If we lose ourselves in contemplation of the infinite greatness of the universe in space and time, meditate on the past millennia and on those to come; or if the heavens at night actually bring innumerable worlds before our eyes, and so impress on our consciousness the immensity of the universe, we feel ourselves reduced to nothing; we feel ourselves as individuals, as living bodies, as transient phenomena of will, like drops in the ocean, dwindling and dissolving into nothing.
—Arthur Schopenhauer
Previous installments in this series:
In the introduction to this series, I mentioned that the kinds of experiences I find most life-affirming have two things in common: circumstances and attitude. By this, I mean that I strive consciously—sometimes with considerable effort—to place myself in locations and situations where I am likely to feel something meaningful—perhaps inspiration, perhaps awe or flow, perhaps relief or distraction from undesirable thoughts, feelings, or events. But circumstances alone are not enough to reap the greatest rewards for my efforts: to feel a profound and overwhelming sense of life affirmed; to experiences, as Fyodor Dostoevsky described them, “moments when all the intellectual and spiritual faculties, morbidly overstrained as it were, suddenly flare up in a bright flame of consciousness.” For that, I must also—consciously, and often also with considerable effort—put myself in a state of mind where I am receptive and open to transcendent thoughts and emotions.
Experiences such as travel to beautiful places, beholding great art, contemplating a profound philosophical idea, or learning about some astounding scientific discovery, may seem to an outsider as amply rewarding without further qualification. But this is often not the case. Some people may flaunt having had such experiences, and describe them in superlative-rich narratives, perhaps hoping that those who encounter their accounts may be moved to envy them. But merely being in a place, seeing a work of art, or learning a profound bit of knowledge are not enough if one doesn’t also engage in these experiences with open heart and mind, free of nagging and stultifying distractions, willing to become completely absorbed, awed, inspired, even transformed by them.
Long before I became a committed photographer or writer, I spent much of my childhood roaming alone in nature. As an introverted and complex child and later as a young adult, natural places where I could spend prolonged times away from people felt more welcoming to me than any building, urban place, or human gathering. I’d spend as much time as I could in such places, having no other motive than to just immerse myself in their beauty, to commune with wild lives and wild geography, to become rapt in fascination to the exclusion of all concerns and anxieties that plagued me in other circumstances, to feel comfortable in my own skin. Early in my photographic career, I realized to my surprise and dismay that despite having the means and skills to visit and explore places far more impressive than the fields of my youth, my outings, focused primarily on returning with good photographs, ceased to reward me with the transcendent feelings I remembered from my youth.
I realized that just being in beautiful places and seeing beautiful things were not enough to elicit the familiar life-affirming feelings of peace and fascination I had hoped to find in them. The states of mindfulness and deep interest that were my default as a young person, requiring no special effort, became eroded by the grind of adult life, suppressed by other—much less rewarding—concerns. I realized that I had to reclaim my freedom: to extricate myself from the grip and weight of mundane distractions, to claim and to reinvest—consciously and deliberately—my full attention and cognitive resources into my experiences (and in so doing also to relegate photography and other activities to secondary priorities). I had to choose to open myself up to inspiration, to let go of the shields of cynicism and righteousness that seemed proper in the human-made world but that only separated me from and numbed me to beauty and curiosity, to force distracting thoughts out of my mind, to make myself as emotionally sensitive, mindful, reverent, and curious as I could be.
Making oneself open and mindful, emotionally sensitive, and free of nagging thoughts, is much harder and (consequently) rarer than it may seem. It’s not nearly as simple as just deciding to “let go” or to “change gears.” In my estimate, most people, even when in extraordinary circumstances, never even try to adapt their states of mind, to become more receptive and reverent when circumstances allow for the possibility of elevated inner rewards. I can think of no better example for this than my years of teaching photographic workshops, accompanying people to incredible places and observing them as they encounter bona fide marvels of creation. Very few seemed to me to be emotionally moved beyond feeling motivated to capture a photograph. Some engaged in idle banter, made cynical remarks, became consumed by technical minutiae, sometimes even expressed anger and frustration if conditions were not as “photographically perfect” as they wished them to be. Some were outright distraught if they did not end up with a trophy for their efforts. What could have been an opportunity to not just make a photograph but to affirm life, to feel humbled by and grateful for a priceless gift: the chance to experience transcendence and wonder, squandered. Often without the squanderer being aware of its possibility.
