Jonathan Pellow
To watch a young child interact with the world is to watch a constant process of exploration and discovery. The millions of details that constitute our lived environment, so familiar that we don’t even see them, are still new to a child, beckoning to be explored. Something as simple as a piece of furniture moved from its usual place might provoke wonder or delight, a realization that something she thought she knew contains some new possibility never before considered. A toddler might hug his stuffed bear a hundred times without a thought to its outfit, and then one day the bear's button catches his curiosity and he stops to investigate: what a button is, how it works, what holds it on, why it’s there at all. As we grow, we learn to stop seeing the millions of details in our environment. Instead, we recognize the familiar at a glance—at least in some approximate way—without needing to examine it every time. The shorthand is necessary; it allows us to function in the world. But we delight in watching children because they remind us of the wonder of experiencing the world as a child does, when every experience holds the potential for discovery. Photography, to me, is a way to live just a little bit in that state of wonder. It is a reason, or a reminder--or perhaps simply an excuse--to stop and take in the hundred interesting details in a scene we would otherwise walk by without a second thought: to wonder how they came to be, to reflect on what they say about our world, or simply to delight in their pattern and form. In my photography, I strive to reflect a little bit of that wonder—an invitation to view the world around us with the curiosity and thrill of a child finding something to explore at every turn.
To watch a young child interact with the world is to watch a constant process of exploration and discovery. The millions of details that constitute our lived environment, so familiar that we don’t even see them, are still new to a child, beckoning to be explored. Something as simple as a piece of furniture moved from its usual place might provoke wonder or delight, a realization that something she thought she knew contains some new possibility never before considered. A toddler might hug his stuffed bear a hundred times without a thought to its outfit, and then one day the bear's button catches his curiosity and he stops to investigate: what a button is, how it works, what holds it on, why it’s there at all. As we grow, we learn to stop seeing the millions of details in our environment. Instead, we recognize the familiar at a glance—at least in some approximate way—without needing to examine it every time. The shorthand is necessary; it allows us to function in the world. But we delight in watching children because they remind us of the wonder of experiencing the world as a child does, when every experience holds the potential for discovery. Photography, to me, is a way to live just a little bit in that state of wonder. It is a reason, or a reminder--or perhaps simply an excuse--to stop and take in the hundred interesting details in a scene we would otherwise walk by without a second thought: to wonder how they came to be, to reflect on what they say about our world, or simply to delight in their pattern and form. In my photography, I strive to reflect a little bit of that wonder—an invitation to view the world around us with the curiosity and thrill of a child finding something to explore at every turn.