By: Samuel J. Abrams
In a culture where heads are bent down and thumbs scroll endlessly, where beauty is filtered and flattened into pixels, the photographer Drift does something quietly radical: he makes us look up.
I recently had the chance to witness the impact of his work firsthand. My son met Drift at his “Coming Home” gallery show at the Robert Mann Gallery—a serendipitous encounter that became something far more meaningful. Drift, known for his stunning aerial and rooftop photography capturing urban vistas from around the world, was not only gracious but approachable and incredibly kind to my son. They talked about sneakers, cities around the world, and how he climbed up various buildings and bridges. Drift sparked something in my son that I rarely see these days: genuine wonder.
That word—wonder—is key.
We live in an age saturated with content but starving for awe. So many teens (and adults, for that matter) spend hours a day surrounded by screens, consuming images and ideas at hyperspeed. The world shrinks into only inches of backlit glass. Curiosity becomes passive. Imagination grows dim. And in the midst of this digital fog—now further clouded by generative AI tools that replicate but rarely originate—Drift’s work is something else entirely. It insists on perspective, scale, and the non-virtual.
When Drift showed my son his photographs—expansive, elevated, mysterious—it inspired him to think bigger and more spatially; even cosmically. One shot of Central Park, captured from a supertall building at its southern edge, stopped him in his tracks. He’s spent years playing in that park, biking its loops, watching its seasons change. But from above, the park was transformed: no longer a familiar playground, but a living patch of green carved into the urban sprawl—sacred and surprising.
That’s what Drift’s photography does. It reorients us.
Drift’s vantage points are not just physically elevated—they are morally clarifying. He climbs to places we’re not supposed to be, not to surveil or dominate, but to see differently. His images reveal not just beauty, but scale. They remind us that we are small. That the world is vast. That despite our constant digital presence, we are, in the best possible sense, insignificant.
This is not about spectacle or simulation. Drift doesn’t glorify technology or manipulate reality. He uses his craft to restore something that’s fading: perspective. Not just visual, but existential. You see the sweep of city lights, the curve of the earth, the shape of weather systems. And you feel a bit of humility.
He doesn’t shout, “Look at me.” He whispers, “Look at this.”
That distinction matters in a culture of narcissism. The internet is flooded with photography, but much of it is inward-facing: selfies, stylized brunches, hyper-curated vacation reels. It’s about branding a life. Drift is doing something older, quieter, and more enduring. He’s reminding us that the world is the protagonist—not us.
When my son met him, Drift didn’t lecture or show off. He shared. He listened. He modeled what creative generosity looks like. That kind of encounter—between an established artist and a curious young person—is increasingly rare and incredibly valuable. In that moment, Drift wasn’t just showing him a portfolio. He was showing him a posture toward the world: attentive, humble, and full of wonder.
And this is exactly the kind of posture we need to cultivate in the next generation. Because wonder leads to care. And care leads to stewardship. You don’t protect what you don’t find beautiful or mysterious. And you don’t love what you never took the time to notice.
In a society anxious about youth mental health, collapsing civic trust, and environmental disconnection, we should not dismiss wonder as sentimental. It is a civic virtue, a moral bearing, and perhaps even a survival skill. Drift’s work slows us down just enough to fall back into that noticing.
There’s a philosophical dimension here, too. G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.” That line could have been the caption for every photograph in Drift’s show. The images don’t manufacture grandeur. They help us recover our capacity to see what’s already here.
More than that, they cultivate humility. Like the monastic tradition of ascension—climbing towers not to survey but to contemplate—Drift’s photography asks us to decenter the self. And in doing so, it reawakens a question too few young people are invited to ask today: What do I stand in relation to?
Art that elevates the world over the ego does more than offer beauty. It offers a counter-narrative to our age of algorithmic individualism. Drift’s lens doesn’t seek attention. It offers perspective—a reminder that we live in a layered, magnificent, and fragile world.
I’m grateful that my son met Drift. But more than that, I’m grateful for what he learned: that art can shake you awake. That not all screens flatten. That behind every building, cloud, or coastline, there’s a deeper order waiting to be seen. That we live in a world far larger and more extraordinary than our algorithms admit.
We’re not powerless in this. We can choose what to elevate. We can celebrate those who help us remember beauty. And we can support the artists—like Drift—who use their tools not to inflate themselves, but to reveal the quiet magnificence of the world we all share.
Next time you’re walking home—put down your phone. Tilt your head back. Let your eyes find the skyline. You might not see Drift’s next shot, but you’ll feel what he’s trying to show us: the world, vast and waiting.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute