Returning to the Same Place

One of the greatest photographers, Elliott Erwitt, once said:

"To me, photography is an art of observation. It’s about finding something interesting in an ordinary place… I’ve found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them."

With fall approaching, I felt a familiar pull to return to a place I’ve photographed many times before: a simple cornfield. On the surface, it may not seem like the most remarkable subject. But for me, it has become a kind of quiet teacher.

Over the past few years, I’ve stood at its edge in early spring, when the ground was soft and scattered with the remains of last year’s harvest. Last spring, I arrived to find a blanket of purple dead nettle covering the field. It was striking—how something with “dead” in its name could bring such vivid life back into the landscape. A reminder, perhaps, that renewal often shows up in unexpected ways.

In another season, the field was planted in soy. Most of it had turned a warm brown, left in the field to dry before harvest. What caught my attention was a single corn stalk left behind, rising above the soy as if determined not to disappear. From where I stood, it looked like it was reaching toward the roof of a barn in the distance—a quiet picture of persistence.

Another time, I leaned in closer. The drying soybeans swayed in the breeze, their brittle stems moving together in soft waves, almost like a dance. It struck me how even at the end of a season—when growth is nearly finished—there can still be rhythm, movement, and quiet beauty.

Most recently, I returned in late summer, just before sunset. From a high vantage point, I could see the rows of corn weaving in soft, curving lines across the field. The golden light traced every contour, making ordinary lines feel luminous and extraordinary. It was a reminder that perspective and timing can transform something familiar into something entirely new.

Every visit to this field has been like that. Each season offers a new lesson, a new detail, a new perspective. The field itself is never exactly the same—and neither am I.

That’s what fascinates me about revisiting the same place: it reveals how much both the world and I are always changing. What feels familiar holds endless surprises, if I slow down enough to notice.

In a way, this field mirrors life. We walk the same paths, return to the same routines, revisit the same people and places. And yet, if we’re paying attention, there’s always something new to be seen—a detail, a shift, a story unfolding in the ordinary.

Photography, for me, is a way of practicing that kind of presence. It helps me remember that even the familiar is worth looking at again.

Here are four moments from this same field—each one a reminder that even in familiar places, something new is always waiting to be seen:

Last year’s harvest scattered on the ground, yet color found its way back—life returning where it was least expected.

Amid rows of brown soy, one corn stalk stood tall—stretching as if to touch the roof of the barn beyond.

Drying in the field, the soy swayed together in the wind—still moving, still alive with quiet rhythm.

At sunset, the rows of corn curved like ribbons across the land—ordinary lines made luminous by the light.

Each time I return to this field, I’m reminded that photography isn’t only about what stands in front of me, but how I choose to see it. The shifting light, the changing seasons, even my own perspective—all of it shapes the story.

Perhaps that’s why Erwitt’s words resonate so deeply: “It has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them.”

This field has taught me that lesson again and again. And I think that’s why I keep coming back—not just to photograph, but to learn how to see.

Do you have a place that teaches you to see something new each time you return?