Over time, I started to develop a revulsion against certain kinds of photographic gesture and against the photograph as such. The finished product, the print, even the digital file displayed on the web page. There was a time when I could make out the general tonality and perhaps, if I got really close to the screen, some form. That’s all gone now, and I don’t look at my photographs anymore. This is perhaps the hardest of all. A similar disgust made itself felt when I started shooting randomly into space. Space is a cognitive impossibility for me. When looking forward, we have no concept of the area behind us, outside our field of vision: it is simply not there. That’s how space surrounds me. There is light there, and some vague impressions of shapes, and sometimes a little movement. It’s how my vision changed, from the detailed to the general. Consequently, I explain much of my disgust with the photograph by means of the changes in how I relate to my environment. Photography is all environment; what I know about that environment is what I know “by prediction”, not by how it presents itself to me “now”. That’s the cognitive divide between me and others. Others know more than I do, what I lack is information. In the simultaneous, there is harmony; the procedural carries discord. Wait, that’s not true. Kyudo used to be steps, a sequence, a procedure for setting up the shot, making it aim true mentally, if not physically. I use the walking I learned in archery in everyday life, because it warns you of obstructions in the terrain, if you cannot look down. And there are more parallels. When using the Leica, there is a procedure of feeling for the motif, measuring focal distance, setting up the shot by kneeling, placing the camera on my shoe, balancing it, then holding still while I press the shutter. Not unlike the moment the arrow is released, effortlessly. Shooting without aiming.