Most people assume everyone thinks the same way they do. They imagine that when you say “picture this in your mind,” everyone experiences roughly the same thing. When you say “think about it,” everyone has the same internal process. But cognitive variation is enormous, and these differences fundamentally change how you approach photography.
Two concepts have been round my head for the past couple of years: anendophasia and aphantasia. They are both extreme behaviour of the brain. Both exist on spectrums rather than as binary conditions, and both have profound implications for creative work.
Anendophasia is the absence or reduction of inner monologue. Most people have a voice in their head they’re so used to they don’t notice it’s there. That voice narrates what they do, expresses their feelings, tells them what their thoughts are, reads aloud what they see on a page. It’s constantly running, providing verbal commentary on experience. Most people take this inner voice for granted and never think about it consciously. The volume and presence varies enormously. Mine is loud and talks all the time. That’s how I think about things: I dialogue with it like a person, but both sides of the conversation are me.
Some people have no inner monologue at all. Their thoughts don’t take verbal form. They think, obviously, but not in words or sentences. They process information and make decisions and understand the world without narrating it to themselves. For them, the idea of a voice in your head commenting on everything seems strange or even disturbing.
Aphantasia is the inability or reduced ability to visualise images in your mind. Most people can close their eyes and see, with varying degrees of clarity, mental images of things they’re imagining or remembering. They can picture a face, visualise a room, see a scene play out in their mind’s eye. The quality varies but the capacity is there.
I can’t clearly see things in my head. When I was younger I called it lack of imagination, but I’ve refined my understanding and I now think I’m toward the aphantasia end of the spectrum. When I try to get images in my head, they come as shape descriptions, measurements, lines that articulate with each other to describe a form. Essentially blueprints that have a vague visual representation. I can imagine things, but they don’t materialise as clear pictures in my mind.
These aren’t disabilities or deficiencies. They’re variations in how consciousness operates, and they affect everything about how you learn, understand, relate to the world, and even your sense of self. They also have direct implications for photography.
You approach photography differently if you can see the image you want to create in advance than if you have to build it from verbal descriptions. One mode is more artistic in the conventional sense, working from vision to execution. The other is more like engineering, constructing something from specifications and principles.
If an image only comes to my head as a set of specifications, I’ll create my photographs the same way. I’ll think through what needs to be in the frame, how elements should relate to each other, what technical parameters will achieve the effect I want. I’m building rather than manifesting.
If you can visualise precisely what you want, you’ll work from that internal image, trying to match external reality to what you’re seeing in your mind. You’re chasing a vision that already exists internally, using your camera to capture what you’ve already seen.
Neither approach is better, but they’re fundamentally different. They produce different kinds of work, suit different photographic situations, and require different skills. Understanding which mode you operate in helps explain why certain aspects of photography feel natural while others remain frustratingly difficult.
The combination of these traits creates even more variation. Someone with a loud inner voice and strong visualisation has both systems running simultaneously, narrating and seeing. Someone with weak or absent inner voice but strong visualisation works purely visually, intuitive and non-verbal. Someone like me, with strong verbal processing but weak visualisation, works through description and analysis. Someone with both traits weak must rely on other cognitive systems entirely, perhaps more physical or emotional.
To a certain extent, this newsletter exists because of my strong inner voice. Without it I wouldn’t have the constant internal dialogue I need to express ideas “on paper”. Writing feels like transcribing a conversation that’s already happening in my head. The voice is already forming sentences, already arguing with itself, already refining ideas through back and forth. I’m just making that process external.
For someone without that inner monologue, or with a much quieter one, writing would require a completely different process. They’d have to translate non-verbal understanding into words as a separate, more effortful step. The machinery that generates sustained verbal output simply isn’t running in the same way.
Most photography theory and instruction assumes a standard cognitive setup that probably doesn’t exist. Teachers describe their own experience of seeing or thinking about images and expect students to understand and replicate it. But if the student’s mind works differently, if they don’t visualise the same way or process verbally the same way, the instruction becomes incomprehensible. They’re being taught a method that requires cognitive equipment they don’t have or have configured differently.
Recognising these variations doesn’t just explain why different photographers work differently. It suggests that understanding your own cognitive profile and working with it rather than against it makes sense. If you think verbally and structurally, develop photographic approaches that suit analytical construction. If you visualise strongly, chase that internal vision. If you have a loud inner monologue, write. If you don’t, focus on other forms of communication about your work.
The first step is becoming aware that these differences exist and matter. Most people never examine how their own minds work because they assume everyone’s experience is basically similar. But cognitive variation is substantial, and in creative work like photography, these variations shape everything about process and output.
Over the next several posts I want to explore these ideas in more depth. How pre-visualisation versus analytical construction produces different photographic approaches. Why some photographers can’t write about their work and why that’s not a failing. How photography education could adapt to different cognitive styles. How your audience self-selects partly based on shared mental architecture.
For now, just consider: how does your mind actually work? Do you see images clearly in your head or do you think about them verbally? Is there a constant voice narrating your experience or does thought happen without words? These aren’t trivial questions. They determine how you approach photography at the most fundamental level.
#Photography #IMayBeWrong #opinion #Personal #Aphantasia #Anendophasia