The Difference Between Looking and Seeing: What Watercolor Taught Me About Paying Attention

"Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity."

— Simone Weil

My husband doesn’t let me drive on road trips. When we were first together, a million years ago, we would share the driving. Not anymore. Let me explain. My husband is a typical Virgo. He wants to have things organized and lined up. If the map says it should take x amount of time to get to a location, that is the target. To be honest, he likes to beat that time. He drives straight ahead and doesn’t stop unless absolutely necessary. He stays focused on the goal of getting to where we are going. The entire time. I barely even get a conversation out of him.

This is what I do if I'm driving. I listen to audiobooks or music. I stop whenever something looks interesting (within reason). I have snacks. I take pictures out the window. I imagine the lives of the people who live in the houses I pass. I marvel at the clouds.

Neither of these styles of driving on a road trip is inherently wrong. Ultimately, we both get where we're going. Over the years, we have learned to compromise. I let my husband drive the car so that I can look out the window and take pictures, thus making pulling over way less often. He stops when I have to go potty, and I try to give him a ten-minute warning before I really have to go. I make him listen to books, something that he would never do on his own. I am an avid reader, and he is an avid watcher of sports. I show him interesting things and point out the beauty in the scenery that I know he wouldn’t notice otherwise. For example, on a recent trip to St. Simons, GA we were driving onto the island, and I pointed out the way the sun was sparkling through the Spanish moss dripping from the live oaks lining the road and how the branches were curving and gnarling, stretching toward the light. I also, on occasion, make him pull over at interesting places just because I want to.

Those road trips have taught me something about the two of us. We have different ways of seeing things. Neither of us is wrong. We simply pay attention to different things. My husband notices efficiency, timing, and getting where we're going. I notice weathered barns, dramatic clouds, the way evening light falls across a field, and the stories I imagine unfolding inside old houses.

It has taken me years to understand that I experience the world differently than many people do. When something captures my attention because of its beauty, its novelty, or how it makes me feel, I want to explore it more and figure out why it is grabbing me.

Sometimes I can't explain why something catches me. It might be the curve of a country road, peeling paint on an old farmhouse, or the silhouette of a tree against the evening sky. Most people would drive right past it. I can't. I need to understand why it made me stop.

Painting isn't my way of escaping the world. It's my way of paying attention to it. When I paint, I'm asking myself why this moment, this place, or this feeling refused to let me pass it by. Every painting is my attempt to understand something that stayed with me. Maybe that's what art has always been for me. A way of paying attention.

Today, on your way to work or while walking the dog, pay attention to one ordinary thing. Maybe it's the way the light falls across the sidewalk. Maybe it's an old mailbox. Maybe it's a tree you've driven past a hundred times. Before you rush on to the next task, stop for just a moment and ask yourself,

"Why did that catch my attention?"

You don't have to paint it.

But you might discover that paying attention is the first step toward seeing.

A Moment to Notice

What's one ordinary thing that caught your attention today? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.