It’s Not a Photograph. Yet.

My Land Rover pulled up just in time to watch the lions finish their meal. What remained had once been…what? A zebra? It’s sometimes hard to tell. Whatever it was, it’s mostly gone now.

“We’re too late,” I hear someone say. “Nothing to see here.” Maybe it was the voice in my head.

But hang on a moment. In the world of wildlife photography (which this article is not about, so keep reading if you’re into other things), I think there is a difference between a sighting and a scene.

A sighting is, “Look, a leopard!” It might be hidden behind half of the branches in Zambia, but there it is. A leopard. It’s beautiful! But with little else to offer, it’s not really a photograph. The leopard is obscured. The light is harsh. All I can see is the back of the head. A sighting, sure. But not a scene. Yet.

It is OK not to raise your camera to your eye. It’s OK to look at what’s in front of you and think, “That’s just not a photograph.” When you’re looking for a photograph that tells a story or something that really moves you—something with mood and emotion—it’s more often not a photograph. That’s what makes it so wonderful in the moments when it is. When all the pieces do come together. A good photograph is a rare thing.

As you read this, I’m on my way to Kenya for the month of February. A group of photographers will join me for the first nine nights, and we’ll all have many opportunities to figure out if something we’re looking at is a sighting or something more: a scene. If we’re not careful, the mistake we’ll make is to forget just how quickly one can become the other.

Go back to me sitting in the Land Rover with the lions and the erstwhile zebra, and imagine you’re there with me. The moment you think, “Well, nothing to see here,” you should become suspicious. And you should pay attention. Because while this is the time that the lionesses will roll over and sleep (nothing to see here), the cubs will play, and the sighting will become a scene.

The seasoned response to “nothing to see here” isn’t “let’s go!”—it’s “let’s wait.” A mere sighting can become an astonishing scene very quickly.

What often transpires in front of our lens never becomes a photograph. We wait and wait, and the pieces never quite align, the composition never materializes, the light fizzles out, and the moment never happens. Fine.

The dues we pay for the best of our images are often paid in the currency of minutes and hours. And sometimes (often, even), the dues we pay don’t see an immediate return.

You can wait for hours without seeing a wolf. You can sit on a street corner and never see anyone walk into the perfect light you’ve waited years to find. But it’s more likely that you won’t see a wolf without waiting for hours. It’s more likely you won’t see someone walk into that light if you don’t wait around in hopes they do.

There is wisdom in looking at something and saying, “There’s not a photograph here,” before moving on. There’s also wisdom in knowing there’s a chance and sticking around to see what happens.

For me, it comes down to odds. If I’ve got an incredible background, some interesting light (or the promise of it), and know there’s a chance (for example) that the lion cub will swat its sister and then climb on the fallen tree behind them in hopes of some play time, then I’ll wait. It’s harder to find a great background in nice light than it is to find a playful lion cub. 

If there’s even a chance that waiting can turn the sighting (yawn) into a scene (OMG!), I’ll wait.

The difference between a sighting and a scene lies in the possibilities, or your ability to recognize them. If there’s truly nothing to work with, move along and find something else. But if what you’re looking at is an “almost” (or it feels like it could be), I’d be inclined to stick it out and wait. Doesn’t matter what you photograph. If you’re at almost, wait it out or shoot through it—because almost is rare.

A good photograph happens at the intersection of light, space, and time. You need all three: the right light, the right stuff in the right part of the frame, and the right moment. Two out of three is often worth waiting for, especially if giving up and moving on only takes you somewhere that gives you one out of three—or none at all.

“Nothing to see here.” We’re so quick to say it. Are you sure?

In a world where photographers can very quickly stand on level ground with each other in their ability to use a camera, what if it’s not upgrading to that better camera or that bigger lens, but the simple ability—or willingness—to wait it out that is the difference between making something astonishing, and making nothing at all?

The difference between a sighting and a scene is often just the word “yet,” but don’t read that lightly because getting to yet is hard. Getting to yet is a risk. Getting to yet, if it comes at all, often comes only after wrestling with the fear of missing out on whatever is happening elsewhere while you sit here. Waiting.

One more thing: what if it’s not so much that nothing’s happening yet as it is that you don’t see it yet. When you resist the urge to quickly move on, you give yourself just a moment or two more, not only for something to happen but for you to see what’s already happening. Or to see the possibility that it might. To notice the light in one direction that you didn’t see while looking in another. To see past your expectations of what you hoped was there and see what is there instead. To see something you haven’t seen. Yet.

So much of photography isn’t about what goes on inside the camera but inside the photographer; it’s how we think, feel, and do.

I spent last year writing a book that many of my regular readers say is my best yet. Light, Space & Time: Essays on Camera Craft and Creativity is available now in the usual places books are sold, including Amazon, or you can get a signed hardcover edition from my publisher by following this link. below.

Have you already read Light, Space & Time? I’d love to hear what you think. You can share that with me in the comments below or by leaving a review wherever you purchased the book. Both would make my day.

For the Love of the Photograph,
David