Mindfulness and the Rise of Analog Living
I recently walked into an abstract art class for the first time. I’m not a painter. I had no idea what I was doing. I stood in front of a blank canvas with a brush in my hand and a small, anxious voice in my head asking, What now? With encouragement from the passionate teacher, I dipped the brush in the paint, touched it to the canvas, and watched a streak of colour appear. The voice in my head got a little softer. The studio smelled of turpentine and quiet joy. I could hear the bristles dragging across the surface. There was no algorithm telling me what to do next. No notification. No metric of success for once. Just the paint, the canvas and whatever was about to happen. I left that first painting class feeling something I hadn’t felt in a while: fully engaged. Not because I’d done nothing, but because, for three whole hours, there had been nowhere else to be. I left that first class feeling something I hadn’t felt in a while: fully engaged. Not because I’d done nothing, but because, for three whole hours, there had been nowhere else to be. It turns out I’m not the only one feeling this. Quietly, all around us, something is shifting. Revisiting analog living: a cultural turn People are buying film cameras again—not because they can’t afford digital, but because they actually want the grain. They want the uncertainty of not knowing how the photo turns out. They’re filling their bags with paper journals and puzzle books and leaving their phones in their pockets. Searches for analog hobbies have surged. Sales of film photography equipment have more than doubled since 2020. Craft kits are flying off the shelves. There’s even a viral trend called the Analog Bag—a curated little collection of essentials (a journal, a puzzle book, a film camera, a magazine) so that when your hand reaches for something to occupy itself, it finds something other than your phone. Forbes has called this the year of Analog Living. Design platforms are calling it the year of imperfect visuals: grain, hand-drawn lines, messy textures. Interior designers have moved from sterile minimalism to what they call dopamine decor: bold colours, personal heirlooms, physical collections that make a room feel something rather than merely photograph well. A phrase that caught my attention recently is brain wealth. This is the idea that mental longevity comes from slow, attentive activities: long-form reading, writing by hand, making something with your hands. One survey found that around a quarter of Brits are actively looking for creative, non-digital hobbies specifically to help them switch off after work. That’s a quarter of a country quietly raising its hand and saying, Something isn’t quite right with the way I’m living. Why a brush in your hand changes things Here’s what struck me in the abstract art class. The information available to me was, in one sense, far less than what’s available on my phone. There’s no infinite scroll. I won’t find tutorials autoplaying. There’s an obvious absence of comments and likes. And yet I felt more, not less. More awake. More here. Every piece of digital technology we use has been brilliantly, expertly designed to remove friction. To make things faster, smoother, more seamless. You don’t have to wait or be patient. You don’t have to sit with uncertainty. On the surface, that sounds wonderful. But here’s the thing: some friction is the point. Why does holding a physical book feel different from reading the same words on a screen? Why does a handwritten letter land differently than an email of identical content? Why does a grainy, slightly imperfect photograph feel more alive than a flawless high-resolution image? I think one answer is friction. Every piece of digital technology we use has been brilliantly, expertly designed to remove friction. To make things faster, smoother, more seamless. You don’t have to wait or be patient. You don’t have to sit with uncertainty. On the surface, that sounds wonderful. But here’s the thing: some friction is the point. When you wind a film camera, you only have thirty-six photos. That constraint forces you to actually look before you press the shutter. When you write by hand, you can’t type as fast as you can think—so you slow down, choose your words, dwell in a thought rather than blasting through it. When you stand in front of a canvas with a brush in your hand, the paint doesn’t care that you’re running late or that your inbox is full. It simply is what it is, and it asks for your full attention. In mindfulness, we sometimes call this beginner’s mind. The quality of meeting something freshly, without the overlay of habit or expectation. Analog activities seem to invite beginner’s mind almost by default. There’s no algorithm predicting what comes next. There is only this moment, and what you do with it. The deeper question to hold in our awareness Now, I could stop here and tell you to go and buy a film camera or sign up for a pottery class. And that wouldn’t be bad advice! But I want to go a layer deeper, because I think this cultural shift is pointing at something that no number of analog hobbies can fully resolve on its own. Here’s the question I keep returning to: Who is the one who wants to switch off? We talk about digital overwhelm as if it’s a problem out there—the apps, the notifications, the powerful and persuasive algorithms. And those things are real. But the deeper discomfort, the thing that makes someone reach for the puzzle book or the film camera, isn’t really coming from the phone. It’s coming from inside. It’s restlessness. A constant low-level mental buzz. A sense that you’re never quite here, because some part of your mind is always somewhere else—planning, comparing, scrolling, performing. The phone made the restlessness visible. It gave the restless mind somewhere to go, constantly, without…
