LOSCAR NUMAEL: WHAT WAITS TO BE SEEN
There’s a quiet authority to Loscar Numael’s photographs—an unspoken presence that doesn’t demand your attention so much as invite it. The images don’t announce themselves. They wait. And in that waiting, something rare happens: they begin to unfold.
His work doesn’t ask to be understood.
It simply is.
Evocative without being forceful, refined without losing soul.
In a world where much of photography strives to impress, Numael’s imagery does something far more difficult—it holds you.
Not with spectacle, but with sincerity.
The Evolution of His Artistic Voice
I’ve followed Loscar’s work for years, and when we finally sat down to talk about his evolving vision, it felt like a continuation of something I’d sensed all along. His work has always had a certain clarity, but in recent years, it’s grown more intimate, more atmospheric, more unmistakably his.
"I describe my work as intimate, evocative, and deeply personal, focusing on quiet moments that reveal hidden emotions and connections," he told me. "My photography is less about grand gestures and more about the subtle interplay of light, texture, and presence, capturing the beauty in stillness and the unspoken/unseen."
That sentiment resonated immediately. Like him, I’ve found that the strongest images often emerge not from spectacle, but from sensitivity—from the quiet confidence to let a moment be what it is, and not more.
His earlier work leaned toward sweeping landscapes, but over time, he began to strip away the excess, seeking something purer. His images now feel more like interpretations of place rather than representations—as if he is drawing out the emotional resonance of a scene rather than simply documenting it.
When I asked whether he thinks in terms of individual frames or broader bodies of work, he described a shift: "That was true at first, but over the past three years, I’ve also embraced a project-based mindset. Now, it’s more of a balance—creating standalone images that complement my body of work while also focusing on special projects centered around specific aesthetics."
It’s clear he sees photography as an ongoing dialogue rather than a string of isolated moments. The work builds on itself, image by image, evolving into something more layered and cohesive with time.
The Tactile Nature of His Prints & Process
For Loscar, photography doesn’t end with the capture. The way an image is presented is just as important as the image itself. His use of washi paper prints and recent explorations in gold leaf gilding give his work a physical presence that extends beyond the frame.
"The texture, translucency, and organic qualities of washi paper give my images a completely different aesthetic, transforming them into something more tactile and immersive," he said. "The material becomes part of the storytelling, adding depth and character that wouldn’t be possible through traditional prints."
This sense of materiality is a defining aspect of his work. The textures are not just visual; they invite the viewer to imagine how they might feel under fingertips. The gold leaf, inspired by traditional Japanese byōbu screens, adds another layer of expressiveness, catching light in unpredictable ways. These choices reinforce a fundamental truth in his work: Loscar is not just capturing moments; he is crafting objects of presence.
The Influence of Japan: A Window, Not a Mirror
Loscar’s connection to Japan is evident in his work—not just in subject matter but in philosophy. There is an intentionality to his compositions that echoes Japanese aesthetics: a respect for negative space, a restraint that invites contemplation, a reverence for imperfection.
"Japan has profoundly influenced my artistic perspective, especially through its aesthetic principles," he shared. "While researching Japan, I came across the writings of Octavio Paz, the Mexican diplomat and poet."
He paused here, before reciting a passage that has stayed with him:
"Japan has ceased to be an artistic and cultural curiosity: it is another vision of the world, different from ours but neither better nor worse. It is not a mirror, but a window that shows us another image of humanity, another possibility of being."
It struck me as more than just a quote he admired—it felt like a key to understanding his work. Loscar doesn’t use photography to reflect the world back to us exactly as it is. Instead, like that window Paz describes, his images offer a way of seeing that is spacious, contemplative, and full of quiet possibility.
When I first reached out to Loscar about this feature, he was preparing for yet another trip to Japan. That in itself speaks volumes. Some places continue calling an artist back, revealing something new with each visit. For Loscar, Japan is not just a location—it is a relationship, one that continues to shape his work in ways both visible and unseen.
He approaches travel the way he approaches photography—balancing intuition with structure, letting the environment guide his experience while ensuring he has access to the places that call to him. In Japan’s rural "inaka" regions, he prefers the solitude and freedom of a rented car, where he can follow a road on instinct, stopping whenever a scene compels him. In the dense energy of cities, he moves through the streets with an observant eye, letting the movement of people, architecture, and atmosphere guide him, always searching for a composition that resonates with his aesthetic sensibilities.
