The Perceptive Photographer

In this episode of the podcast, I explore the notion of what it means for a photograph to be something it wants versus something I like. We all spend time thinking about what we want our photos to be or be about. We might even have some unintentional expectations that develop long before we click the shutter. Those expectations can be a problem because once the photo is made, it becomes something different than what we thought we photographed. So this week, we are going to dig into what it means to let a photograph be its own thing.I have started to think that every photograph we make can carry its own internal logic or way of being. Each image, good or bad, has structure, rhythms, weights, and a pull that is inside the frame. We can choose to fight that structure or enhance it. I always say to follow the light in an image. Work with what you have, not what you might want to have. How do the tones relate to one another? How do you make them something else? Is there a gesture or a space that pushes and pulls in unexpected ways? If we think of our photographs more as partners in the process, does the picture know more about what to focus on in processing than we might? At the root of all this are our intentions. The thinking about what we should do versus what we can do versus what image is doing. That intention often comes from a memory of the moment. We remember taking the shoot and what all went into that. And yes, all of that is valuable, but none of it lives inside the photograph. If we try to force the image to match our memory rather than honor its reality, we can miss out on something really cool. The question then becomes, what do we do in those positions? Well, I think you can ask yourself a simple question: what is this photograph already doing well without me touching a thing? Before I move a single slider or adjust a single tone, I want to get a sense of the image. That sense tells me what to do rather than the other way around. This allows for things like minor mistakes to become important to the image, and it asks whether the so-called flaw is actually what gives the photograph its interest. To all this, our editing becomes a conversation rather than a correction. I am collaborating with the picture. I respond. It esponds. We discover the image rather than follow my old formula for getting it done. If you give it a shot, you might be surprised that the photograph often reveals the one you didn’t expect, but the one you needed.

this episode of the podcast we dig into the idea of editing as translation. I have been thinking a lot about what really happens once the shutter is pressed and the file shows up on the screen. For so many photographers, editing is framed as a technical chore. It is often reduced to slider management or a list of corrections that must be made before an image can be considered finished. But for me, editing has always felt more like the work of a translator who is trying to bring a lived moment into a new language that a viewer can understand. When I am standing in a place with a camera in my hand, I am surrounded by a flood of experience. I notice the sound of wind through leaves, the cool air on my neck, or the way the light draws a soft edge along the side of a building. I feel my own emotional state and whatever thoughts were drifting through me at the time. All of that sensation creates a kind of internal atmosphere that shapes why I press the shutter. But the camera does not understand any of that. The camera gives me its own version of the moment. It gives me clipped highlights or deep shadows or a color that is slightly off from what I remember. It captures the literal details but it does not capture the truth of the experience. This is where editing steps in. Editing is the bridge between what I lived and what the photograph needs to say. I am not fixing problems so much as interpreting the story. I am choosing which parts of the moment were essential and which parts can fade away. It might be the warmth of late afternoon light or the tension in a deep shadow or the subtle calm in a soft horizon. These decisions are not technical choices in my mind. They are emotional ones. Color is one of the places where this translation becomes very clear. A shift toward cooler tones might bring forward the quiet or lonely part of a scene. A gentle warm lift in the highlights might echo the softness of a memory. Even simple choices about contrast or clarity can shape the voice of the image. Editing becomes a conversation with myself about what I felt and what I want the viewer to feel. Sometimes the translation is easy. The image opens up with just a few adjustments. Other times I wrestle with a photograph that refuses to come together. That usually tells me something important. It often means that I did not fully understand what I was responding to in the moment. The photograph becomes a reminder that translation requires clarity. If I did not know what mattered when I pressed the shutter, it is very hard to bring that intention back later. What I love about thinking of editing as translation is that it frees me from the idea that there is a correct way to edit. Instead, there is only the question of whether the photograph carries the same emotional weight as the experience that created it. My goal is not to make a perfect file. My goal is to make a true one. As you listen to the episode, I invite you to think about your own images and the moments behind them. Think about which photographs feel authentic and which ones feel unfinished. Ask yourself what you were sensing during the moment of capture and how you might bring those sensations back to the surface during editing. When we approach editing as translation, the work becomes more personal, more expressive, and far more connected to the heart of why we make photographs in the first place.

