The Quiet Work of Noticing

Why Paying Attention Matters in Nature Photography (and Life)

I’ve been told I have great eyesight. Usually after I’ve pointed something out no one else has noticed—a baby frog the size of my thumbnail tucked up on a leaf three metres away or a small bird perched amongst the dense foliage of the trees high up, for example. My good eyesight goes out the window when I’m trying to find something in the fridge and it's not exactly where I expect it to be. 

But the truth is, my eyesight’s average. One of my eyes has astigmatism. I don’t wear my glasses nearly as often as I should. It's not sharp vision that helps me see these things, it's a kind of second nature attention. Pattern recognition. A quiet, ongoing scanning of the world around me. I rarely go out looking for anything specific. I just notice what’s there.

This habit, this way of seeing—it's what shapes me as a wildlife photographer. And honestly, as a person.

I don’t remember when it started or when I developed it. But I do remember the first time I noticed that not everyone sees this way.

I was out the back at a mate’s place, having a beer. I spotted this tiny frog—brand new, still wearing the last echoes of its tadpole tail—sitting on a leaf near some basil. To me, it stood out straight away, a soft little adorable jewel in the green. I pointed it out and my mate just couldn't see it. I had to explain exactly where to look. It was like trying to explain to someone which star you're pointing at. When they finally did see it, they were gobsmacked. “How the hell did you notice that?”

I didn’t really have an answer. I felt the opposite - how didn't they see it? 

Noticing is my default mode. I don’t flick it on when I go out bush or pick up the camera—it’s always running. It’s in how I see the way foliage moves, how I hear silence shift when something is watching back. It’s in knowing how a tree usually sways, and catching the fractionally different movement when a bird lands in it. That kind of attunement is what makes nature photography possible for me—because before the photo, there’s always the moment.

It’s not just visual, either. Sound is a huge part of it. Sometimes it’s a call or a rustle of leaves that doesn't fit the breeze but just as often it’s the absence of one. Sometimes it’s subtle, like a shift in tone when something breathes out. 

When I was a kid, we had a spa out the back of our house in Darwin. Frogs would sometimes leap in during the night, thinking they’d found a great place to lay eggs, not realising it was full of chlorine and there was no easy way out. I learned to wake at the sound of a splash—not the loud ones, but the gentle little “plip” that meant a frog was in trouble. I’d go out in the rain, half-asleep, and rescue them. I don’t remember anyone teaching me that. But I remember how it felt: like duty. Like love. Like being in tune.

Noticing, over time, becomes a kind of empathy. You watch a lizard long enough, you start to get a sense of its habits. Its little decisions. What makes it pause. What makes it dart. You stop thinking of the little scaley friend as an “it.” Same with people. Paying attention to someone over time, noticing their rhythms and silences—you learn them, a little. You make space.

This habit of attention shapes everything about how I approach photographing wildlife. I rarely plan images beyond choosing a general place and a rough time of day. I let the noticing do the rest. It’s not passive, it’s not lazy—it’s deliberate stillness. I go where the details lead me. I don’t often chase a subject. I wait for it to tell me something.

And although I believe I've partly developed this kind of pattern recognition because I have aphantasia it doesn't mean I'm special in this. Anyone can notice more. You don’t have to hike into the bush, go on a silent retreat or be a professional wildlife photographer. You can start by sitting on your driveway for ten minutes, with nothing in your hands to distract. You’ll probably get bored. That’s fine, good even. Let yourself be bored. Boredom is the crack where curiosity gets in.

And then maybe you’ll spot some ants doing something cool. Or hear the creak of a branch to look up and see a bird you've never seen before. Or maybe it's about to rain and you'll wonder what that smell in the air actually is.

You don’t have to become a monk. You don’t have to go on a retreat or find your third eye or learn to sit cross-legged without losing circulation. You just have to stop long enough for the natural world to get a word in.

New Site, No Shop — Am I a Real Artist™?

So. You’ve found my new website. It’s shinier, simpler, easier to manage—and filled with more of my brain, neatly offloaded into little paragraphs.

Now, when I started working with another Real Artist to redesign and rebuild the whole thing for me (if you like what you see, click his name: Linus), I did what any sensible adult does in the middle of a website overhaul: I spiralled out of control about whether I’m a real artist or not. 

Not in the “do I create meaningful work?” kind of way. But in the “should I have an online store?” kind of way. You know, a proper online store, with Buy Now buttons and product variants and maybe a very Professional Shipping & Returns policy written in Helvetica.

Because somewhere along the line (thanks, capitalism!), I internalised the idea that selling your work is what makes you legitimate. No shop>no sales  = hobbyist. No checkout button = just a guy with a camera and some feelings.

And I wanted to feel professional. I wanted to be seen as professional. I wanted the validation of aesthetic legitimacy.

The realisation started with money and trying to be smarter about what I was spending. Cutting things I wasn’t really using, like that streaming service I only use for one program I almost never watch anyways. And the expensive Webflow subscription? Does it really need to cost that much? Do I need the ecommerce plan?

That’s when I had to stop and face some hard thoughts. Because the deeper I dug, the more obvious it became: the shop wasn’t about sales. It was about feeling professional. It made me feel like a Real Artist™. 

But what was it actually maintaining?

An illusion.

Most of my income comes from services—community projects, commissions, the kind of local and real-world stuff that doesn’t need a shipping calculator. When someone wants a print, they message me. When someone’s curious, they ask. It’s less automated, more human, and more honest to how I actually work.

So, when I can beat the little voice of capitalism back into its cage (it does not go without a fight!) What makes me feel like a real artist?

It's the impulse to make something out of noticing the everyday things around me. The ache to try and share the beauty I see with anyone who will look  – and hope they see it, feel it, too. 

So—welcome. Have a look around. Ask questions if you have any. And if you do want a print, reach out. But most of all, I just really hope you enjoy your little moment here. Thanks.