The Day "Creation" Was Unveiled

There are moments in an artist’s journey that go beyond creative satisfaction—when relief, gratitude, and joy meet in one unforgettable experience. The unveiling of Creation was one such moment for me. I’ll admit, it’s hard to explain unless you’ve walked the path that leads to it, so allow me to take you back.

In early September of last year, Samantha and I decided to host a final exhibition to round off 2019 at our private gallery in Hout Bay. We titled it Unveiling—a celebration of both new and long-term projects we had each been working on. With three months to prepare, we felt confident we had enough time to gather the final pieces needed.

As part of our process, we walked through the gallery space, pinning postcard-sized printouts where we imagined the finished artworks would hang. It’s a helpful visualisation technique we’ve used before. But this time, as we stepped back to take in the mock layout, many walls were still blank. The pressure was on.

Samantha moved into gear quickly. Her trip to the Overberg rewarded her with beautiful autumn impressions—rich in tone and quietly powerful. I, on the other hand, came back with nothing. The light hadn’t played along, and no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find the image I was after.

We later travelled together through the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley. Day after day, we scouted, we waited, and we hoped. The landscape offered opportunities, but the light remained poor. I remember saying to her, “Sometimes it all comes together in a single morning; other times, nothing gives. Especially with a deadline breathing down your neck.”

A few weeks passed. Sam returned from a solo shoot with a stunning new series called Serenity—a minimal, black-and-white collection that instantly stood out. Her portion of the gallery was taking shape. Mine is still bare. I began to feel stuck. Life, work, and pressure blurred my focus, while my creativity stayed frustratingly dormant.

Deep down, though, I felt that the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley still held something meaningful for me. I returned alone, this time more desperate than hopeful—but still, the valley offered nothing. I filled the time in my studio, finishing Candy Girl No.2 and African Queen, but two of the largest walls in the gallery remained unspoken for.

With just two weeks to go until the exhibition, I returned once more. Call it persistence—or perhaps foolishness. Days one and two were a write-off. Dull, heavy skies lingered overhead, and the light remained lifeless. The landscape teased me: always suggesting magic, never delivering. I began to accept that I’d have to fall back on older work—a compromise I wasn’t thrilled about but one I was ready to make.

On the final morning, I woke to another grey sky. I packed the car, ready to call it. Before leaving, I decided on one last quiet walk—no expectations, just some time with the landscape. I took my camera and a lens, leaving everything else behind.

Then something remarkable happened.

Out of nowhere, a break in the cloud allowed soft light to filter through. It drifted gently across the valley, catching the tops of the trees with an ethereal glow. A forest that had seemed dull just hours earlier now pulsed with energy and colour. I didn’t have a tripod or filters; I just had the camera in hand. I responded instinctively, using subtle camera movements to explore the moment.

What I saw on the back of the camera gave me chills. The colour, the mood, the sense of creation—it was almost spiritual. A thought crossed my mind: “Perhaps this is what it looked like when the world was first formed.” Pools of light danced across the trees, transforming the scene into something far greater than I could have planned. It felt like a gift.

For the next couple of hours, I moved between vantage points, patiently waiting for the light to return, and when it did, I clicked with quiet reverence. Four photographs emerged—images that felt complete, resolved, and honest. And then, as quickly as it came, the light withdrew. The grey returned. The moment had passed.

I walked back in silence, overcome with emotion. The frustration and stress that had built up over weeks melted away. In its place was an overwhelming sense of thankfulness. It felt like an answer to prayer. I know it may sound overly spiritual, but I truly believe I was meant to walk this path—each step, each failure—until I was ready to receive what the valley had to offer.

Unusually for me, I didn’t need time to process or reflect. I knew immediately these were the final pieces. There was no doubt, no debate. I saw the prints in my mind, already hanging on the gallery wall. I didn’t need anyone’s opinion—this moment had confirmed itself.

Back in the studio the following morning—just four days before opening—I processed the files and sent them for print. When Sam walked in and saw them, she gasped. “Oh my God,” she said. “Where did you take these?” I smiled and replied, “In a place called Heaven on Earth.”

The response at the exhibition reaffirmed everything. Creation No.1 sold almost immediately and now hangs in a beautiful home in Cape Town. Creation No.4 has caught the eye of interior designer Jacques Paulsen for an upcoming project. The collection continues to attract attention, and for that, I’m quietly grateful.

I do hope to expand on the series one day—perhaps bringing in the ocean—but part of me wonders if the moment has already said all it needed to. We’ll see.

And the lesson? I’ve learnt that I am most creative when I’m relaxed and aware—when I’m open, not chasing. Pressure closes off my ability to see. It was only when I let go, truly let go, that my vision returned. Great photographs are all around us, waiting. But we must be still enough to notice them.

Is this what it takes?

For me, most certainly.

Warm regards,
Martin Osner