Photography has always lived in that strange space between solitude and connection. This week on The Perceptive Photographer, we are exploring the delicate balance between the solitude that shapes our work and the community that completes it. We will look at why so many photographers thrive in the quiet, how loneliness creeps into the process, and why sharing your work, even when it feels imperfect or unfinished, might be one of the most generous things you can do for your own creative process. So much of the craft asks us to be alone: long walks with a camera, quiet hours in the car or the darkroom, early mornings before the world wakes up. Even when we are surrounded by people, the actual act of photographing is a solitary one. No one else can stand where you stand, feel what you feel, or decide when the moment is right. This gives us room to notice, really notice, the small shifts of light, the quiet gestures, the transitions and tensions that most people rush past. It is often in these moments that our best photographs show up. However, what starts as quiet can slide into loneliness. You make work for months without anyone seeing it. You wrestle with images you are not sure anyone will understand. You develop ideas in your head with no sense of how they land in the world. Without realizing it, isolation can distort your relationship with your own photographs. You begin to think they are either far better or far worse than they really are. This is where sharing becomes essential, not as a quest for validation but as the major step in the creative cycle. A photograph is communication. The moment someone else encounters your image, you can learn about what you intended and what the photograph actually communicates. You see what resonates. You discover what was invisible to you because you were too close to the making. Sharing builds connection. It builds the kind of community that reminds you that your way of seeing, the quiet and personal way you move through the world, has value. More importantly, sharing helps your work take up space outside the loneliness that created it. It allows your images to have a life beyond your hard drive and beyond your doubts. Photographs can comfort, challenge, surprise, or inspire people in ways you may never know. They can become part of someone else’s story, not just your own. We might make the work alone, but we understand it together.

As photographers, it is easy to get caught up in the technical parts of our craft: camera settings, lenses, editing workflows, and all the details that make up the process. Every once in a while, though, something reminds us that the real heart of photography lies beyond the gear and the techniques. In episode 557 of The Perceptive Photographer, I shared how a simple act of cleaning my studio turned into a moment of rediscovery. I came across my well-worn copy of Galen Rowell’s The Inner Game of Outdoor Photography, a book that has shaped not just my approach to images but the way I see the world. That encounter led me to reflect on how passion, intention, and empathy are what truly give photography its soul. Passion is the energy that keeps us creating, but compassion, the ability to see and feel with the heart, is what gives our work depth. Rowell reminds us that a great photograph does not just record what is in front of us; it reveals how we feel about it. When we let empathy guide our lens, we move from simply taking pictures to making connections. Whether you are photographing a stranger, a landscape, or your own backyard, being present and emotionally honest allows your images to resonate on a universal level. The most memorable photographs often carry traces of the photographer’s own vulnerability and curiosity. In the end, photography is as much about self-discovery as it is about expression. Developing a personal style is not about perfecting technique but about refining your intention and learning to trust your emotional instincts. When you photograph with honesty and awareness, your voice naturally begins to emerge. As you continue your creative journey, lead with empathy, stay grounded in your passion, and remember that your best work will always come from the heart.

In this week’s podcast, we talk about burnout verse resting. Creative burnout and creative rest may look similar on the surface, but they come from very different places. Burnout is the slow unraveling of connection to your work . It shows up when the camera feels heavy, ideas feel stale, and even looking at images becomes tiring. It often shows up after long periods of constant output or comparison, when making photographs becomes more about productivity than discovery. Creative rest, on the other hand, is a conscious act of stepping back. It’s not quitting or losing interest; it’s giving your creative mind the quiet space it needs to breathe. Rest might mean spending time with other art forms, walking without your camera, revisiting old prints, or simply allowing yourself to not make anything for a while. Photography, like all creative practices, moves in cycles. The pause between moments like the space between frames on a roll of film. Learning to tell the difference between burnout and rest lets us return to the work with more clarity, joy, and curiosity. Rest isn’t the absence of creativity. It’s the soil that allows creativity to grow again.

