There is a moment in photography — a moment so fleeting that it barely exists — when something in the world calls out and something inside us answers. If we’re honest, that moment is rarely conscious.
We like to believe we decide to take a photograph, but more often, the photograph decides for us.
Years of seeing, studying, absorbing, and remembering - all accumulating beneath the surface. They form a silent intelligence — a visual instinct — that recognizes meaning before the conscious mind can name it.
This subconscious eye is shaped by:
• the symbols we’ve internalized
• the gestures we’ve witnessed
• years of visual memory
• the rituals we’ve observed
• the emotional rhythms of human life
• the mythic echoes that resonate across cultures
• the rhythm of human behavior
The subconscious sees patterns that the conscious mind cannot yet articulate. It senses alignment, tension, harmony, and story. It responds to the world with intuition rather than analysis.
Our subconscious recognizes the moment before our conscious mind can name it.
It sees the gesture, the alignment, the symbolic echo — and it acts.
This is why the best photographs feel received rather than constructed.
We don’t take them.
We allow them.
Only afterward, the conscious mind steps in.
After the photograph is taken, in the quiet realm of post processing, the conscious mind begins its work.
It analyzes the frame, interprets the moment, and constructs meaning.
It says: “Ah, I took this because the light was perfect,”, or “I was drawn to the gesture”, or “This composition echoes a painting I love.”
These are explanations, not causes. These explanations are retrospective.
They are stories we tell ourselves to justify a decision already made.
The cause happened earlier, in the part of the mind that doesn’t speak — the part that simply knows.
The subconscious creates. The subconscious is not the enemy of intention. It is the wellspring of intuition.
Our conscious mind is the editor, the interpreter, the curator.
Our subconscious is the hunter, the listener, the seer.
Creativity happens when the two collaborate:
• The subconscious recognizes the moment.
• The conscious mind later understands why it mattered.
This is why my work feels mythic — because my subconscious is constantly matching the world against a deep internal library of symbols, gestures, and archetypes.
I don’t think my way into those moments. I feel my way into them.
In Islamic thought, creativity is often framed as something granted rather than owned.
The phrase “Mashallah” (As God has willed it) reflects a worldview in which human creativity is not a personal achievement but a blessing — a trust.
This perspective carries a profound humility.
It suggests that the artist is not the source of creation, but the vessel.
That inspiration is not manufactured, but it is received.
That the moment of seeing is not seized, but granted. As a photographer, this resonates deeply with me.
The truth is:
We do not control the world we photograph.
We do not command the light, the gesture, the expression, the timing.
We simply remain open — receptive — ready.
In this sense, the subconscious moment of creation feels less like a decision and more like a gift.
I have long believed that every portrait is also gift from the photographed person to the photographer.
It is a moment of mutual recognition — a silent agreement that says:
“I see you.”
“You may see me.”
“Let us share this moment.”
This exchange is not transactional. It is relational. It is human.
The subject offers presence.
The photographer offers attention.
The photograph becomes the artifact of their shared experience.
This is why the best portraits feel alive — because they are born from collaboration, not appropriation or exploitation.
They emerge from respect, empathy, and the acknowledgment of a shared condition.
In this way, portraiture becomes a spiritual practice - a practice of humility, a practice of gratitude, and always - a practice of seeing.
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