Learning to Be Present
Learning to see like an artist sounds far too romantic.
The phrase suggests that artists possess some kind of observational superpower, as though we have access to a secret version of reality that everyone else somehow misses. I don’t think that’s true. What I think artists do is tap into something that already exists within all of us: curiosity. The instinct to ask questions, to look a little closer, and to search for meaning in the things we encounter every day.
Perhaps a better phrase would be learning to be present.
Pablo Picasso is often credited with saying that it took him a lifetime to learn how to see like a child. The wording varies depending on where you read it, but the sentiment remains powerful. Children approach the world with a sense of wonder. They collect interesting stones, stare at insects, ask endless questions and find excitement in things adults barely notice. Somewhere along the way many of us lose that ability. We become busy, distracted and preoccupied with where we’re going next rather than where we are right now.
For me, becoming an artist has been less about learning something new and more about rediscovering a way of looking that was always there.
Attention in the Age of Smartphones
It is only within the last decade and a half that many of us have become permanently attached to our phones.
Waiting used to involve observing our surroundings. Travelling meant staring out of windows, chatting to strangers or allowing our minds to wander. We played games like I Spy. We listened to conversations, watched people and paid attention to the world around us.
Now, many of those moments have been replaced by scrolling.
As I write this essay, I am sitting on a train during my commute. On some journeys I spend the entire time writing. On others, I deliberately put the notebook away and simply observe. I watch the landscape pass by the window. I notice changing weather conditions, shifting light and the small details that make each journey slightly different from the last.
I also talk to people.
Not in an intrusive way. I don’t force conversation on anyone. I simply try to appear approachable and open to the possibility of connection. Quite often people respond to that. They share stories, observations or snippets of their lives that I would never have encountered had I remained hidden behind a screen.
I appreciate that this probably sounds horrifying to anyone with social anxiety. But for me, making art about the world requires participation in it. Observation and connection are deeply linked. If I want to understand people, places and experiences, I have to be willing to engage with them.
The first step towards seeing like an artist is often putting the phone down and paying attention to what is happening around you. It means becoming immersed in the present moment rather than constantly escaping from it.
Looking Beyond What Is Obvious
People have told me before that walking with me can be a strange experience.
Apparently I notice things that most people walk straight past.
The truth is that I notice them because I am always looking.
I don’t just look ahead. I look up, down and around. I study buildings and architectural details hidden above shop fronts. I watch the sky for unusual clouds, dramatic light and fleeting rainbows. I look at the ground for reflections in puddles, interesting textures and traces left behind by people passing through a space.
Years of artistic practice have trained me to look for patterns, compositions, visual relationships and unexpected moments. Sometimes I find humour. Sometimes I find beauty. Sometimes I find evidence of stories that have long since disappeared.
One of the greatest gifts art has given me is a renewed sense of wonder. I can stand in a place doing absolutely nothing and still feel completely engaged by what is happening around me. The world becomes endlessly interesting when you allow yourself to pay attention to it.
This isn’t a skill reserved for artists. Anyone can develop it.
The challenge is remembering to look.
Photography and the Importance of Light
Photography remains one of the most effective ways to train yourself to see.
People often worry about having the wrong camera or not owning expensive equipment, but that has never been the point. The camera itself is simply a tool. What matters is learning to use it as a way of paying attention.
Photography encourages us to frame the world differently. It asks us to make decisions about what matters and what doesn’t. It teaches us to consider perspective, timing, atmosphere and composition.
A familiar street can look completely different depending on the time of day. A puddle becomes a mirror. An ordinary gate becomes a silhouette. A shadow stretches across a pavement and suddenly creates a composition that didn’t exist a few hours earlier.
Everything changes with the light.
Most of my own artistic practice begins with photography in some form, so I spend a lot of time thinking about light. It remains one of the most fascinating aspects of making art.
Without light there is no photograph. More fundamentally, without light there is no life.
Light is something so ordinary and ever-present that many people rarely stop to think about it. Yet it shapes everything we experience. It reveals colour, creates atmosphere and transforms our perception of a place. It influences our mood and changes the emotional character of a landscape.
When I photograph a subject, I am often photographing the light as much as the object itself.
That fascination continues to influence almost everything I make.
Walking as Creative Research
Walking forms a significant part of my artistic practice.
I walk to take photographs. I walk to sketch. I walk to write poems. I walk to collect materials. Sometimes I walk simply because I need time to think.
Walking is not separate from the creative process. In many ways, it is the creative process.
Many of my projects are built around systems. I enjoy creating frameworks that allow me to explore ideas through repetition and observation. In that sense, some of my work resembles a scientific experiment.