Wonder may ensue from various circumstances and from encounters with beauty on any scale. However, one of the most powerful catalysts to wonder is vastness: coming face-to-face with a thing, a place, a force, an idea, of such immense magnitude or implications as to make one feel entirely insignificant in comparison, humbled to one’s very core, inescapably aware of one’s powerlessness, transience, and minuteness, and at the same time overwhelmed with feelings of deep gratitude for having witnessed such grandeur and lived to tell about it.
However, even in the grandest of places, such feelings are not guaranteed. Upon visiting such places, some may indeed feel awed by their immense and humbling powers. But others may merely feel moved to mild interest, to tinkering with camera buttons, oblivious to the possibility of a deeper inner experience, then walking away with little more than a “done that, what’s next?” attitude or the banal satisfaction of having “gotten a good shot.”
My advice: before any other consideration, when you find yourself in a place offering the possibility of transcendence, make it your first priority to give it your full attention and emotional capacities. Never assume that any photograph, no matter how beautiful, or that any photographer presenting such a photograph, also involved the transcendent feelings it may suggest. Most people, with some training, may excel at performing various mechanical activities, including photography. Far fewer, by comparison, exemplify T.S. Eliot’s characterization of an artist as one possessing the “ability to intensify the world to his emotions.”
Vastness so powerful as to inspire fear and awe is what some philosophers, artists, and other thinkers characterized as “the sublime.” As expressed by Edmund Burke, “Greatness of dimension is a powerful cause of the sublime.” Philosophers like Immanuel Kant and Arthur Schopenhauer made clear distinctions between the beautiful and the sublime. According to them, beauty calms the mind and gives us pleasure by way of definite form and knowledge—by what we can see, name, understand, or imagine in full. Beautiful things are bounded: they have distinctive shapes and edges, perceptible beginnings and endings, that make them identifiable and contained. The sublime, on the other hand, transcends our ability to know and is not bound to any definitive lines, shapes, knowledge, timeline, or rational inference. It can’t be perceived by the senses or the mind, only inferred from the mind’s failure to contain it within definite boundaries.
We can’t merely see the sublime; we can experience it when what we see or learn lead us to imagine boundless scale, distances, quantities, or implications transcending the limits of our ability to know or imagine completely. The sublime is a feeling rooted in intuition—an inner impression of immense greatness—not in anything that can be quantified or reduced to a set of descriptive qualities. This is why, even in the most beautiful places, some people—those who focus only on beautiful objects they recognize, can describe in full, and fit into definitive categories—may never experience sublimity if they are not also open to the experience of boundlessness transcending recognition and knowledge. Those who do relate emotionally to scenes and ideas of boundless, unknowable immensity may experience something far more powerful than just aesthetic pleasure: they may experience sublimity.
The sublime not only impresses; it also humbles. When experiencing sublimity, we may find great comfort and solace in having our insignificance made inescapably palpable, forcing us to realize and to accept that no matter how daunting our challenges may seem, they are still just the preoccupations of feeble, short-lived beings scurrying for a minute span of time along the surface of a small clump of cosmic dust. By recognizing our transience and insignificance in the proverbial “grand scheme,” we become more prone to feeling gratitude for our lives and experiences, realizing how small, fragile, and ephemeral we are, and that no matter what we do, it will always remain beyond our capacity to see, feel, experience, know, or understand even a tiny part of “it all.”
We each get a brief chance to poke our heads into a vast reality and to get a small taste of it. We thus may feel justified in not taking ourselves or anything else in the world too seriously, in allowing ourselves to invest portions of our meager existence in satisfying our curiosities and desires, to do things for sheer interest or pleasure, to not shoulder burdens beyond our capacity, and to forgive ourselves our limitations, flaws, and errors. As Albert Einstein expressed, relating his own form of spirituality, which he called “cosmic religiosity”:
… as man becomes conscious of the stupendous laws that govern the universe in perfect harmony, he begins to realize how small he is. He sees the pettiness of human existence, with its ambitions and intrigues, its “I am better than thou” creed. This is the beginning of cosmic religion within him.