In this magical episode, cause it has 555 as the episode number, we are looking at the everyday of life, because in photography, it is easy to fall for the idea that creativity lives somewhere else. We scroll through endless images of faraway places and imagine that if we could just get there, we’d finally make the work that matters. But often, the most profound photographs come from right where we are. They grow out of the people we love, the light we see every morning, and the small moments that quietly shape our days. When we start to see the familiar as something worth our full attention, everything changes. Photographing what we know asks more of us. It pushes us to slow down, to look again, and to really notice what is already in front of us. That noticing is where connection begins. The street corner you walk every day, the kitchen table, the morning routine—these are places filled with history and meaning. They become mirrors for who we are and how we move through the world. The great photographers knew this truth. Walker Evans found the American story in roadside signs and porches. Helen Levitt found poetry in her neighbors’ gestures. Sally Mann turned her own family and backyard into a meditation on time and love. None of them chased novelty. They simply paid deep attention. Working close to home is not always easy. The repetition can dull our senses and make us believe there’s nothing left to see. But if we stay curious, if we keep returning with an open heart, the familiar reveals new layers. The light shifts, the seasons move, the people change. Each visit is a reminder that nothing ever stays the same. In the end, photographing the familiar is not about finding something new to shoot. It’s about learning to see again. It’s about realizing that inspiration has been here all along, waiting for us to notice.

As the days get shorter, I find myself paying more attention to how light changes this time of year. The low angle of the sun, the long shadows, and the quiet warmth that hangs in the air all ask for a slower kind of seeing. In this week’s episode of The Perceptive Photographer, I talk about using this shift in light as an opportunity think about how we approach our work and to build a small quick body of work. Rather than chasing dramatic scenes, I try to get you think about noticing how light itself becomes the subject. It might be the way it falls through a window, glows across a field, or touches a face at the end of the day. By returning to the same place over several weeks, you can start to feel how light shapes emotion, color, and time. This isn’t about making perfect images. It is about paying attention to the rhythm of the season and how it reflects what is happening inside us. Autumn light carries both beauty and melancholy, a reminder that everything changes. Sometimes the best photograph is simply the one that helps us notice that truth.

In this episode, I wanted to slow down and reflect on five essential but straightforward ideas that can help keep your creative life moving forward. So much of what we do as photographers, artists, and makers comes with pressure always to do more, do better, and never fall short. But often, the real growth happens in the small, imperfect, and even uncomfortable moments of our process.The first idea is about finishing. It is better to complete a project that might not be your best than to leave it half done. There is a real value in seeing something through. Finishing teaches you things that perfection never will. Done work creates momentum, and momentum is what keeps us creating.The second idea is that progress is rarely a straight line. Some days the work flows easily, and other days it feels impossible. Learning to accept that uneven rhythm helps you stay grounded and keep going even when the results are unclear.Third, boredom is not the enemy. When the work feels repetitive, it might mean you are standing on the edge of discovery. Sometimes staying with the boredom leads to a deeper understanding of your craft.Fourth, feedback is information, not identity. Whether it comes from others or from your own inner critic, feedback is simply part of the creative process. Take what helps, let the rest go, and remember that you are always more than the work you produce.And finally, small actions matter. Showing up for a few minutes each day can build more over time than waiting for the perfect conditions to start. Consistency creates space for growth, and growth is what keeps the creative life alive.If you have ever felt stuck, uncertain, or caught in the cycle of perfection, this episode is for you.

