WHEN THE WORK
STOPS FEELING LIKE YOU
What if the next chapter doesn't begin by adding something new—but by remembering what was always there?
from the series The Moments
A few days ago, I found myself looking through some of my own photographs.
Not the ones that performed best.
Not the ones that attracted the most attention.
Not the ones that made the most sense from a business perspective.
The ones I kept returning to for reasons I couldn't fully explain.
A man floating beneath an umbrella.
Balloons drifting toward a sky that seemed more interested in questions than answers.
Moments that felt slightly absurd, slightly poetic and somehow more honest than reality itself.
And as I looked at them, a simple thought appeared:
I miss this.
Not the images themselves.
The feeling behind them.
For a long time, I believed creative growth meant constantly moving forward. Learning more.
Building more. Expanding more.
But lately I've started wondering if growth sometimes looks different.
What if it also means returning?
Returning to the things that made us curious before we started worrying about markets, audiences, expectations and outcomes.
Somewhere along the way, many of us begin creating with other people in mind.
Will people like it?
Will it work?
Will it sell?
Will it perform?
These aren't bad questions.
But they can become dangerous when they slowly replace a much more important one:
Do I still love this?
I don't think creativity disappears.
I think it waits.
Patiently.
Quietly.
For us to stop negotiating with ourselves.
The interesting thing is that I never stopped making photographs.
Yet recently I realized there were parts of me that hadn't been given enough room for a very long time.
The philosophical part.
The playful part.
The part that enjoys questions more than answers.
The part that sees humor in serious things and seriousness in absurd things.
The part that doesn't want to explain everything.
The part that thinks in images.
And maybe that's what this season is really about.
Not abandoning one thing.
But allowing another thing to breathe.
For years I've spent a lot of time asking what the world wanted from my photography.
Lately I've become more interested in a different question.
What does my photography want from me?
I don't know exactly where that question will lead.
But for the first time in a long while, I feel curious again.
And curiosity has always been a better compass than certainty.
Perhaps the next chapter isn't about becoming someone new.
Perhaps it's simply about making room for the person who has been waiting patiently in the background all along.
And maybe that's enough.
I spent years trying to make photographs people would remember.
Now I find myself drawn to the photographs I would miss if I never made them.
Images and Text © Sascha van der Werf