This is why vast places, vast vistas, the depth of the night sky, even some philosophical ideas and scientific knowledge implying the immensity of things beyond our capacity to fathom, are so powerfully life-affirming and so helpful in our efforts to love our fates, even if painful or challenging at times. It is why we should not feel too concerned about making ourselves parts of things greater than ourselves. Being a part of things far greater than ourselves—greater even than our species, our tribes, our countries, our planet, or the observable universe—is—for better or worse—in the nature of what we are. All we need is on occasion to be reminded of it: to seek experiences that make us mindful of the vastness of existence and of our place in it, to feel humbled by it, to stand reverent before it, to take to heart Walt Whitman’s wise advice: “Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.”
Proceed to Part III: Acceptance and Rebellion
Thankyou . Your words give me reason to pause. So much of what you say resonates deep within me.
Thank you, Laura!
Words impactful as much as your imagery. They go hand in hand validating the sublime. Educating those whom will but feast one’s eyes and attention on the listen.
Thanks, Willie! Great to hear from you.
For a while, I have struggled to see where you were coming from philosophically in your photography, but now I get a glimpse. I can understand to some level, because I have felt the same when out in nature. I just feel grateful that I am in that place, at that time, experiencing. It is as if being immersed in my surroundings, feeling an elation beyond myself and encompassing everything around me.
Thank you for sharing.
Thanks, DL! If you are interested, I’ve written 4 books explaining my philosophy (the most recent one dedicated to it):
https://guytal.com/print-books
I have read the earlier ones and have the most recent, but haven’t started reading it yet, and look forward to reading it. This article just helped to clear things up for me.
You put some of my thoughts into words so well. I’ve always felt that photography was a door to a deeper experience of mindfulness in the moment. I’ve felt that sublime feeling many times chasing light but it’s fleeting, if I’m being honest I’ve had a harder time reaching it than I’ve had in the past. Beautiful words and sentiments, glad I stopped to read.
Thank you, Wayson!
Deeply moving, like a precious gift of clarity to my inner thoughts.
Thank you, Sue!
Thanks, Guy! Once again you have written such thoughtful, and thoughtful provoking, words. Will this series, and the previous one, be in an upcoming book? Please?
Thank you, Sam! I’m not actively working on a book project at this time (although I have been thinking about some ideas). I may decide to publish a selection of re-edited articles in an ebook at some point, when I have enough of them.
Hope you’re well!
I think I’m coming up on 20 years of seeing your work, reading your words and processing your thoughts. This post, however, made me remember what’s important in my own work and gave a breath of fresh air to how I view yours. Thank you, Guy, for reminding me what’s important to remember before I touch my camera.
Thank you very much, Eric!
I am so glad I came here today to read this wonderful essay.
I can’t help but ask – what is it that photography workshop instructors hope to achieve by taking participants to such places?
Thanks, Anil!
The answer depends on the type of workshop. In the days before digital photography and social media, workshops were primarily educational experiences, focused on skills and encouraging participants to pursue creative expression. Today, the majority of workshops are tourism experiences, focused on visiting locations, socializing, and collecting predictable/uncreative photographs. This is at least in part a matter of supply and demand: it is much easier to plan, lead, and sell the latter kind.
For photographer leading workshops focused on creative expression, visiting vast places (that for a workshop purpose must also be conveniently accessible), with proper guidance to participants both before and during the session, may be a good way to prompt them to feel or at least consider the attitude I described in this article.
For photographers leading workshops that are mostly location tours, visiting such places is what their clients expect and pay for.
Guy, your description of the trophy-hunting, gadget-fiddling, tourist photographer was painful to me as that’s the kind of photographer I was for years (including in your workshops). Now, as I approach life’s end and become less physically able, I have become much more contemplative, more self-aware, more philosophical. My current photo projects, the most satisfying I have ever done, are based largely on the thoughtful curation (and writing about) past work. Thanks for these reminders that it’s never too late to “…take the time and to seek experiences that…make us mindful of the vastness of existence and our place in it.”
