Awe is always possible
It is an act of resistance to keep turning our attention toward the small, the slow, the soft. There is no work without the awe, the looking around for it.
lessons in looking is a newsletter by visual artist and writer Ludi Leiva — slow essays on attention, making, and what we gain when we stop and look for a while. Free to read, with paid subscriptions available if you’d like to support the work.
You may notice things look a little different. After a couple of iterations (Field Notes on Flourishing, studio letters) this newsletter is now called lessons in looking. Not exactly a new beginning, more like finding the right container for something that was already occurring.
Recently, my partner texted me a photo of my favourite flowers that he took while on a walk. As I opened up my phone and saw them there on my cracked iPhone screen, tears welled up in my eyes. I had been passively keeping an eye out for them — these flowers I have come to adore — alongside sidewalks, in shaded grassy nooks beside buildings, their usual spots. But I hadn’t seen any yet. The photo was evidence of something I had been yearning and waiting for, as one does at the end of a long winter: the first whispers of spring.
Galanthus, or snowdrops, are among the very first flowers to emerge from the thawing ground every year. They weren’t common where I grew up, and I don’t remember seeing them the way I do here in Sweden. I’m not sure if it’s born of my deepened attunement to the seasonal shifts I’ve cultivated while living in Scandinavia, or their more ubiquitous presence here, but these flowers have become incredibly important to me. They feel like little angel messengers, announcing warmer times, gently beckoning: it’s safe to come out again.
After receiving the text, I set out to find some snowdrops on my own. And since then, I’ve been intentionally looking for them, delighting in each patch I find. It’s only been a few days, but the snowdrops have now been joined by other flowers — small purple and yellow ones, also braving the still-chilly air of very early spring. Seeing them fills me with a profound sense of hopefulness. Despite all the darkness in the world, these flowers carry a deep wisdom: they know that brighter days are on their way.
I’ve been thinking a lot about awe. Not just the spontaneous phenomenon, but the intentional practice and conscious cultivation of it. I recently came across a study from Dr. Dacher Keltner’s lab at UC Berkeley outlining the profound impact of deliberately seeking awe in everyday life. Researchers divided participants into two groups: one was directed to experience awe during their walks and to tap into childlike wonder, feelings of vastness, or explore areas that were new or unfamiliar, with an emphasis on natural settings. The other group was simply instructed to take walks outdoors for fifteen minutes.
The awe walk group experienced greater awe (unsurprisingly!) but what struck me was the measurable shift in their relationship to the world around them. Researchers tracked it through the photos participants took of themselves during the trial — over time, the awe walkers took up fewer and fewer pixels relative to their surroundings. They became a smaller part of the world around them. Alongside this, they reported increased joy, more positive emotions, and their smile intensity increased.
Looking for snowdrops and stopping to really see them is, I realise, precisely this kind of practice. So is noticing the buds starting to emerge on a tree in your neighbourhood, watching a dog at the park with a serious case of the zoomies, or stopping to really feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. These small acts of attention and awe can open into something much larger if we give ourselves enough space and time to let that feeling take root.
For me, awe is inseparable from making. Slow looking, noticing, revering the world around me, these aren’t extensions of my artistic practice; they are at the very heart of it. Whether I’m actively sketching or simply walking and noticing, there is no work without the awe, the looking around for it. And like a drop of ink on wet paper, this seeking and noticing spreads and bleeds into everything else.
It is an act of resistance to keep turning our attention toward the small, the slow, the soft. The world is working hard to pull us away from these quieter ways of seeing and being. But awe is always available. We just have to remember to go looking for it.
Integration Exercise: Visualising auras
This exercise is from my analog newsletter — a monthly art print and drawing prompt sent to members around the world via snail mail. If you’d like to receive next month’s, you can sign up here.
Find a nearby tree that has lost its leaves and is currently still wintering, through your window or while outside. With a drawing tool in at least two colours, use one (darker) to draw the tree: its trunk and branches, just the shape and essence of it. You can do this quickly and intuitively. Then, with the other colour, take some time filling the rest of the paper with marks, swirls, undulating lines — whatever feels like the spirit or aura of the tree emanating outwards.
Pin it somewhere visible. Let it be a small reminder that even in dormancy, even in the apparently lifeless and bare, something is quietly, persistently alive.
Studio updates
✦ I’ve recently released six new works on paper with Rhodes Contemporary Art in London. The above piece, Last Light, has already found its home, but there are more works still available at the link in my bio. See the works here.
✦ I have two original artworks still available with Rhodes, exclusively through Artsy. If you’d like to stay up to date with new releases, feel free to hit “Follow.”
✦ I’m co-teaching a workshop “Spring Florals: Riso & Watercolor” in Stockholm in April, with Fantasy Printhouse. I will be leading an introductory watercolour workshop (open to beginners!), inspired by spring flowers 𓇢𓆸 We will create a series of A5 paintings, two of which will later be scanned in and riso printed. You’ll come away with your watercolours and printed a small risograph edition for two of your favourite works. Come say adieu to winter darkness with us! Sign up here (under “courses”).
✦ I’m opening up my schedule this spring & summer for window paintings in Stockholm. If you have a café, restaurant, or another space that could use a burst of colour, shape and form, please reach out! What other window painting clients are saying: “Collaborating with Ludi on a window mural for our restaurant was an amazing experience. We highly recommend her.” (Chelas, Stockholm). Learn more & book here.
Great to read all your lovely updates and sold work Ludi! Keep it up ✨