Finding Minimalism in a busy Landscape

It feels like ages ago that I set off in August with the camper van, driving from Germany through Denmark and all the way up to Swedish Lapland, eventually Norway and of course back home. My plan was simple: travel north without expectations, without a strict schedule, without pressure.

Before I even reached Swedish Lapland, I stumbled upon a small lake by pure coincidence. I had only planned to spend the night there. But during a short scouting walk around the shoreline, I discovered horsetail plants rising from the forest floor and standing in the water. Instantly, I was captivated. Within this seemingly overgrown, chaotic environment, I suddenly sensed a touch of natural minimalism. A quiet order I had not expected.

Standing at the water’s edge, I quickly realized that this little lake was anything but tidy. Plants grew everywhere, water lilies clustered in dense groups, and the reflections of the surrounding trees made the surface even more restless. It was the kind of place where the eye constantly jumps from one detail to the next.

Yet within this visual chaos, I began to find something surprisingly calm: subtle, almost meditative minimalism. The delicate stalks of the horsetail emerged from the water like fine brushstrokes, accompanied by their graceful reflections. Amidst all the disorder, they formed small islands of clarity. Lines instead of shapes. Rhythm instead of randomness. Calm instead of excess.

It felt as if the lake were asking me: Can you see the essential despite all the distractions? And suddenly, my perception began to shift. I stopped looking at the landscape as a whole and started focusing on small fragments. Abstract lines, graphic rhythms, the interplay between light and reflection. What had seemed chaotic at first slowly turned into a quiet composition. This moment felt like a dialogue with nature: I was searching for order, and the lake revealed it to me - gently, subtly, poetically.

At first, I approached the scene with the Sigma 70-200mm F2,8 DG OS HSM Sports, slowly working my way toward the motifs in the water. With this lens, I could capture broader sections of the lake and better understand its natural patterns: clusters of lilies, the vertical rhythm of grasses, the interplay of reflections across the surface. I wanted to understand how the elements interacted, where lines crossed, where tranquility emerged, where nature itself formed small compositions.

But the longer I observed, the more I was drawn to the finer details—the delicate stalks rising alone or in small groups. To isolate these little islands of clarity, I eventually switched to the Sigma 500mm F5.6 DG DN OS | Sports, which I used on my Sony A7R V. This telephoto lens allowed me to isolate structures so precisely that they almost appeared freely suspended.

At 500mm, the chaotic landscape transformed into an abstract space. The compression created by the long focal length blurred the background into a soft, open plane. The horsetail became minimalist drawings, almost calligraphic gestures on a pale canvas.

What impressed me most about the Sigma 500mm F5.6 DG DN OS Sports was its close-focus capability. Despite being a super-telephoto lens, it allows surprisingly close focusing, with exceptional sharpness and detail.

This was invaluable for my work at the lake. I could “move in” visually without disturbing anything. The fine segmentation of the stalks, the delicate nuances in their reflections, even the tiniest imperfections were rendered with remarkable precision.

For minimalist subjects, where nothing can hide and every detail matters, the 500mm paired with the high resolution of the A7R V was an ideal combination. It allowed me to capture these quiet, almost graphic scenes exactly as I perceived them.

The lake lay hidden deep within Sweden’s endless forests, far from roads, villages, and people. This isolation created a unique kind of silence—not the complete absence of sound, but a silence that opens space. Space to see, to perceive, to reduce. In this quiet, even the smallest movements on the water and the thinnest lines of the plants became significant. The landscape didn’t demand anything from me. It invited me to slow down. To search less and see more. Perhaps that is the true essence of minimalism in nature: not removing things, but becoming aware of what is already there.

For this journey, I had a VW T6.1 California with me. Rented, as on many of my photo trips and workshops, from Autohaus Glinicke in Bad Langensalza. I truly appreciate their service: reliable, uncomplicated, always friendly. It’s reassuring to have a partner who understands what matters when traveling like this.

I ended up staying two nights at the lake. The gentle cracking of the trees, the quiet lapping of the water, and the complete absence of other people turned this place into a small island of peace. The camper became my retreat: a warm, temporary home in the Swedish wilderness. A base from which I could step straight to the water each morning, ready for new discoveries and minimalist moments.

When I finally left the lake and continued driving north, I felt I was taking something meaningful with me, not just images, but a quiet sense of calm. These days reminded me how powerful reduction can be, and how deeply nature can shape us when we allow her time. Minimalism is often not about removing things, but about seeing more clearly.

My journey then continued into the vastness of Lapland, towards new landscapes, challenges, and moments of stillness. Next stop: Sarek National Park, one of the wildest and most untouched places in Europe. And even there, the same question would accompany me: how do we find the essential within the vastness?

But this small lake, hidden between the forests of Sweden, was the first place on this trip where I truly arrived. And perhaps that is why it became so meaningful.

To be continued.