What do you see here?

At an exhibit of my work, a man approached, excitedly, about something he had discovered in one of the pictures.

“I see a horse,” he said. I have photographed horses, but this was not one of those images. It was of a waterfall plunging a thousand feet down a sheer cliff — a drop so steep even mountain goats couldn’t traverse it.

Where he saw the “horse” was in the texture of the rock wall. In the late evening, the raised surface caught the sunlight in such a way that it looked like the outline of a horse’s head.

Once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it. And, truth be told, I wish he hadn’t noticed that in the first place. Discoveries like that tend to be a stopping point for most viewers. It becomes an answer to a question, an excuse to stop exploring. I would rather he noticed the intense color. Or the feeling evoked by the strong contrast. Or the ephemeral nature of the waterfall that was already fading to the point where the breeze could move it.

But he saw a horse. And his observation is as valid as mine.

As we explore, we are all trying to make sense of our surroundings. We evaluate the possibility of danger or any threats to our level of comfort. Then maybe something catches our fancy because it’s familiar or novel.

And that’s at the heart of what makes a picture art. If everyone viewed everything the same way and there was just one correct way to depict something, there would be no need for pictures. We’d have nothing interesting to say. That we have unique perspectives developed over a lifetime of both shared and individual experiences is what separates us from AI.

A few weeks ago, I was in Kansas during several days of severe thunderstorms. A tornado touched down and damaged homes about eight miles from where I was staying. After the storm passed, I went outside and observed the clouds. One had rows and rows of round bumps, a sign the air was still unstable.

As the clouds broke up and some evening sunlight filtered through, I continued to take pictures, including the one at the top of this post. I took it because I thought the clouds strongly resembled a pair of human lungs. Earlier photos were of the texture and patches of light. This was a reminder that our personal interpretations are what breathes life into any of this.

(Kevin’s book, Five Minutes in Nature, collects images and stories about his experiences in the wilderness, curated to help you have deeper encounters of your own. Preview and order it here. Prints of his images are available through LivingWilderness.com. Learn about new work by joining his mailing list.)