A Thousand Eyes, A Thousand Visions

Not long ago, someone told me I didn’t have vision.
That my work lacked punch, or maybe color, or maybe something else they couldn’t quite name. It stung—not because I agreed, but because it echoed a quiet question I’ve carried for a long time:
What does it mean to truly “have vision” as an artist?
And if my way of seeing doesn’t match what others expect… does it still count?

It’s a question every creative person asks at some point—what is vision, and is mine valid?

Vision is not a style. It’s attention.

We often treat “vision” as if it’s some defined aesthetic: a look, a color grade, a grid that matches. But that’s not vision. That’s branding.

True vision is quieter.
It’s about what pulls at your eye before you can explain why.
It’s a feeling that rises in you when light touches a wall a certain way, or when you spot something that most people would pass by. It’s attention—not just to what’s visible, but to what’s felt.

And here’s the beautiful thing: everyone pays attention to something different.
Some see light. Others see decay. Some are drawn to faces, others to textures. One person walks past a puddle, and another crouches beside it because the reflection looks like a portal. Or a memory. Or both.

What might seem irrelevant to someone else—a chipped tile, a tangle of branches, a red trail marker half-swallowed by bark—might hold more emotional truth for you than a skyline ever could. Not because it’s impressive. But because it’s real. Because it means something.

Sometimes, what we see is what we remember.

There are moments when a detail catches our eye, and we don't know why.
The way light falls through a dusty window. The shape of a tree on a hill. The flicker of warmth in the corner of a stranger’s smile.

And later we realize: we weren’t just seeing. We were remembering.
Not clearly. Not directly. But emotionally.
We were being pulled—subtly—into the gravity of a faded memory, a feeling we had long ago and forgot we carried.

The moment we notice something, we’re not just documenting the world — we’re quietly honoring our past, our instincts, our longings.

This is why photography matters. Not just for what it shows — but for what it holds.
It’s why your vision, even if no one else immediately “gets” it, is still valid. Maybe even essential.

Comparison makes us forget this.

We scroll through polished feeds, viral edits, bold colors, curated aesthetics—and we start to question our own instincts.
Am I seeing enough? Am I showing enough? Is my way of noticing even relevant?

But your vision isn’t supposed to look like anyone else’s. That’s the point.
The value isn’t in how your work stacks up — it’s in how deeply it’s rooted in you.

Some visions whisper. Others glow quietly at the edges. Some are made of softness, others of stillness.
And they are all worth sharing.

Vision isn’t always obvious. But it’s always there.

It’s in the way you slow down.
In the things you notice that no one else would have.
In the quiet care you bring to your craft, even when no one is watching.

To pay attention is to create meaning. To share it is to offer connection.

There are as many visions as there are people behind cameras, notebooks, brushes.
Yours doesn’t have to match a trend.
It just has to be honest.

So if you’re wondering if your vision is real, or good enough, or worth it?

It is.

If it feels like you, it matters.
That quiet instinct you follow? That flicker of light you stop for?
That’s vision.
And it’s more than enough.