In this episode of the Perceptive Photographer podcast, I discuss what it truly means to trust your eye as a photographer. It is a similar concept to reading and writing. When we learn to read and write, we start by copying letters, following patterns, and sounding out words. Over time, that repetition gives us the ability not only to read but to understand and interpret meaning. Photography works in a similar way. Just because we can make a photograph does not mean we can thoroughly read or understand what it says. Learning to trust your eye is about developing that deeper literacy, the ability to see beyond the surface and into the meaning of what draws you in. In the beginning, most photographers imitate. I have discussed this in a past podcast. And have a whole workshop dedicated to this process. Many of us start to learn by copying others. It might be replicating their techniques or emulating a style we admire. I think it is an important part of the process. It helps teach us the grammar and vocabulary of photography, but only part of that overall language. Eventually, when we start to wonder why an image that looks “right” still feels incomplete, we begin to recognize that our own way of seeing might be more unique than we gave ourselves credit for. Trusting your eye begins when you start to believe that how you see the world has value, even if it doesn’t look like anyone else’s work.Your eye is more than composition or technical skill. Trusting your eye is about listening when something tells you this is worth the click. You may not even know why you want to make the click, but trust means noticing what makes you want to click. It could be a particular kind of light, color, gesture, subject, subject matter or emotion. By paying attention to this spark, you can build the foundation of trusting yourself. For me, the more I trust my eye, the more doubt I can feel. The goal again is to trust in the click and know that as we learn to read and understand our work more because we “trust the process,” our confidence can grow. The act of photographing what feels right, even when you cannot explain why, is how trust develops. Doubt does not go away, but it becomes quieter.Trusting your eye is not about being right or wrong, good or bad. It is simply realizing that something is important enough to you that you acknowledge it and honor it in the camera. In that way, photography becomes less about proving what you know and more about understanding what you see.

In this week’s episode of The Perceptive Photographer Podcast In conversation series, I sit down with my good friend Ken Carlson again to talk about something that many photographers eventually face: the move from making single images to creating projects that hold together as a body of work. For a lot of us, there comes a moment when the thrill of a single ribbon from the camera club or one-off standout shot isn’t quite enough anymore. Instead, we start to wonder what it would mean to say something larger with our photographs to build sequences, narratives, or collections that carry more weight and meaning. as our conversation progresses, Ken offers some concrete steps to consider that can help any photographer begin to shape a project: finding the motivation, writing a statement of intent, gathering assets and influences, sequencing, and even writing about the images themselves. In our ranting and raving, we try to dig into how clarity of purpose becomes an anchor when projects stall, how to deal with the fear of starting, and why flexibility is key as a project shifts and grows. We also talk about the role of community and mentorship. Having a cohort, a mentor, or even a trusted friend to give feedback can make the difference between abandoning an idea and carrying it through to the finish line. Ken shares stories of photographers who discovered new confidence and vision through collaborative projects, while I reflect on the ways structure and deadlines can keep us from drifting off course. Together, we consider how both tough love and encouragement are essential ingredients for growth. If you’ve ever thought about putting together a zine, a book, a portfolio, or a long-term project, this episode is for you. It’s about more than just collecting pictures. It’s about intention, clarity, persistence, and learning to trust the process. Along the way, you’ll also hear a few stories about gallery shows, MFA programs, the lessons of sequencing, and even a couple of asides about dogs and coffee. So, grab a cup of coffee, tea, or something stronger and settle in for an adventure into building photographic projects with intention.

In Episode 551 of The Perceptive Photographer, I share how what I don’t know often means more than what I do. The pressure to know exactly what belongs in a photograph can be overwhelming, but I have found that leaving space for the unknown creates stronger images and deeper connections. Rules like the horizon line or the rule of thirds can be useful, but they are not requirements. Breaking them often opens the door to new discoveries. When I stop trying to control every detail, unexpected gestures, shadows, and moments emerge that carry more weight than anything I could have planned. I have also learned that I cannot control how people see my work. Each viewer brings their own story, and the gap between my intention and their perception is where the real magic lives. By leaving things unsaid, I invite them into the photograph to find their own meaning. Not everyone will respond to my images, and that is fine. Photography is not about approval. It is about creating openings for curiosity and conversation. Embracing the unknown allows me to trust my own voice and create work that feels authentic and alive. When I pick up my camera, I remind myself to ask: What am I willing to leave unknown? The answer often leads me to photographs that are more powerful than anything I thought I needed to control.

