The Ancient Art of Slowing
The roots of contemplative photography reach deeply into the soil of Zen Buddhism, where presence matters more than perfection, and attention outweighs ambition. In the 1970s, I was introduced to The Zen of Seeing by Frederick Franck—a book that quietly and profoundly reshaped the way I understood both the visible world and the act of photographing it.
Franck’s insight was disarming in its simplicity: most of us don’t truly see. We draw or photograph not what is there, but what we think is there—images shaped by concepts, assumptions, and mental chatter. His invitation was radical and tender: slow down and see. That one act, he suggested, could become a kind of meditation.
When I later encountered Franck’s Zen Seeing, Zen Drawing, I was moved not just by his words but by the intimate texture of the book itself—handwritten pages, spontaneous sketches, and the quiet call to presence. It wasn’t about becoming a great artist. It was about returning to the directness of the moment. Drawing, like seeing, became a form of prayer—a way of meditating with the eyes.
That experience stayed with me. Eventually, I found myself translating that spirit into my photography. The more I slowed down and truly observed, the more I felt present, calm, and grounded. I began letting go of the inner commentary: Is this a good photo? Is it interesting enough? And instead, I simply enjoyed the act of seeing. Really seeing.
This is the heart of contemplative photography.
It isn’t about chasing the extraordinary. It’s about learning to notice the ordinary with fresh eyes. A shadow stretching across the sidewalk. The golden spill of afternoon light on the kitchen table. A raindrop making its slow way down the windshield. These small moments—quiet, overlooked, and deeply real—become our subject matter.
Contemplative photography isn't symbolic or performative. It’s not about spectacle or story. One form of this practice, known as Miksang—Tibetan for “good eye”—draws from the teachings of Buddhist master Chögyam Trungpa. Miksang images are often striking in their honesty. They’re not crafted to impress. They’re simply offerings: glimpses of reality as it is. Pure perception. No filters. No judgment. Just seeing.
And in this kind of seeing, something shifts.
We become still. Receptive. Awake.
This quiet practice stands in stark contrast to the world we live in. According to research from Vision Direct, the average American now spends the equivalent of 44 years of their life looking at screens—about 382,000 hours, or more than half a lifetime. Let that sink in. Over 50% of our lives, absorbed in glowing rectangles. No wonder we’ve forgotten how to look.
Japanese theologian Kosuke Koyama once wrote about the spiritual wisdom of living at “3 mph”—the pace of walking. He called it the speed of love. That phrase lives in me. It reminds me that to live well, to see clearly, we must move more slowly. To photograph at 3 mph is to return to the rhythm of the soul. It’s to trust that life doesn’t need to be rushed or mastered. It simply needs to be noticed.
When I allow my camera to follow my eye—not my ambition—something beautiful happens. I begin to see again. Not just with my eyes, but with my heart. The camera becomes a companion, not a means of control. The world unfolds quietly, in its own time.
Contemplative photography is more than a creative practice. It’s a way of life. A gentle reminder to pause, to be present, to see what’s here. And in that simple act of seeing, I often find something even deeper: I rediscover myself.
