creative writing school
Module 1: Perception & Intuition
structure
Introduction
Theory:
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Theory:
- Panopticism
- Kino-eye
- Social construction of reality
- Surveillance society
- The "male gaze" theory
- Dziga Vertov: Man with a movie camera (1929)
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introduction
Welcome to this online writing class on observation.
We will not treat observation as passive looking.
We will treat it as a practice. A position. A way of being in relation.
To observe is not to collect images.
It is to stay long enough with what is there until something shifts: in the object, in the situation, in you.
Observation is not neutral. It is always framed, filtered, conditioned. By culture, by memory, by desire, by fear. We will work with this. To become aware of how we see, and what that does to what we write.
We will move between different references: Dziga Vertov’s Kino-eye, where the camera becomes an organ of perception beyond the human eye, and the idea that reality is constructed, staged, negotiated. We will also look at what it means to live in a world of constant visibility — where we are observed, recorded, tracked — and how this affects the way we look back.
Observation here becomes a tension:
between watching and being watched
between distance and implication
between clarity and projection
You will write from what you see. But also from what resists being seen.
From details that seem insignificant. From gestures that pass too quickly. From situations that do not resolve.
The aim is not to describe better.
It is to perceive differently.
Through exercises, you will sharpen attention, slow down perception, and learn how to stay with a moment without immediately turning it into meaning.
Because writing does not start from ideas.
It starts from how you look.
We will not treat observation as passive looking.
We will treat it as a practice. A position. A way of being in relation.
To observe is not to collect images.
It is to stay long enough with what is there until something shifts: in the object, in the situation, in you.
Observation is not neutral. It is always framed, filtered, conditioned. By culture, by memory, by desire, by fear. We will work with this. To become aware of how we see, and what that does to what we write.
We will move between different references: Dziga Vertov’s Kino-eye, where the camera becomes an organ of perception beyond the human eye, and the idea that reality is constructed, staged, negotiated. We will also look at what it means to live in a world of constant visibility — where we are observed, recorded, tracked — and how this affects the way we look back.
Observation here becomes a tension:
between watching and being watched
between distance and implication
between clarity and projection
You will write from what you see. But also from what resists being seen.
From details that seem insignificant. From gestures that pass too quickly. From situations that do not resolve.
The aim is not to describe better.
It is to perceive differently.
Through exercises, you will sharpen attention, slow down perception, and learn how to stay with a moment without immediately turning it into meaning.
Because writing does not start from ideas.
It starts from how you look.
theory
PanopticisM
Panopticism begins with a structure imagined by Jeremy Bentham: the Panopticon.
A circular prison. Cells arranged around the perimeter. At the center, a tower. From this tower, one guard can potentially see everyone.
But the essential point is this: the prisoners never know if they are being watched. Visibility becomes a trap.
Not because one is constantly observed,
but because one could be.
Later, Michel Foucault takes this model further. He shifts it from architecture to society.
The question is no longer: who watches?
But: what happens when the possibility of being watched is internalized?
You begin to regulate yourself.
You adjust your behavior in advance.
You anticipate the gaze.
Control no longer needs to be applied from the outside. It is absorbed. Reproduced. Maintained from within.
Panopticism is not about prisons. It is about a condition.
A way of organizing visibility where:
– being seen becomes permanent
– being watched becomes uncertain
– and self-surveillance becomes continuous
In this context, observation is never neutral.
To look is to position.
To be seen is to be shaped.
To write is to decide: from where do I observe — and under which gaze?
A circular prison. Cells arranged around the perimeter. At the center, a tower. From this tower, one guard can potentially see everyone.
But the essential point is this: the prisoners never know if they are being watched. Visibility becomes a trap.
Not because one is constantly observed,
but because one could be.
Later, Michel Foucault takes this model further. He shifts it from architecture to society.
The question is no longer: who watches?
But: what happens when the possibility of being watched is internalized?
You begin to regulate yourself.
You adjust your behavior in advance.
You anticipate the gaze.
Control no longer needs to be applied from the outside. It is absorbed. Reproduced. Maintained from within.
Panopticism is not about prisons. It is about a condition.
A way of organizing visibility where:
– being seen becomes permanent
– being watched becomes uncertain
– and self-surveillance becomes continuous
In this context, observation is never neutral.
To look is to position.
To be seen is to be shaped.
To write is to decide: from where do I observe — and under which gaze?
Kino-Eye
The Kino-Eye is a concept developed by Dziga Vertov.
For Vertov, the camera is not just a recording device. It is an extension of perception. A tool that can see differently — and sometimes more precisely — than the human eye.
Because it can detach, fragment, slow down, repeat, reframe.
The human gaze is saturated: by habit, by expectation, by memory, by narrative. We recognize before we see. We interpret before we perceive. The camera interrupts this automatism. It can isolate a gesture, insist on a detail, stretch a moment beyond what the eye would normally hold.
Vertov believed that through this mechanical eye, something like a deeper reality could emerge — not a pure truth, but a reality made visible through attention, through construction, through montage.
What matters here is the shift in perception.