In this episode of the Perceptive Photographer podcast, I explore the idea of silence or being quiet as an essential part of our photographic practice. With constant noise, distraction, and visual clutter, silence is more about being present and learning that when we let go of noise, we make the space where true seeing begins. By slowing down and inviting silence into our practice, we start to notice details that usually slip by. There is also an emotional quality to silence. When we are quiet both inwardly and outwardly, we create space to connect to our subject and subject matter. We stop rushing to capture, produce, or perform, and instead allow the moment to unfold on its own terms. Photography becomes less about chasing an image and more about being present enough to receive it. Working in stillness slows us down, encourages more intentional choices, and helps us listen to what an image is trying to say. Even in critique, silence holds power. Rather than rushing to explain or justify, letting a photograph speak for itself often reveals more than at first glance. This can be really hard because we are surrounded by external noise, such as likes, comments, and gear debates, and internal noise, such as self-doubt, overthinking, and perfectionism. Choosing silence is a way to step away from that chatter and reconnect with why we picked up the camera in the first place. If you want to bring this into your own practice, here are a few ideas to try: Take a photo walk without headphones or podcasts. Sit with one subject for longer than you are comfortable before you make a frame. Practice a silent critique by looking at your own work without judgment or explanation, simply observing what is there. Silence is not empty. It is presence, patience, and attention. It can be a partner in helping us see more clearly and connect more deeply with our photographs. So here is the question I will leave you with: Where in your photography could you invite more silence?

When it comes to growth in photography, it’s easy to get caught up in the wrong metrics. It coudl be likes, followers, number of frames, new gear or whatever. Even though we’ve shot so many frames this week, the real question is: do those things actually reflect what matters in your work? In this week’s episode, I dig into the idea of measuring progress in ways that might make for better growth in our photographic practice.  The Metrics That Don’t Matter (As Much as We Think) While there’s nothing inherently wrong with keeping an eye on unusual numbers, such as the number of frames I took today, mine is zero for the day so far. However, I am still working on posting content this morning. I think it is essential to remember what matters to us when we are working. Does a spike in Instagram likes mean you’re growing as an artist? A new lens doesn’t automatically create more meaningful images. Even producing hundreds of photographs doesn’t guarantee that you’re making work that resonates. What Might Be Worth Measuring Instead Instead of obsessing over numbers, what if we tracked things that really deepen our photography? Consistency: Did you show up with your camera this week, even when you didn’t feel like it? Exploration: Did you try a new subject, technique, or way of seeing the world? Connection: Did your work spark a conversation, an emotion, or a memory—for you or someone else? Voice: Is your photography starting to look and feel more like you, rather than like everyone else? These are harder to quantify, but far more valuable in the long run. Process Over Product Sometimes the most critical progress happens in the small, quiet moments: showing up, paying attention, trusting your instincts, or sticking with a project even when it feels messy. Those are the kinds of measures that often lead to lasting creative growth.  When it all comes together, ask yourself this: What do I really want my photography to give me? When you ask that question and focus on that answer, you will likely be measuring the correct things.

In this episode of the podcast, I got to dig a little into how much we hear about the importance of telling a story through photography. As I was thinking about it recently, I remembered sitting in an English class years ago, learning about Freytag’s Pyramid—that classic story arc with an introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. Stories have a rhythm and flow, a sense of movement from beginning to end. As story tellers in our photography, it got me to think about can one frame carry the weight of an entire arc, or does a single image usually focus on one essential moment within that larger framework? A photograph might be the climax, the quiet introduction, or even the resolution. Thinking about where your work falls in that kind of structure can shift the way you approach making images. Once I went down that rabbit hole, I started looking at other story frameworks. The Hero’s Journey—with its call to adventure and return home. Pixar’s famous six-sentence storytelling method. The Seven-Point structure. Simon Sinek’s Golden Circle. Each offers a different way of shaping meaning and connection. Understanding those frameworks can help us understand the why we make our work, how to interpret or work or, better yet, how to frame up a composition before we even click the shutter. The point isn’t that every photograph needs to map perfectly onto one of these frameworks. It’s that story structures give us a language to think about our work differently. They can spark new questions: What role is this photograph playing? What part of the story is it trying to tell? How might a series of images fill in the missing pieces? When you start to see your images through the lens of story, you may discover new opportunities for connection to your work.