One of his most memorable challenges came while photographing the Floating Torii Gate of Ōuo Shrine in Kyushu. The gates themselves were the obvious focal point, but the surrounding coastline was rich with visual opportunity—almost overwhelmingly so. "I struggled to decide where to focus," he said. "But out of that tension came some of my favorite images from Japan."
Photography as an Emotional Language
When I asked him about the emotions that drive his work, Loscar said, "I envision it as tranquility, calmness, peace, serenity, and an overall sense of well-being. While these qualities are closely connected, their meaning is unique to each person. I want the viewer to interpret it through their own experiences."
That approach—offering space for interpretation, rather than dictating meaning—runs deep in his process. One person might feel a kind of joy rooted in childhood memories; another might experience stillness, or longing, or a gentle kind of melancholy. The images hold emotion without imposing it.
That same emotional generosity shows up in his editing process. He often lets images "marinate" for weeks or even months before returning to them with fresh eyes. "I like to detach from them, ensuring that the emotional drive that led me to take the image has faded enough for me to see it with fresh eyes and a more objective perspective. But it can be a double-edged sword—sometimes, I end up forgetting about certain images for a long time."
This is something we both feel strongly about. His approach to editing—giving images time and space before returning to them—feels intimately familiar. I’ve long trusted that rhythm myself. There’s something powerful in detaching from the moment of capture and letting the image breathe. It can be risky; time adds clarity but can also bury what once held meaning. And yet, when revisited, certain frames reveal something deeper than what we first saw. It’s a quiet discipline—and one I suspect has shaped both our practices in ways that continue to surprise us.
Spontaneity, Instinct, and the Pull of Place
When we discussed his in-the-field approach, he described a shift that felt familiar: "When I started photographing, I would spend hours on Google Maps, scouring for potential/specific locations. Not so much anymore—I now prefer the freedom of letting the images find me rather than actively searching for them."
That shift from pursuit to presence defines much of his current work. "I still have a general sense of the aesthetics I’m drawn to, so in a way, my instincts guide me. I remain open to spontaneity, allowing light, atmosphere, and unexpected details to shape the final image rather than forcing a predetermined vision."
This openness is also what allows deeply personal images to emerge. "A lot of my work from Puerto Rico holds that personal significance—they carry emotional weight tied to memories, experiences, and a deep connection to place."
But sometimes, a quiet image carries universal weight. "I’ve been surprised on a few occasions when an image that felt deeply personal resonated with the audience in unexpected ways. It’s a reminder that while photography is personal, the emotions and narratives within an image can transcend the artist’s intent."
Looking Ahead: What Comes Next
When I asked how his work has changed over the past five years, his answer was refreshingly open: "I am not ‘afraid’ to try new things. If they work—great. If they don’t—I take from that experience what holds value."
This mindset—unattached to perfection, deeply committed to growth—explains much of what makes his work compelling. His creative evolution doesn’t feel like a forced reinvention. It feels natural, fluid, and honest.
He’s also deeply inspired by other photographers. "There are so many, but if I had to choose, it would be a combination of Marc Adamus and Michael Levin. Each, in their own way, taught me that photography isn’t about perfectly replicating reality—it’s about interpreting it."
That pairing—Levin and Adamus—says a lot. I wasn’t surprised to hear Levin’s name—his minimalist approach, tonal subtlety, and emotional weight are clearly echoed in Loscar’s work. But Adamus? His imagery is rooted in drama, complexity, and highly stylized wilderness scenes. It’s bold and cinematic—visually commanding, but almost the inverse of Loscar’s quiet restraint.
Still, perhaps it’s that same unwavering commitment to vision—the willingness to shape an image with conviction—that resonates most. That drive lives in Loscar’s work too. But what he seeks is something far more elusive: stillness, nuance, presence.
And while influence is inevitable, it’s clear Loscar has gone beyond it—carving a path entirely his own, built on a vision that continues to deepen with time.
The Quiet Remains
There’s a through-line in all of Loscar Numael’s work—something quiet but resolute. An inner rhythm. You feel it in the way he photographs, in the materials he chooses, in the evolving cadence of his creative path. It’s not about the pursuit of mastery or recognition. It’s about presence. Patience. A willingness to return, refine, and reveal.
In a photographic world often defined by immediacy, Loscar reminds us that there’s value in waiting. That some images aren’t taken—they arrive. And when they do, they don’t just ask to be seen. They ask to be felt.
That is the gift of his work.
And it’s why, for those who truly look, it never lets go.