The Kino-Eye is an invitation to look again.
To displace your way of seeing.
To observe without immediately knowing what you are looking at.
In writing, this means:
not describing what you think you see, but staying with what is not yet organized into meaning.
For Vertov, the camera is not just a recording device. It is an extension of perception. A tool that can see differently — and sometimes more precisely — than the human eye.
Because it can detach, fragment, slow down, repeat, reframe.
The human gaze is saturated: by habit, by expectation, by memory, by narrative. We recognize before we see. We interpret before we perceive. The camera interrupts this automatism. It can isolate a gesture, insist on a detail, stretch a moment beyond what the eye would normally hold.
Vertov believed that through this mechanical eye, something like a deeper reality could emerge — not a pure truth, but a reality made visible through attention, through construction, through montage.
What matters here is the shift in perception.
The Kino-Eye is an invitation to look again.
To displace your way of seeing.
To observe without immediately knowing what you are looking at.
In writing, this means:
not describing what you think you see, but staying with what is not yet organized into meaning.
Social Construction of Reality
What we call “reality” is not simply given.
It is produced.
This is the starting point of Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann in The Social Construction of Reality.
We do not encounter the world as a neutral field.
We inherit ways of seeing it.
Language, symbols, habits, rituals, institutions — they organize perception before we even notice. They tell us what matters, what is visible, what is acceptable, what is real. We learn to see by being inside a shared system of meaning.
Observation, in this sense, is never raw.
It is already shaped.
You look, but you also repeat.
You interpret, but you also reproduce.
Through everyday interactions, these frameworks become internal. They feel natural, obvious, unquestionable. Reality appears stable because it is continuously reinforced.
What matters here is to understand that what you see is always mediated.
In writing, this becomes a point of tension:
What do you observe — and what have you been trained to see?
What escapes your attention — and why?
To write is not only to describe the world.
It is to disturb the way it has already been constructed.
It is produced.
This is the starting point of Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann in The Social Construction of Reality.
We do not encounter the world as a neutral field.
We inherit ways of seeing it.
Language, symbols, habits, rituals, institutions — they organize perception before we even notice. They tell us what matters, what is visible, what is acceptable, what is real. We learn to see by being inside a shared system of meaning.
Observation, in this sense, is never raw.
It is already shaped.
You look, but you also repeat.
You interpret, but you also reproduce.
Through everyday interactions, these frameworks become internal. They feel natural, obvious, unquestionable. Reality appears stable because it is continuously reinforced.
What matters here is to understand that what you see is always mediated.
In writing, this becomes a point of tension:
What do you observe — and what have you been trained to see?
What escapes your attention — and why?
To write is not only to describe the world.
It is to disturb the way it has already been constructed.
Surveillance Society
What we call a surveillance society is defined by a condition: visibility becomes continuous, and rarely neutral. Cameras, data tracking, algorithms, institutional monitoring — these are its tools. State, corporate, social — these are its layers.
Observation is no longer occasional.
It is ambient. Distributed. Normalized.
You are seen, recorded, analyzed — often without a clear moment of “being watched.”
And gradually, you begin to anticipate this.
Behavior adjusts.
Gestures become measured.
Expression becomes strategic.
Like in the panopticon, control does not need to be constantly applied.
It is internalized.
In such a context, observation becomes a technology of power.
Not only shaping what is done, but what is thinkable, sayable, writable.
The question is no longer simply: what do I see?
But: under which gaze do I exist?
And for writing:
What does it mean to observe in a world where everything is already observed?
What does it mean to speak when language itself is tracked, indexed, anticipated?
To write here is a positioning.
You choose where you stand, where you write from.
Observation is no longer occasional.
It is ambient. Distributed. Normalized.
You are seen, recorded, analyzed — often without a clear moment of “being watched.”
And gradually, you begin to anticipate this.
Behavior adjusts.
Gestures become measured.
Expression becomes strategic.
Like in the panopticon, control does not need to be constantly applied.
It is internalized.
In such a context, observation becomes a technology of power.
Not only shaping what is done, but what is thinkable, sayable, writable.
The question is no longer simply: what do I see?
But: under which gaze do I exist?
And for writing:
What does it mean to observe in a world where everything is already observed?
What does it mean to speak when language itself is tracked, indexed, anticipated?
To write here is a positioning.
You choose where you stand, where you write from.
Theory of the Gaze
The question of the gaze is never neutral.
In her work on cinema, Laura Mulvey names what she calls the male gaze. Not simply a way of looking, but a structure: images produced from a position, for a position.
In this structure, the body — most often the female body — is not encountered as a subject, but arranged as an object. Framed, fragmented, stylized. Made visible in a way that serves desire, but not agency.
What matters here is how the image is constructed to be looked at.
The gaze organizes:
– what is shown
– how it is shown
– who is active
– who is seen
Feminist thinkers extend this beyond cinema. The gaze becomes a wider mechanism: a way in which visual culture reproduces power, normalizes certain bodies, silences others, and shapes how we come to see — and be seen.
Over time, this gaze is not only external.
It is learned. Internalized. Reproduced.
