The Photographs I Will Never Take

Last week, in an online session with my Gestalt therapist, he asked me to look around my room and tell him what I saw.

I described the room as white, empty, and simple, like an eggshell. But then he said something that stopped me: "Now look at it like you're a tourist admiring it as a masterpiece."

What happened next changed how I think about seeing.

Suddenly, the afternoon light streaming through my window wasn't just illumination - it was creating shadows that fell like poetry across my walls. The plants cast shadows, similar to photographs being developed in the darkroom. This empty room seemed to pulse with quiet meaning, holding a secret to my question about my art.

Later, reflecting on our conversation, his words unlocked something I'd always known but never articulated. Suddenly, I was back in Georgia, many years ago, where I first discovered that the most important photographs are the ones you never take.

October 6th, 2019, Tbilisi

"I learned so much. To see.

There are so many photographs I will never take. The most important things are impossible to capture. I hold the outline of their spaces in my heart, in the back of my mind, invisible to everyone.

There is that photo of G. meditating on the floor by my bed in a yellow bedsheet against the blue background of the room, like some biblical scene.

There is B. in the middle of the last contact jam, crying alone in a pool of turquoise light, shining from inside. I'm away in the audience, but I'm also with him.

There is J. going into the sea of bodies moving, as if swimming, arms wide open. Just a second ago, he held my hand, saying that dancing with me was a blessing, as I was crying from the impossible beauty of everything.

There is C. holding H. as he floats in the dark sulfur pool, people chanting, shadows of their bodies silver with water. It looks like an ancient ritual, an offering.

There is a handsome Georgian father with a little girl in a coffee shop next to me. He has soft hair and kind eyes. I dare not take a photo, but I can't stop looking in the mirror at their exchange.

There is a sunset and gradual twilight at the foot of the monument, where H. and I spent hours holding each other and just being.

There is the last tango with K. on the roof of the baths building. It rains lightly as we dance, headphones shared between us, and I feel one with his body, no thoughts or feelings.

And there's a last surprise embrace in the kitchen before leaving, with a total stranger. He comes to the hostel to replace a friend. We both remind each other of someone. There's gentleness in the conversation, and when we hug, neither wants to let go. The first and last time we see each other.

All these are photographs I will never get to take, but they continue living inside me."

What I discovered in Georgia - and rediscovered in my therapy session - is that there's a way of seeing that transforms both the seer and the seen. It's the difference between looking and witnessing, between documenting and receiving.

I said to him - I know I'm an artist because of the way I look at the world. It's not just about making things and selling them, or getting acknowledgement from others.

Don't let other people tell you who you are because they have a measure for it - a canvas, a print, a camera. Art is a sacred way of living and being in this world that connects us to something bigger than us. The shape it takes in material reality can be anything - from a poem to a dish, from a drawing to the way you dress and walk.

The invitation is always the same: to see with love, to be amazed by what is here, and to trust that the world around us is constantly offering wisdom to our deepest questions.

What photographs will you never take, but carry with you always?