has taught me to look at everything.

To notice everything.

But not to feel like I have to capture everything.

Some moments are photographs.

And some moments are simply meant to be experienced.