For episode 547, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we keep our photography both exciting and sustainable. Too often, we either make things so easy that we get bored, or we push so hard that we burn out. Somewhere in between is the sweet spot I like to call your creative “spice level.” This idea came to me over Thai food. If you’ve ever ordered curry, you know how “medium spice” means something different everywhere. What’s mild for me might be scorching for you. Creativity works the same way. Too bland and you’re uninspired. Too spicy and you’re overwhelmed. The goal is finding that middle ground where you’re challenged enough to grow, but not so much that you want to quit. For me, the first step is noticing my own thresholds. Some projects feel like a breeze, others feel impossible. Paying attention to my energy, when I’m excited to pick up the camera versus when I’m dragging my feet, helps me understand where I’m at. Your spice level is yours alone, and it’s not worth comparing it to anyone else’s. Of course, it’s tempting to stay in that safe, comfortable zone. I call this being “efficiently lazy,” doing what’s familiar because it works. But real growth usually happens just beyond that. It might mean trying a new technique, shooting in a different genre, or tackling something you’ve been avoiding. Not so hard that it breaks you, but just enough to stretch. One thing that helps me is writing it down. I’ll list out the areas of my practice, technical craft, vision, voice, and rate how easy or hard they feel right now. Seeing it on paper gives me perspective. It also reminds me that spice levels change. What feels overwhelming today might feel easy six months from now. And because photography can be lonely work, I’ve learned not to do this in isolation. Sharing struggles with a friend, checking in with a community, or even sticking a reminder on the wall keeps me grounded when self-doubt creeps in. So what’s your spice level right now? Maybe it’s a six, maybe a four. Wherever you are, notice it, adjust it, and trust that it will keep shifting as you grow. The magic really does happen in that middle ground, where you’re challenged, engaged, and still in love with the work.

In this episode of the podcast, we dig into storytelling with multiple images. Think about the last time you looked through a photobook or exhibition. Chances are it wasn’t just one photo that stuck with you, but the way the series unfolded—the rhythm of quiet and busy moments, the recurring themes, the way the story began and ended. A strong sequence transforms images into something bigger than themselves. The relationships between photos create meaning, tension, and resolution. A single striking image might impress, but a series invites the viewer to linger, imagine, and feel. Building a sequence is a lot like editing a film or composing music. Rhythm and pacing matter. A string of wide, expansive landscapes feels cinematic and open, while a cluster of intimate details pulls the viewer inward. Flow also comes from how images transition into each other. You can use light to dark, busy to minimal, or warm to cool. Really anything can be used to transition images so long as we udnerstasdn the transitions. Even subtle visuals like similar shapes, gestures, or colors can tie images together like a melody in music. I think if you work on telling a story with more than one image, you might be surprised where you end up. If the thought of it sounds too daunting and you can’t imagine making a cohesive body work, give this little exercise a try. Build a Mini Story Pick 6–8 images from your archive. Forget about whether they’re your “best” single shots. Arrange them into a sequence with a beginning, middle, and end. Pay attention to rhythm, flow, and repetition. Photography freezes moments, but storytelling connects them. When we stop thinking only in terms of single images and start considering how they work together, we open the door to something more in the way we see Photography freezes moments, but storytelling connects them. When we stop thinking only in terms of single images and start considering how they work together, we open the door to deeper creative expression.

In photography, there are the skills you know you need, and then there are the skills you don’t think you’ll ever use. In episode 545 of the podcast, I spin up the idea that you should spend some time learning or dipping your toes into an area that you don’t normally focus on in your work.It’s easy to stay in the lane of what feels comfortable: the camera settings you know, the type of light you always shoot in, the subjects you naturally gravitate toward. But the truth is, the most growth often comes from learning skills that at first seem unnecessary. Those are the extra arrows in your quiver, you know the ones you don’t reach for every day, but when the moment comes, you’re glad they’re there.Take lighting, for example. Even if you primarily work with natural light, taking a class on artificial lighting gives you a deeper understanding of how light behaves. That knowledge doesn’t just stay in the studio—it makes you better at reading and shaping the light outdoors, too. Or think about portraiture. You may not consider yourself a portrait photographer, but studying gesture, posture, and posing can help you tell stronger stories in landscapes, street scenes, and documentary work. The same goes for history of photography. By immersing yourself in the photographs, movements, and ideas that came before, it can add to your inspiration and help you see your own work in a broader context.After 15 minutes, I hope you see that the more arrows you carry, the more prepared you are for whatever shows up in front of the camera.

