Zen is not exactly a philosophy—nor is it confined to religion, doctrine, theory, or law. For many, Zen simply is. It exists as a direct realization, something deeply personal and experiential. According to Zen, art should be simple, stripped of distraction, and honest in its presence. It suggests that the essence and eternal quality of an object is complete, even before it is seen. True art, in this view, lies in the nature of the object itself—timeless and beyond interpretation.
In Zen, words fall short. So instead of explaining, I turn to the act of seeing. I take a photograph in the precise moment nature reveals something true. What I seek isn’t just the visual scene, but the presence of a fleeting moment—the quiet truth that exists within it. Through the lens of a 4×5 view camera, I try to connect with that moment, even as the past and its emotional residue resist clear understanding. Nature stirs feelings in me that never fully resolve, yet they guide my process.
In Buddhism, there isn’t always a definitive answer, and that too reflects my journey this semester. My experience wasn’t defined by recognition or rejection; rather, it was shaped by intensity—an intensity that often existed apart from the images I created. My photography felt less like expression and more like reflection—quiet, still, and inward.
Inspired by Ansel Adams’ monochrome landscapes, I felt my practice evolve—from the past into the present. This semester, photography became a quiet regeneration of my emotions. Even when working with grayscale, the lighting, tones, and structure expressed something vivid. Each image held a piece of me—anchored in the darkest shadows and brightest highlights, while all the subtle mid-tones held the unspoken narrative.
My inspiration pushed me toward complexity—not just in subject matter, but in self-understanding. The most difficult path often revealed the most truth. And in the end, the personal victories mattered less than the total experience of what I lived and created throughout the semester.
