Unseen Stories: Fine Art Photography and the Art of Observation

Hey, Art Lover!

This week’s issue delves into the diverse and often surprising ways photography intersects with art and life. We begin with a closer look at Kurt Arrigo, whose photography masterfully captures the soul of Malta. From there, we take a trip back to 1969 with Vito Acconci’s provocative Following Piece. Finally, we break down the appeal of fine art photography itself. I hope you enjoy it.

Subscribe!

Kurt Arrigo: A Life Through the Lens of Malta’s Sea and Sky

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself standing alone in a gallery in Malta, the quiet kind of place where even your footsteps feel too loud. There was no obligatory chitchat with strangers trying to sound intellectual, just me and the art. It was the kind of serene environment I actually prefer—no distractions, just a chance to focus and really take in what’s in front of you.

Most of the art in the gallery was fine, interesting even, though nothing stood out at first glance. I always tend to take a patient approach with art—giving it the benefit of the doubt, even when the intention feels murky. But every so often, you encounter something that doesn’t just deserve your attention; it demands it. That’s exactly what happened as I found myself staring at a photograph.

At first, I thought I was looking at an abstract piece. The play of light and shapes was disorienting in the best possible way. I love that moment in art when your brain can’t quite categorize what you’re seeing yet—when it’s caught somewhere between curiosity and recognition. But as I stepped closer, the picture clarified. It wasn’t an abstract work at all—it was a photograph of a sail being raised on a boat, captured in such a way that it seemed otherworldly. The fabric of the sail folded and twisted like it was caught mid-dance.

It turns out the artist behind the photograph was Kurt Arrigo. A name that, admittedly, hadn’t previously crossed my radar. But the more I studied his work, the more I realized this wasn’t just some fluke of a well-timed shot. The photograph felt deliberate, like Arrigo had been able to transform something functional—the raising of a sail—into something deeply evocative. He wasn’t photographing a boat or even a sailboat at all, really. He was photographing a feeling, the way the wind interacts with fabric, the way movement becomes sculpture for just a moment in time.

Intrigued, I decided to learn more about him. It turns out Kurt Arrigo is something of a national treasure in Malta. Over the last three decades, he’s become known for his ability to capture the life of the Mediterranean—both its rugged beauty and its nuanced character. He’s a photographer who clearly understands that the sea isn’t just a backdrop to life in Malta—it is life. Growing up on an island where the Mediterranean is ever-present, bathed in sunlight and surrounded by water, it seems natural that Arrigo would have internalized the sea's rhythms early on.

The more I discovered about his work, the more I appreciated how Arrigo’s photography doesn’t rely on spectacle. There’s an understated elegance to his photography, a remarkable ability to capture moments that feel as though they could disappear if you blink.

Arrigo is a visual historian of sorts, using his photography to preserve Malta’s cultural identity in a way that’s both timeless and modern. He documents not only the landscapes but the layers of history, tradition, and change that define the island.

But perhaps his most intriguing work isn’t even above the surface at all. Arrigo’s underwater photography is where his role as both an artist and an advocate really shines. His images of the fragile marine ecosystems around the island are a call to action, inviting viewers to appreciate the ocean’s beauty while reminding us how vulnerable it is. In an era when environmental concerns are increasingly urgent, Arrigo’s work serves as a visual reminder of what’s at stake—and why it matters.

Arrigo is the kind of artist who makes you want to see the world the way he does—with a sense of quiet wonder, an appreciation for life’s subtleties, and maybe, just maybe, the hope that you’ll one day capture a moment that leaves others standing still in a gallery, unable to look away.

Vito Acconci’s “Following Piece” (1969): Photography, Performance, and the Unnerving Power of Being Watched

Picture yourself strolling down a New York street, blissfully unaware that someone is following you. Not a friend or a lost tourist, but an artist—someone whose only goal is to silently track your every move. Maybe you duck into a bookstore, grab a coffee, or wander toward the subway. At no point are you aware that this stranger is trailing you, documenting your unremarkable day like a strange personal detective with no case to solve. This was the premise behind Vito Acconci’s 1969 conceptual art piece, Following Piece—part performance, part commentary on the unsettling proximity between everyday life and surveillance.

Acconci wasn’t following people to chat or even make contact. He had no interest in your favorite novel or what you were ordering for lunch. He was simply shadowing strangers through the city, recording the experience, until they entered a private space—a building, a home—where he could no longer follow. As odd as it sounds, Acconci’s piece, simple as it was, explored a bizarrely intimate relationship between photography, performance, and voyeurism. It’s a piece that might have been born in the late 1960s, but it resonates even more now, in an age where we are constantly watched, tracked, and recorded, whether we’ve signed up for it or not.

Turning the Mundane Into Performance

What makes Following Piece so intriguing is its insistence that the everyday is worth turning into art. Acconci took an activity we all do—walking—and elevated it into something that was both invasive and theatrical. The randomness of it all made it strange. The participants weren’t aware they were part of a performance, so what started as their private routine became Acconci’s public stage. Their normal, unremarkable walk was suddenly loaded with meaning—at least for him.

