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We often think of creativity as something that starts from within—an internal spark, a moment of inspiration. But for me, and perhaps for many artists, it begins with how we see the world. Truly see it. Not just glance, not just notice, but observe—with care, curiosity, and attention.

Observation is an art in itself. It’s not passive. It’s not automatic. It’s a practice, a muscle we train. And the more we do it, the more we sharpen the lens through which we perceive the world’s aesthetic offerings.

In my years as a landscape architect, I was often tasked with assessing the visual impact of a site—before and after a project. It wasn’t just about what changed physically, but about how those changes affected the overall visual harmony of a place. Was the landscape still in balance? Did the built form sit with grace in its environment? This work taught me that beauty isn’t just in the eye of the beholder—it’s also in the mind of the observer, shaped by experience, memory, and sensitivity.

Now, as an artist, I continue this habit. I walk through the world collecting silent images:

– the way a line of crows curves over a rooftop against a cloudy sky

– the subtle symmetry in a shelf of colourful products at the supermarket

– a moment in a film where shadow and silence create tension

– a photograph whose composition feels like a quiet poem

Each of these fragments becomes part of my inner visual library. I don’t sketch them all or take photos of them—but I remember. I file them somewhere inside. Later, when I sit with wool or ink or paper, they return. Not exactly as they were, but transformed through feeling and memory.

I believe this kind of daily observation is essential—not just for artists, but for anyone who wants to live more attentively. It’s a gentle rebellion against numbness. It’s a way of saying: I choose to see. I choose to notice the way light bends on a windowsill, the elegance of a dried leaf, the contrast between rust and green.

Over time, this practice creates a shift. We begin to see beauty where others may see only routine. We begin to make connections between things that seem unrelated. We train our eyes to detect rhythm, balance, mood.

And in doing so, we also train our minds to create with more depth, more intention.

Even our dreams—especially the good ones—leave behind traces: images bathed in golden light, feelings that hover like perfume in the morning air. These too become part of our quiet archive, waiting for the right moment to reappear in a brushstroke, a line of thread, a curve of form.

Art is not only made from what we see outside, but also from what we hold within—what we have chosen to notice, to carry, and to remember.

So let us keep looking, with purpose and tenderness.

Because every glance, every shadow, every dream

might be the beginning of a masterpiece.