OmissionsAll forms of media are defined by omission. In order to shape a narrative one must leave things unsaid. What falls outside of the frame, or page, or canvas is left to our imaginations. A moment of joy at Christmas, captured on home video, hides a deeper loneliness after the family goes home. A rhythm that continues in your head after the drums fall out for the breakdown of the song you like. A photo of an empty street looks peaceful, while a protest is just about to walk round the corner.
There is ambiguity in omission. The news media uses this to great effect, by choosing which angle to present and which details to leave out, the media influences our perception as much by what is excluded as by what is shown. Deliberate or accidental, absence provides weight, it defines, distorts and leaves space for us to fill in the gaps, right or wrong.
In photography, a medium that famously reproduces reality, the smoky opaqueness of what lies outside the frame ironically becomes its most powerful weapon. By choosing what we omit, we give power to the audience, granting the photographer a magical ability to shape individual perception. Just like in good literature, photography allows us to guide the viewer toward tension, mystery, emotion, and anything but certainty.
In conversation, what goes unsaid can speak just as loudly, if not louder, than what’s explicitly stated. I’m not suggesting this is the best way to approach meaningful interactions. I am a true believer in saying what you feel. You can’t fuck something up if you are truly yourself. There is power in knowing exactly when to omit. Sadly, unless you are a narcisisst, these moments are transient and not easily reproducible. In an ideal world maybe everything should be laid bare before us. A 35mm frame, just like a conversation, has its limits, and you can’t fit the whole truth into that space.
Truth in a photograph, as in daily life, is never absolute. It does not follow some mathematical equation, or a predictable path. Every frame, every conversation, is a choice, a perspective shaped by what we choose to reveal and what we leave out. Oftentimes, we view omission negatively. It can distort, create falsehoods and lead to resentment. Other times it allows us to be closer to something real. A photographic portrait might include the chaos of a busy street, but look closer, omit the background and we are left with only a person, their essence.
We shape our anecdotes and stories with what we choose to share. We omit the unremarkable, quiet moments, and usually, unless the company is truly close to us, the painful ones. Does that make those stories untrue? The absence of information doesn’t mean we are dishonest. Sometimes, it’s just how we’ve processed, how we’ve healed and how we chose to represent ourselves.
Often, the things we leave unspoken carry the most weight. In our relationships, friendships, in the street, and family dynamics, we soften the edges, skip over simple truths, and in doing so, sometimes create the very tension we were trying to avoid: "How you doing?", "Fine". Are you fucking sure?
The absence of context doesn’t erase what we see, but instead, it lights up the part of our brain that asks, "What if?" Interactions that lack closure open up a world of potential questions. And isn’t that exciting? Or gut-wrenching? Or both? A single detail withheld, an action missed, and suddenly, our mind races through all the possibilites "What am I missing?", "Why am I not fulfilled?". In the high-stakes real world this can be torture. In art, it is desireable.
In that void of true understanding we often find yearning. Longer term, the absence of a person, place, or object can trigger nostalgia, yearning's best mate (I heard they were kissing round the back). Nostalgia is often guilty of omission. It subtly and covertly erases the negative as a survival mechanism. Sure, some significant memories remain untouched. But no one remembers the awful meal on holiday, we remember the sunshine, the laughter, and the company we kept. If your art stirs up either of these bittersweet emotions, then you have reached the top of the mountain.
In a 21st century post-truth society, where facts are muddied by misinformation, conspiracies, and perfect social media personalities, omission, and thus uncertainty and chaos have become the flavour of the decade. We live in a time where what we see, hear, and read is bent and questioned. Omission can be seen as a flaw, but can it not also be an invitation to look deeper? What lies just out of view? Perhaps that is why we’re drawn to the edges of the painting, or the final page of the book the author didn’t write. Everything is up for debate.
And yet, for all our collective unease, certainty is not always a comfort. Sometimes it is the undeniable truth that breaks us. When there is no ambiguity remaining for us to cling to, we're left with the full weight of stark reality. That can be unbearable, even to the strongest of us. The finality of goodbye, the cold cold clarity of a truth we can't unlearn. These things don't create longing, or easy "What ifs?" They settle in us like a stone in a river, pure weight. As Sontag wrote, a photograph is "a pseudo-presence and a token of absence." A photo holds things still, understandable, to a certain extent, and allows our imagination to do the work for us. Certainty is sometimes the saddest thing. For all of nostalgia and yearning's bittersweetness, they offer us movement, room for hope, a sense that something is left for us in the distance. Certainty, on the other hand, is a locked door.
Maybe omissions are a kind of mercy. Omissions, by definition, are missing. Frustrating little gaps, really. Maybe they protect us, allowing us to shape our own narratives. Omissions allow us to soften what might otherwise be overpowering. Without them, everything is set it stone, immovable and unchangeable. What is more terrifying than truth we can't escape? I am a true believer in leaving those doors firmly unlocked. It is so important to me to live without hatred, without endless suffering, and never to allow others to fully dictate my story. Sure, they can nourish it and be part of life's tapestry, and sometimes they can write their own chapters. But, long term, if we relinquish our agency, we become subject to the indifference of nature, and the influence of others who may not have our best interests at heart.
When choosing between chaos and control, the former leaves us adrift, never truly owning our destiny or forcing us to face the weight of our actions. The latter, allows us to look at the edges, to forgive ourselves, and to be optimistic. Most importantly, it gives us something far greater: hope.
