The Art of Noticing: What Happens When We Really Look?

When was the last time you really looked at something?

Not glanced at it. Not identified it, categorized it, and moved on. But actually looked.

The shadow cast across a wall in the late afternoon. The irregular edge of a stone. The faded colors on an old building. The way two shapes overlap. A tiny mark in a painting that you somehow didn't notice the first three times you looked at it.

We spend much of our lives seeing without really noticing.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts of art: it gives us a reason to stop.

Seeing Is Not the Same as Noticing

Our brains are remarkably efficient. We learn to recognize things quickly so we can move through the world without examining every detail around us.

Chair....Tree....House....Person....Painting.

We identify the object and move on.  But mindfulness asks something different of us.  Instead of asking, What is it? we can ask - What do I notice?

That tiny change in the question can completely change the experience. Suddenly a painting isn't simply a collection of shapes and colors. You begin noticing relationships.

A line disappears beneath another form.

A rough area sits beside something smooth.

A circle feels strangely balanced against an angular shape.

A color you thought was blue contains traces of green, gray, or violet.

The longer you stay, the more the image seems to change.

Of course, the artwork hasn't changed.

Your attention has.

Abstract Art Gives Us Permission to Wander

This is one reason I am increasingly drawn to abstraction.

Representational art often gives us an immediate starting point. We recognize the flower, landscape, animal, or figure. Abstract art can be less accommodating. It may not tell us exactly what we're looking at. And I think that's part of its beauty. Without an obvious subject, the eye is free to wander. We notice shape before meaning. Texture before explanation. Movement before story. We may find ourselves following a line through the composition or wondering why a particular shape attracts us. There doesn't necessarily have to be a correct interpretation. Instead, there is an experience. Layers Reward Attention

My own work has long involved layers—layers of paint, ink, collage, texture, translucent surfaces, marks, and dimensional elements. Lately, I've become interested in simplifying some of those elements into abstract compositions influenced in part by the shapes and visual language of Mid-Century Modern art. At first glance, these newer works may appear simpler. But simplicity can invite a different kind of attention. A shape becomes important. So does the space around it. A small mark can change the balance of an entire composition. Texture interrupts a flat field of color. Something partially hidden beneath another layer makes you wonder what came before. The layers aren't simply a technique. They are an invitation to look again. And then perhaps once more.

What Does Mindfulness Look Like?

This is a question that has increasingly become central to my work:

What does mindfulness look like?

I don't think it necessarily looks peaceful. It doesn't always look like perfect stillness, meditation cushions, quiet landscapes, or carefully stacked stones. Sometimes mindfulness is simply noticing what is already here.

The chipped edge.
The unexpected color.
The imperfect line.
The empty space between two forms.
The thing we nearly overlooked.

Mindfulness isn't necessarily about transforming an ordinary moment into something extraordinary.

Sometimes it is about realizing that the ordinary moment was never quite as ordinary as we thought.

The Beauty of the Mundane

As a psychologist and an artist, I am fascinated by perception.

Two people can encounter exactly the same thing and experience it differently. Even the same person can return to something familiar at another time and suddenly see something that was invisible before.  Art gives us a place to practice that kind of attention.  Stand in front of a piece for a little longer than feels necessary.  Notice where your eyes go first.  Then notice where they go next.  Look at the spaces between things rather than the things themselves.  Move closer.  Step farther away.  Notice texture.  Notice repetition.  Notice the one element that doesn't quite belong.

And perhaps most importantly, notice what happens inside you while you're looking.

You don't need to decide whether you understand the artwork.

You don't even have to decide whether you like it immediately.

Just notice.

Maybe Looking Is the Point

We live in a world designed to make us move quickly. Scroll. Click. Swipe. Next.
Art asks something almost rebellious of us.

Stay.

Look a little longer.

There may be something there you haven't seen yet.

And perhaps that practice doesn't end when we walk away from the artwork.

Maybe we begin noticing the shape of the clouds on the drive home.

The pattern of cracks in the sidewalk.

The colors reflected in a puddle.

The expression that briefly crosses someone's face.

The way morning light lands on an ordinary coffee cup.

The small details of a life that are incredibly easy to miss while we're busy living it.

That may be one of the ideas behind my newest work.

Not simply to create something to look at.

But to create a reason to notice.

Because sometimes the difference between the mundane and the beautiful is simply whether we were paying attention.