You look at others through it.
You look at yourself through it.
In this sense, observation is never innocent.
It carries histories, hierarchies, expectations.
For writing, this opens a precise question:
From which gaze do you observe — and which gaze observes you while you write?
In her work on cinema, Laura Mulvey names what she calls the male gaze. Not simply a way of looking, but a structure: images produced from a position, for a position.
In this structure, the body — most often the female body — is not encountered as a subject, but arranged as an object. Framed, fragmented, stylized. Made visible in a way that serves desire, but not agency.
What matters here is how the image is constructed to be looked at.
The gaze organizes:
– what is shown
– how it is shown
– who is active
– who is seen
Feminist thinkers extend this beyond cinema. The gaze becomes a wider mechanism: a way in which visual culture reproduces power, normalizes certain bodies, silences others, and shapes how we come to see — and be seen.
Over time, this gaze is not only external.
It is learned. Internalized. Reproduced.
You look at others through it.
You look at yourself through it.
In this sense, observation is never innocent.
It carries histories, hierarchies, expectations.
For writing, this opens a precise question:
From which gaze do you observe — and which gaze observes you while you write?
inspiration
Man with a Movie Camera by Dziga Vertov is both a documentary and an experiment in perception. The film does not tell a story. It observes.
A city waking up. Working. Moving. Pausing. Repeating.
Bodies, machines, rhythms — fragments assembled, not explained.
Through rapid editing, shifting angles, unexpected framings, Vertov does not aim for neutrality. He constructs a way of seeing. The camera cuts, accelerates, isolates, insists. It reveals patterns the eye alone would pass over.
Here, observation is not passive.
It is produced.
Vertov’s Kino-Eye is at work: the camera as an organ that displaces human perception, to reorganize reality through attention.
What you see is not the world as given. It is the world as assembled. The film makes visible the act of looking itself. It shows that observation always involves choice: where to stand, what to frame, what to repeat, what to leave out.
For writing, this is a shift:
You do not record what is there.
You compose how it appears.
To observe is already to edit.
To write is to make that visible.
A city waking up. Working. Moving. Pausing. Repeating.
Bodies, machines, rhythms — fragments assembled, not explained.
Through rapid editing, shifting angles, unexpected framings, Vertov does not aim for neutrality. He constructs a way of seeing. The camera cuts, accelerates, isolates, insists. It reveals patterns the eye alone would pass over.
Here, observation is not passive.
It is produced.
Vertov’s Kino-Eye is at work: the camera as an organ that displaces human perception, to reorganize reality through attention.
What you see is not the world as given. It is the world as assembled. The film makes visible the act of looking itself. It shows that observation always involves choice: where to stand, what to frame, what to repeat, what to leave out.
For writing, this is a shift:
You do not record what is there.
You compose how it appears.
To observe is already to edit.
To write is to make that visible.
creative exercise
Go outside. Or stay where you are.
Choose a place where something is happening — even if it seems insignificant.
Phase 1 — Observation
Observe for 10–15 minutes without writing.
Stay longer than comfortable.
Notice what repeats. What escapes. What you almost don’t see.
Ask yourself silently:
What am I trained to notice here?
What am I ignoring?
Phase 2 — Writing under constraint
Write a text where observation is not stable.
Work with the following tensions:
– what is seen / what is hidden
– what is yours / what belongs to others
– what observes / what is observed
Let the gaze shift.
At some point:
– let an object observe instead of you
– let the scene become aware of being watched
– let something return (a word, an image) slightly altered
– let a detail become too present, almost uncomfortable
Do not explain.
Do not justify the shifts.
Formal constraints
– no clear narrative
– no conclusion
– allow fragmentation, repetition, displacement
– keep at least one element unresolved
Important
You are not writing about what you saw.
You are writing from inside the act of observing — including its distortions, limits, and tensions together with Dziga Vertov filming techniques, such as rapid cuts, montage, and visual juxtaposition. Stay close to the edge where perception begins to change.
Choose a place where something is happening — even if it seems insignificant.
Phase 1 — Observation
Observe for 10–15 minutes without writing.
Stay longer than comfortable.
Notice what repeats. What escapes. What you almost don’t see.
Ask yourself silently:
What am I trained to notice here?
What am I ignoring?
Phase 2 — Writing under constraint
Write a text where observation is not stable.
Work with the following tensions:
– what is seen / what is hidden
– what is yours / what belongs to others
– what observes / what is observed
Let the gaze shift.
At some point:
– let an object observe instead of you
– let the scene become aware of being watched
– let something return (a word, an image) slightly altered
– let a detail become too present, almost uncomfortable
Do not explain.
Do not justify the shifts.
Formal constraints
– no clear narrative
– no conclusion
– allow fragmentation, repetition, displacement
– keep at least one element unresolved
Important
You are not writing about what you saw.
You are writing from inside the act of observing — including its distortions, limits, and tensions together with Dziga Vertov filming techniques, such as rapid cuts, montage, and visual juxtaposition. Stay close to the edge where perception begins to change.
Photo: Fortepan / Glósz András