The Space Between: Notes on Composition and Patience

Nov 9

Before the shutter. Before the light. Composition begins in stillness. In that brief pause between looking and truly seeing.

Most of photography happens long before the image is made. It begins in the way we notice, the way we align what we feel with what we frame. We talk about composition as a set of rules (thirds, balance, leading lines), but in truth, it’s more like posture. A quiet alignment between instinct and intention.

For me, composition is where the Film & Time philosophy begins. It’s the practice of slowing down enough to let the scene settle, to listen for the geometry already present in nature, and to wait for balance to reveal itself.

Learning Balance

The “rule of thirds” is where many of us start. It’s less about precision than rhythm. It’s a guide that teaches your eye how to breathe. When I first began photographing landscapes, I followed it religiously, dividing my viewfinder into neat little grids.

But over time, it became muscle memory. The grid faded, replaced by an intuition for weight and movement. The real lesson wasn’t about where to place the horizon; it was about learning to pause before deciding. Rules have their purpose, they train the eye to recognize harmony, but composition only matures when you begin to ask why a frame feels balanced, not simply how to make it so.

Here in this 2:1 crop, the landscape naturally splits the photo into horizontal thirds. The lake is the lower third, with the trees being the middle, and the mountain and sky making up the top third. The composition is ordered and symmetrical.

Symmetry, Stillness, and Shapes

Symmetry is a kind of visual meditation. It asks both the viewer and the photographer to be still, to find calm in structure. When a reflection sits perfectly across still water or a path divides a frame like a mirror, there’s a quiet rhythm that steadies the eye.

But symmetry isn’t only about halves — it’s also about shapes. Circles, triangles, and lines guide the way we feel balance before we ever analyze it. A curve can soften an image; an angle can create tension. The human mind craves geometry; it finds peace in order and curiosity in disruption.

I’ve come to see shapes as a language of stillness. A centered doorway framed in even lines feels grounded. A circular ripple in a lake pulls the gaze inward. Triangles formed by mountains or rooftops create balance through direction. Each shape becomes an anchor for the viewer’s breath, a way to pause inside the frame.

Symmetry gives us rest, shape gives us structure, and together they hold the photograph long enough for the quiet to settle.

ISO 100 — ¼ — ƒ/10, polarizer, 4 stop ND filter, and 3 stop GND

The Beauty of Uneven Things

But symmetry isn’t everything. Some images come alive only when they break the pattern. Something sits just off-center or imperfect. A lone tree leaning against the horizon. A hiker walking slightly outside the frame.

Or sometimes, it’s simpler, like a small cluster of leaves drifting unevenly in a still pool of water. They scatter just enough to disturb the reflection, rippling the order, softening the geometry. The image feels more human that way. It reminds you that nature doesn’t chase balance; it falls into it by accident.

Imperfection gives energy, movement, and life. I think of it the same way I think of film photography: unpredictable, human, and full of small surprises. Perfection ends the conversation. Imperfection keeps it interesting.

In this photo of floating leaves, there lacks a physical balance in the composition. This isn’t split into thirds, nor is the weight of the of leaves centered in the frame as shown with the diagonal cross. Symmetry is absent, and the composition is weighted to the left with a noticeable negative space in the bottom right corner. Yet, somehow this image works—the balance is natural.

Waiting for Light

Light, too, is composition. It redraws balance moment by moment, and the patient eye learns to wait for alignment rather than chase it. Film taught me that most images are built on trust, trust that what you see will still exist by the time you press the shutter, and that even if it doesn’t, something else will.

Composition isn’t about control; it’s about willingness to wait. Light will paint the canvas, often times briefly, and illuminate scenes that are often fleeting. This close in shot of the trees on a steep wall of a lake shows how the sunrise showcased the otherwise difficult to discern topography, creating a line that pulls the eye from top right to bottom left.

Beyond the Frame

Photography, at its best, mirrors the rhythm of life. We learn structure, then learn when to let it go.

When I frame an image now, I’m less concerned with precision and more with presence. Whether or not the image feels balanced in spirit as well as form. That’s the quiet lesson of Film & Time: to slow down, to notice, and to find order not in perfection, but in awareness.

Matthew Fickinger