In an age ruled by digital abundance and visual fatigue—where 95 million images are uploaded to Instagram daily and each scroll yields another second lost to noise—Gabriel Moses is an interruption. Not a disruption in the technological sense, but a spiritual one. He is not a provocateur, but a priest of stillness. At just 25 years old, the London-born photographer and filmmaker has presented Selah, an exhibition at 180 Studios, that feels less like a gallery and more like a consecrated sanctuary. It is an offering, a pause, a slow gaze stitched into space.

Selah—a term lifted from Psalms, used to signal rest, reflection, or sacred transition—is not just a title, but a thesis. Comprising over 70 photographs and 10 film works, the exhibition establishes Moses not simply as a rising visual artist, but as a theologian of the lens. He invites us not to consume images, but to inhabit them. His central short film, The Last Hour, anchors this offering: an elegy rendered in shadow and breath, a study in how silence can speak louder than spectacle.

The Ministry of Images

Gabriel Moses doesn’t shout. He waits.

In a world starving for spectacle, he offers austerity. While others design content for the eye’s craving, Moses speaks to its hunger. His work recalls the weight of ceremony and the texture of ritual. Here, photography is not entertainment—it is prayer.

We begin not with fame, not with credentials, but with stillness. Because Moses insists that true seeing is a devotional act. And in his work, vision is sacred again.

The Moses Method: On Slowness and Envisioning

The average museumgoer spends 17 seconds before a work of art. Moses rejects this. His process, like the pigments of medieval icon painters, is slow, intentional, and touched by reverence. His Nike Football series famously required 78 hours of lighting to capture the sanctity of a single pose. For one breath, one exhale in The Last Hour, he demanded 42 takes. And Selah itself gestated over three years—each image marinated in waiting.

This resistance to speed is not just technical—it is political. In resisting velocity, Moses restores dignity to subjects historically flattened by the flashbulb. The people in his frames are not caught; they are honored.

His techniques form a quiet theology. He prefers the 4:3 aspect ratio—a gesture toward older formats, photographs you could cup in your hands like devotional cards. His use of shallow focus turns subjects into icons while dissolving the background into sacred ambiguity, as if the world around them is already fading into myth. In The Last Hour, time itself seems to dilate. A confessional monologue unfolds in an 11-minute single take, breathing in what filmmaker Arthur Jafa calls “Black time”—a nonlinear temporality in which loss, memory, and resilience coexist.

Each frame, each cut, each breath, is steeped in what Yoruba tradition refers to as àse: the living force that animates ritual objects. As art historian Elizabeth Edwards observes, “Where most photography freezes time, Moses thickens it.”

The Last Hour: A Lamentation in Film

At the heart of Selah stands The Last Hour, a short film less concerned with narrative than with presence. It follows two brothers in what appears to be their final meal together. No climaxes. No expositions. Just the impossibility of parting.

There is a 23-second shot of an untouched plate of jollof rice—its quiet stillness evoking the silent reverence of funeral rites. Hands reach for one another, but never quite touch. The soundtrack weaves distant gospel humming through the ambient thrum of London traffic, creating an uncanny communion of mourning and mundane life.

Professor Manthia Diawara called the work “Tarkovsky’s Mirror refracted through the geometry of South London.” It is a cinematic language fluent in restraint.

Moses’ gaze does not devour. It lingers. His “45-Degree Principle” avoids voyeurism and sentimentality alike—his subjects neither tower above nor collapse beneath the lens. And always, there is waiting. The “Seven-Second Rule,” as he calls it, involves asking his subjects to relax, then waiting just long enough for the performance to drop, for the truth to rise like breath after prayer.

Shot in 16mm, the grain becomes tactile. You don’t just see the image—you feel it. It becomes textured like memory, imperfect and warm, as though it were always part of you.

Moses in the Pantheon

The story begins in Peckham. In 2018, at just 18 years old, Moses became the youngest photographer commissioned by Dazed. What followed was not a meteoric rise, but a patient pilgrimage.

His 2021 campaign for Nike transformed the footballer’s body into diasporic iconography—sportswear became armor, ritual, inheritance. In 2023, his Miu Miu collaboration introduced a new methodology he calls “sacred streetcasting”—not just finding beauty in the overlooked, but installing reverence in every gaze.

By 2025, Selah had broken 180 Studios’ attendance records, and Moses was no longer being merely compared to the greats. He was being canonized.

Critics across the spectrum have struggled to articulate his resonance. Frieze dubbed him “Parks’ spiritual successor” but went further, naming him “The High Priest of Stillness.” The Guardian likened his humanism to Gordon Parks while noting the “Caravaggio of Council Estates” aesthetic that recurs in his use of chiaroscuro and domestic majesty. Essence called him “our generation’s image alchemist”—a phrase that feels less like metaphor than testimony.

And yet, Moses remains unbothered by classification. He knows what he is doing. And he knows why.

The Afterimage

Selah ends not with an image, but a mirror.

Etched into the final room’s mirrored surface are the words: “You are now a witness. Carry this seeing.” It is not a slogan. It is a benediction. Because Moses does not ask us to remember the images. He asks us to remember how it felt to see.

The world he renders is not one we’ve never known, but one we forgot how to hold. Through him, bedrooms become chapels. Peckham side streets become altars. And every viewer becomes a congregant in this church of the lens.

Hilton Als once said that “true art doesn’t entertain the eye; it ministers to the soul.” Gabriel Moses does precisely that. He reclaims the sacred from the spectacle. He brings us back to the hush between frames. And in The Last Hour, he leaves us not with despair, but with a slow-burning grace—the kind that lingers like incense.

Instructions for “Seeing”

For those yet to enter Selah, Moses offers a set of instructions. Not promotional, but pastoral.

1. Arrive early. Let the world fall off you like dust from a traveler’s feet.
2. Stand three feet from each photograph. Close enough to feel breath.
3. Breathe. Twice.
4. Leave with one image haunting you. Let it follow you home.

In these gestures, Moses reveals his true revolution—not just in how he makes art, but in how he reshapes the act of looking. He reminds us that vision, when tended properly, is not passive reception but sacred witness.

No comments yet.