The Waiting Light

There’s a moment every artist reaches — the quiet after creation, when the work leaves your hands and begins its own life. You’ve done all you can. You’ve adjusted, refined, corrected, and trusted your instincts. Then, at some point, you have to let go.

That’s where I am now — in the waiting.
It’s not an easy place to sit, especially when the work carries a piece of you with it. But waiting is part of the process too. It’s the same kind of patience a fine-art photographer learns from long exposure — stillness, faith, and the willingness to let something unfold without forcing it.

As a St. Augustine photographer, I’ve learned that once a photograph is made, it no longer belongs entirely to me. It belongs to light, to time, to whoever happens to stand before it. Whether it’s accepted into a show or simply hangs quietly in my own studio, it has already served its purpose — it captured something fleeting and held it still for a moment longer.

So, I wait — not for approval, but for clarity.
Because even in uncertainty, there’s light.
And sometimes the most meaningful part of creating is learning to stand still long enough to see it.