What’s particularly clever here is that Acconci’s work challenges our understanding of performance art itself. There’s no stage, no audience, and no applause. The “audience” had no idea the show was happening, and the only person who knew the play existed was the artist himself. The performance was invisible—there was no reveal, no interaction, no moment of recognition. It just... ended, when the subject stepped into a private space. Yet, later, those who saw Acconci’s photographs became part of the performance too, unknowingly completing the cycle.

The Camera as Witness

Acconci’s decision to document his actions through photography added a layer of complexity. The people he followed were unaware of his presence, and the photographs served as proof that this strange exercise actually happened. But the photographs also highlighted something darker: the potential for photography to become voyeuristic. Acconci didn’t just use the camera to capture a moment; he used it to spy, to transform ordinary people into unwitting subjects of his art.

We like to think of photography as a tool for preserving memories, of capturing beauty, or moments of significance. But Acconci’s work reminds us that the camera can also intrude, that it can record lives without permission. Following Pieceforces us to reckon with the discomfort of being watched—especially when we don’t know we’re being watched.

Even though the people Acconci followed were oblivious to his presence, the piece itself leaves the viewer feeling oddly unsettled. It plays with our modern fear of surveillance—the sense that our actions, no matter how inconsequential, are always being tracked, recorded, and possibly used in ways we can’t control. In the 1960s, when Acconci was following strangers through the streets, the idea of surveillance was abstract—there were no facial recognition technologies or omnipresent cameras tracking your every move. The stakes were different.

Now, though? The themes in Following Piece feel eerily prophetic. We live in a world where cameras follow us everywhere—whether it’s for security, content creation, or data collection. Every step we take in public is likely documented somewhere. Acconci’s piece forces us to think about how that constant observation impacts our sense of autonomy, and what it means to have our private moments turned into something public, whether by an artist or by a security system.

More than fifty years later, Following Piece stands as one of the more provocative and unsettling explorations of art, surveillance, and personal space. His use of photography as both documentation and violation of privacy transformed an everyday act into something disquieting, raising questions that remain relevant today.

Acconci didn’t just subvert the idea of what performance art could be; he also forced us to confront the unsettling truth of how easily the ordinary can become extraordinary, how the act of simply watching—without interaction, without confrontation—can still leave us feeling exposed. Even now, Following Piece serves as a potent reminder that no matter how mundane our actions might seem, we’re never as invisible as we think.

The Appeal of Fine Art Photography

Fine art photography often feels like it comes with an air of mystery, as though you need a special pass or an art degree to fully appreciate it. But here’s the thing: you don’t need to be part of an exclusive circle to enjoy fine art photography. It’s more accessible than you might think. The key is letting go of the pressure to “get it” and focusing instead on how it makes you feel.

So what’s the appeal of fine art photography, and how can you start to understand it?

1. Visual Storytelling

Let’s start with something basic: storytelling. It’s the oldest trick in the book, and yet it’s what makes fine art photography so powerful. A photograph hands you the story in a single frame. But here’s the catch—you get to decide (at least in part) what that story is.

You’ve probably seen iconic photographs before, the kind that immediately pull you in without a word of explanation. Fine art photography works because it freezes that one perfect moment in time and invites you to fill in the gaps. The appeal lies in its open-endedness. It tells you just enough, then hands over the reins and lets you do the rest.

2. The Power of Perspective

Photography is all about perspective. A good photograph makes you see something you hadn’t noticed before.

The best part? This isn’t some abstract, out-of-reach concept. We all know what it’s like to walk past the same thing a hundred times and never really notice it until one day, we do. Fine art photography taps into that, framing the world in a way that makes the mundane extraordinary. It’s about that shift in perception, that “aha” moment when you realize there’s beauty in the smallest, most overlooked details.

3. Timelessness Meets Right Now

One of the most appealing things about fine art photography is how it manages to exist in two places at once: in the past and in the present. A photograph taken decades ago can still pack an emotional punch today. The scene may have aged, the people may be long gone, but the emotion—whether it’s nostalgia, joy, or even discomfort—remains as potent as ever.

At the same time, photography is one of the most contemporary art forms out there. Artists are constantly pushing the boundaries of what photography can be, experimenting with new techniques and fresh subject matter.

4. How to Engage with Fine Art Photography (Without Feeling Like an Impostor)

Here’s the good news: you don’t need a degree in art history to appreciate photography. You just need a little curiosity and a willingness to let your instincts guide you. Here’s where to start:

• Visit galleries or browse online: Take in a wide variety of styles and subjects. Not every piece will resonate, and that’s okay. The more you look, the better sense you’ll get of what appeals to you.
• Follow photographers: Most photographers have active social media accounts, and following them can give you a glimpse into their process. You don’t have to understand every decision they make, but seeing how they work can make their final product more relatable.
• Ask questions: It is ok to ask an artist about their work. Often, knowing more about the photographer’s intention can deepen your appreciation for the piece.
• Trust your gut: Not everything needs to be “gotten.” If you like something, that’s enough. Art is supposed to be subjective, so let your personal taste lead the way. Over time, you’ll develop an eye for what speaks to you.

The Bottom Line

At the end of the day, fine art photography is about connecting to something on a personal level, whether that’s through storytelling, perspective, or pure emotion. You don’t need to know all the rules—or any of them, for that matter. Just pay attention to what moves you.

On a Personal Note

This past week, Brian and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary.

See you next week!

Pato