Before the flower speaks, the light does... What first caught my attention wasn’t the red bud at the centre, but how light moved across the leaves. Sunlight filters in at different angles, grazing some surfaces while flooding others, and that alone creates a quiet symphony of greens. Where the light hits directly, the leaves turn bright—almost translucent—revealing veins and subtle textures. Where the light softens or slips away, deeper emerald and cooler jade tones emerge. Even within a single leaf, you can see multiple greens living side by side, shaped purely by direction, intensity, and reflection. This is light as a painter. It doesn’t change the leaf itself, only how we perceive it. Highlights add freshness and energy, shadows add calm and depth. The result is not a flat green, but a layered one—alive, breathing, and constantly shifting with time. Only after noticing the light do we truly notice the subject.
At first glance, this is a simple beach scene—children standing by the shoreline, others already in the water, waves repeating their endless rhythm. Nothing dramatic. Nothing staged. And yet, this is exactly where the art of seeing begins in photography. What drew me to press the shutter was not a single subject, but a pattern of attention. The line of children facing the sea feels almost ceremonial, as if they are waiting for permission from the water itself. Their silhouettes strip away identity and detail, turning them into shapes, gestures, and relationships. In black and white, the scene becomes quieter, more reflective—less about who they are and more about what is happening. Photography, at its core, is not about seeing more—it’s about seeing differently. Many people would walk past this moment, registering it only as background activity. But the photographer pauses. Observes. Notices the contrast between stillness and movement: some bodies frozen at the edge, others already imm...