You'll see in 'Carol' a lot of shots shot through windows, glass

Todd Haynes spoke these words not merely of cinema, but of the nature of seeing, of the human longing to behold truth through veils. When he spoke of “shots through windows, glass and awnings,” he named the barriers between the observer and the observed, between the soul and its desire. For every act of looking, whether through the camera lens or through the eyes of the heart, is both a reach and a restraint—a striving toward what glimmers just beyond touch. Thus, Haynes reminds us that vision is never pure; it is always fractured by distance, reflection, and the trembling glass of our own perception.

In his film Carol, lovers are seen through fogged windows, their faces divided by panes and shadows. The world intrudes—light, rain, passersby—each a reminder that love, understanding, and truth must be fought for across separations. This is not merely a cinematic choice, but a reflection of existence itself. For what is life but the endless attempt to look through the barriers that stand between us and one another? The glass becomes the symbol of the soul’s predicament: clarity promised, yet never given freely. Every human gaze carries longing, and every act of seeing is also an act of yearning.

So it was with Galileo, who looked through his telescope and saw the moons of Jupiter. Yet even in that moment of revelation, glass distorted what he saw; he glimpsed truth only in fragments. His vision pierced the heavens, but he still struggled against the fog of his age, against doubt and fear. Like Haynes’s camera, his glass both revealed and obscured. The lesson endures: the clearer we think we see, the more we must question what lies between our eyes and the infinite.

And so too in love, in art, and in faith, there is always a veil. The prophet sees the divine in fire and smoke, the artist sees beauty in shadow and imperfection. The lover glimpses the beloved not in full light, but through fleeting moments, gestures, and silences. True vision is not in seeing clearly, but in enduring the haze, in continuing to look even when certainty is denied. For the glass that stands between us and what we desire is not an enemy—it is the measure of our devotion.

Consider the story of Hiroshi Sugimoto, the Japanese photographer who spent decades capturing the sea and horizon. Each photograph is simple—water and sky divided by a single line—but within that simplicity lies infinity. Sugimoto’s art teaches that to truly see is to wait, to accept the distortions of light and time, and to find grace in the distance between ourselves and what we seek. He, like Haynes, understood that the act of seeing is also an act of surrender.

Therefore, let us not curse the glass, nor despair at the obstructions between us and truth. Instead, let us polish our vision—our patience, our humility, our compassion—so that even through the fog we might glimpse beauty. When we feel cut off from others, when our purpose seems clouded or far away, let us remember that the struggle to see is itself sacred. The effort dignifies us; the yearning transforms us.

Take this lesson into your own life: do not demand clarity too soon. Look through your windows with reverence. Let what is obscured remain mysterious until time unveils it. Approach others not with the arrogance of sight, but with the tenderness of one who knows how fragile perception is. Each day, seek not perfect understanding, but the courage to keep looking—with wonder, with hope, and with love—for though we may never see completely, in the act of seeking, we are already illuminated.