What happens if I repeat the same action over and over again?
What changes when I alter a single variable?
What emerges when I observe something consistently over a long period of time?
Working systematically gives me a structure while still allowing room for discovery. Every walk becomes a form of research. Every journey provides new information. Every observation becomes potential material.
The longer I work as an artist, the more convinced I become that creativity isn’t about waiting for inspiration to strike. It is about creating opportunities for discovery.
Walking gives me those opportunities.
Chronic Illness and Creative Adaptation
Walking also reveals another important aspect of my practice: my relationship with fibromyalgia.
Making art is often described as an intellectual activity, but it is also profoundly physical. Observation requires attention. Photography requires movement. Collecting materials requires energy. Even sitting down to write demands concentration and cognitive effort.
Fibromyalgia affects all of those things.
The condition causes significant pain throughout my body, particularly in my hands. Swelling and reduced dexterity can make simple tasks surprisingly difficult. For an artist, that can be deeply frustrating.
The physical symptoms are challenging enough, but the brain fog can be even more disruptive.
Brain fog is often misunderstood as simple forgetfulness. For me, it can be far more severe than that. During a flare, coherent thought becomes difficult. Speaking requires enormous effort. Reading, writing and creating become almost impossible. There are days when I cannot type, struggle to communicate and find even basic mental tasks exhausting.
On those days there is no creative practice.
There is only rest.
I spend the time listening to documentaries, audiobooks and crime podcasts while wrapped in an electric blanket like a human burrito, waiting for the flare to pass.
Eventually it always does.
During those periods I often think about Frida Kahlo. Although her circumstances were very different from my own, her work reminds me that creativity can survive extraordinary hardship. Pain may interrupt the process, but it does not necessarily end it.
The desire to make things always returns.
Making Art From Illness
As I write this, I am on my second commute dedicated to this essay and fibromyalgia is making its presence known after a difficult weekend flare.
For a long time I tried to keep illness separate from my artwork. I wanted the work to stand independently, free from discussions of pain and disability. Over time that became impossible.
Fibromyalgia is part of my everyday experience. Ignoring it began to feel dishonest.
Looking back, I think I was often ableist towards myself. I expected my body to function as though it were healthy and became frustrated when it couldn’t meet those expectations. I was measuring myself against standards that no longer reflected my reality.
Accepting illness as part of my lived experience changed my work.
It also changed the materials I use.
One example is my growing collection of empty medication boxes. For years I flattened them for recycling and stored them until the next trip to the recycling centre. Seeing the sheer volume accumulating over time forced me to confront how much medical waste I was generating.
The quantity itself became meaningful.
Rather than discarding the boxes, I began incorporating them into artworks. Objects that once symbolised pain, dependency and frustration became surfaces for exploration and reflection. They allowed me to examine my experience rather than hide it.
The material carries its own history.
Every box represents an attempt to manage a difficult condition. Every artwork created from them transforms something associated with illness into something capable of generating conversation and meaning.
Why Seeing Like an Artist Matters
Learning to see like an artist has probably been one of the most important developments in my life.
Not because it has made me more observant than anyone else, but because it has changed the way I respond to difficult experiences.
Creativity allows me to examine things that might otherwise overwhelm me. It gives me a framework for asking questions, exploring ideas and finding meaning in situations that don’t always make sense.
Living with chronic pain was never part of the plan. Given the choice, I would happily exchange fibromyalgia for a functioning body tomorrow morning. But this is the life I have, and art has given me a way to navigate it.
Photography allows me to frame the world differently. Writing helps me understand my experiences. Making objects enables me to transform difficult realities into something tangible and meaningful.
Without that ability to reframe and reinterpret, life would have been considerably harder.
Perhaps seeing like an artist is romantic after all.
But whether it is romantic or not, it remains essential to living like one.
About the Artist: Jo Howell
Jo Howell is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice explores photography, cyanotypes, walking, found materials, memory and lived experience. Much of her work begins through observation, collecting visual fragments, discarded objects and everyday experiences before transforming them into artworks that explore place, identity, resilience and transformation.
Living with fibromyalgia has become an important part of Jo’s creative practice, influencing both the materials she uses and the subjects she investigates. Her work often examines the relationship between personal experience and the wider world, finding meaning in objects and moments that might otherwise be overlooked.
If you enjoy Jo’s writing and artwork and would like to support her practice, you can join her Patreon community for behind-the-scenes insights, works in progress, creative experiments and exclusive content. You can also support her by becoming a member on YouTube, where she shares videos about her artistic process, photography, cyanotypes, found-object art and life as a working artist.
Every membership, share, comment and conversation helps support independent creative practice and allows new work to continue being made.
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