Slow vision is a counterpoint to the constant flood of images, the overstimulation, and the rush of everyday life. While our gaze otherwise restlessly jumps across surfaces, slow vision reveals a depth that calms, clarifies, and connects.
We live in a time of constant images. Hundreds of visual stimuli pass us by every day – fast, loud, fleeting. We scroll, swipe, and evaluate. And in doing so, we often lose what images could actually be: bridges between perception and sensation. Between inside and outside.
In my photographic work, I try to counteract precisely this pace: a conscious, slow way of seeing. Not as a technique, but as an attitude.
Because seeing is not always seeing. There's a difference between "looking at something" and "really seeing" that goes deeper than we realize. Those who see what doesn't impose themselves—those who immerse themselves in an image instead of passing over it—not only experience more, but experience it differently. More intensely. More sincerely. More lastingly.
What does slow vision mean?
Slow viewing doesn't mean contemplating an image for as long as possible. It means looking with inner openness. Without immediate judgment. Without distraction. Without intention. It means engaging with a visual moment—and allowing it to take effect.
In my Flourish series, I work with precisely this idea: The images aren't meant to explain, impress, or overwhelm. They're meant to accompany. Provide space. Breathe in. Breathe out. And in their stillness, offer a connection—to nature, but also to something personal, something inner.
Seeing as a relationship, not as a reaction.
When we truly see, we enter into a relationship. With what we see—and with ourselves. This is different from consumption. Consuming images is fast. Seeing is slow. It takes time, willingness, and sometimes even courage.
Courage to allow yourself to be touched.
Courage not to have to “recognize” anything.
Courage not to distract yourself – but to get involved.
Why is this more relevant today than ever?
Because sensory overload is no longer a minor concern. Because many people can no longer find peace – neither externally nor internally. And because images, when consciously designed, can create a counterpoint: as visual anchors in a turbulent world.
I believe that images can not only show, but also remind us. Of what is essential. What sustains us. What connects us. Slow viewing is not a retreat—it is a form of reconnection. A gentle form of resistance against the fleeting.
What remains.
A picture that isn't loud often stays with us longer. Not because it screams, but because it speaks. Quietly. But honestly. Perhaps that's precisely the task of art today: to create spaces in which we learn to see again. To truly see.