If you are like me, you know the frustration of returning from a day out wtih the camera to find that the images do not match the magic of the moment. In this episode of The Perceptive Photographer, I dig into seeing and looking, a challenge that every photographer faces. It often comes from moving too quickly, letting the camera dictate choices, or assuming the viewer will feel what you felt. Closing that gap begins with slowing down and committing to a more intentional way of working. Intentionality starts with clarity. Before making a photograph, you recognize precisely what draws you in and why it matters. That recognition shapes how you frame, what you include, and what you leave out. The boundaries of the frame are absolute; everything the viewer understands about the scene comes from what you choose to put there. Without a clear subject and a purposeful composition, the emotional thread between you and your audience begins to fray. Trusting your instincts becomes the compass. There is a distinct moment when a composition clicks, when the subject, light, and balance align to express exactly what you intend. Staying with a scene, working it from different angles, and refining until that alignment appears gives the photograph its strength. In that process, you resist the temptation to rush or rely on post-processing as a fix. Instead, the camera becomes a partner in realizing your vision, not a safety net for indecision. Your perspective is shaped by every experience you have had. No one else will respond to a scene in the same way, and that is the heart of your photographic voice. Embracing that perspective without chasing what others might do infuses authenticity into your work. When you give yourself time, attention, and permission to be deliberate, your photographs become more than records; they become reflections of the way you truly experience the world.

If you’ve ever looked at one of your photos and wondered, “What does this mean?”—you’re not alone. In episode 543 of The Perceptive Photographer, I dug this very question through the lens of thoughtful critique, drawing inspiration from Sylvan Barnet’s A Short Guide to Writing About Art. I try to focus on how to move beyond simply describing what’s in a photograph and begin to understand what your images are saying. As Barnet points out, there is a difference between analysis and description. Instead of just listing what’s in the frame, try looking at how those elements work together to create meaning.  It’s not about having the “right” answer in your analysis, It’s more about uncovering the layers of intention, emotion, and experience that are already present in your work. Meaning doesn’t just come from you as the photographer—it also comes from the viewer. Your images carry your intentions, but they also invite interpretation, which is what a lot of what Ken and I talked about in the Death of the Author conversation from the July 31, 2025, podcast. That tension between what you meant and what someone else sees is where things get interesting. Rather than trying to control the narrative, allow room for ambiguity and accept the assumption, much like a critic would, that your work has meaning.  Don’t try to force meaning into every single frame. Instead, look at your work over time. Meaning often becomes clearer when you step back and see your images as part of a project or portfolio. When photographs work together, they can tell a deeper storie. Just remember that critique isn’t about judgment, but rather it’s a tool for growth, discovery, and connection. 

‘If I put something out there that is truly meaningful to me, that truly engages with me, I want to be understood.’ If you’ve ever shared a photograph and felt that nobody “got it,” you’re not alone. we’ve all been there. In this conversation of The Perceptive Photographer, Ken Carlson and I dig into Roland Barthes’ famous essay, The Death of the Author, and what it means for us as photographers today. The essay, written in 1967, argues that once a work is released into the world, the creator’s intention no longer determines its meaning. The audience does. In Barthes’ words: “The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author.” For photographers, this can be both frustrating and liberating. We pour ourselves into an image or series of images, only to have someone interpret it in ways we never expected (both good and bad). I can’t tell you the number of times I have had someone say to me, but that’s not what my work is about. What are they seeing. For me that is where the magic happens. Our images come alive in someone else’s imagination. They become a creative force all their own. Barthes’ essay isn’t a commandment—it’s a reminder. Photography isn’t a monologue; it’s a conversation. Your job is to make the work, put it into the world, and stay open to the messy, beautiful ways people respond. As usual Ken and I end up taking photographs, movies, titles and more. I hope you enjoy the conversation, and the next time someone sees something unexpected in your photo, resist the urge to correct them. Your image is doing what it’s supposed to do. It is connecting with people. Want more conversations like this? Check out The Perceptive Photographer Podcast for new episodes every Monday and new conversations about once or twice a month on Thrusdays.