Thank you, Gary! Although I can only imagine what you’re going through, I have grappled with similar thoughts and emotions, too. I wish you strength and courage.
I appreciate your thought provoking and clarifying writings, Guy.
having just returned from a bit of a retreat in southern Arizona, this essay resonated with me.
Perhaps this essay also hit home partly due to the transition from my solo time in the wilds with sublimity and awe and then coming home to a good but fairly standard talk on the rules of composition – awareness juxtaposed with something more left-brain.
Thank you very much, Jeff! I know that feeling well. In fact, these transitions (and the desire to avoid them) were among my primary motivations in making some of my most consequential life choices.
I would like to know if you described your attitude to your workshop participants. I feel you insulted the people taking your workshops, who provided you income. I have followed you for
a long time and I was very disappointed in your remarks.
Thanks, Judy! Of course, I described this attitude to participants, and we’d spend a lot of classroom time discussing mindfulness and creativity. My workshop descriptions specifically stated they were not not recommended for photographers who only wanted location based tours.
The role of a teacher is different from the role of a tour guide or an entertainer whose primary goal is to please their customers without challenging them. Among other things, it is the role of a teacher to guide students to new ways of thinking and working. This may involve challenging them to rethink their existing habits and attitudes, which may be uncomfortable for some. Still, a teacher who avoids difficult topics because they may offend or dismay some students is ultimately not doing their students any favors despite perhaps being more popular.
If you’d like to read some interesting discussion about the irony of students preferring teachers who don’t challenge them (and by their evaluations end up punishing teachers who push them harder and in fact give them the most long-term benefit), there’s a good review of it in David Epstein’s book, Range.
The way you describe the distinction between merely being in a beautiful place and actually approaching it with a receptive mind captures the loss many of us experience as photography becomes more goal-driven and adult life crowds out wonder.
A beautifully written post, as was your last one. It is something I’ve thought about quite a bit, so reading your words (and the photos) hits the mark perfectly. Amor fati is a powerful practice; it makes life more beautiful… those moments that briefly free us from ourselves.
Thank you, Dalo! And, amen!
These are very relevant points – and truly useful in many instances of live. I can strongly relate to your warnings and suggestions, including those concerning photographic outings.
Funny enough, one of the most life-affirming experiences I’ve had was, of all places, in Antelope Canyon. Yes, I was well aware it was place hurt by over-visitation and, photographically, linked to trophy-hunting. But I was fortunate enough to be one of the firsts in there early in the morning, meaning there were just a handful of us for quite some time and I could enjoy silence and quietness while being effectively enveloped by the location. So some unusual circumstances played a part, though that’s not all. I also didn’t go there with any specific goal other than to get to know and experience the place that got me hooked to landscape photography for nearly a decade – that’s where attitude kicks in.
Well, I’m grateful that practising photography allowed me experience these moments – and also get in contact with contents like yours. I’m eager to see what you will bring us in future essays.
So, congratulations and keep on with your remarkable work, Guy!
Thank you, Carlos! I remember Antelope Canyon in the 90s, before it became popular. I went there after reading about Bruce Barnbaum’s experience there (he was the first to photograph it, I believe). A few years later I decided to stop going to places that have been photographed by others before, but I do remember the feeling of that experience very well. I had it all to myself.
Twenty years ago I visited Canyon X, which is upstream from Antelope Canyon near Page, Az. I was dropped off at the entrance to the canyon by a man who represented the Navajo woman who owned it. He left me there for four hours. Canyon X was rarely visited in those days and I was the only person there. It was the most rewarding photographic experience of my life. I remember pausing at one particularly beautiful spot and standing still for some minutes. It was utterly, hauntingly quiet. But after a while I heard the strong wing-beats of a raven flying overhead. I will never forget that. It was magical. Although this upper canyon is arguably not as spectacular as the main Antelope Canyon, I much preferred it. I don’t know what it’s like now.