In this episode of the podcast (episode 563), I want to first say Happy Solstice and how nice it is to start getting those longer days. I discuss the moment when a photograph and photographer stop explaining everything or at least trying to. Not because we fail,, but because it can’t explain everything nor should it.

Most of us are taught to search for photographs. We head into the world with a sense of purpose, a checklist of things to photograph, or an idea of what would make the outing worthwhile. Searching is active can feel productive. It also quietly demands that the photograph arrive already formed, ready to justify itself and how well we did in the clicking of the shutter

Seeing is different. Seeing has no urgency. It does not require the world to perform on command. It asks only that we stay.

I notice that when I am searching, my attention narrows. I move faster. I recognize patterns quickly and dismiss what does not fit. The photographs that come from this state often easily explain themselves . There is nothing wrong with that, but there is a limit and it can be borning over time. AFterall, once the photograph has finished explaining, there is nothing else left to see.

Seeing begins when searching exhausts itself. When I stop asking what I am going to make and start paying attention to what is already there. For me this is rooting in boredom or frustration when nothing else is working. Nothing is happening. The light is flat. The scene feels unremarkable. Yet, if I stay, something subtle begins to emerge. A relationship. A rhythm. A small shift in how I now look at things in the world. These photographs do not announce themselves. They do not resolve quickly. They often feel unfinished, even to me. And that is precisely what gives them room to breathe.

A photograph that stops explaining does not close the conversation. It opens it. It allows uncertainty to remain intact. Instead of delivering meaning, it makes space for it. This kind of image asks the viewer to linger, to bring their own attention and experience into the frame. Seeing without searching is a discipline. It requires patience, restraint, and a willingness to leave with nothing. It means trusting that not every photograph needs to declare its purpose.

Some of the most meaningful work I have made came from moments when I stopped trying to find something and allowed myself to simply be present. When the photograph arrived slowly. When it did not explain itself. When it asked me, and eventually the viewer, to stay.

In this episode of the podcast, I dig into an idea that feels increasingly important in a culture built around constant sharing. Not every good photograph needs to be shared. That may sound counterintuitive, especially when so much of contemporary photography is tied to visibility, platforms, and audience response. But making a photograph and sharing a photograph are two very different acts.For many photographers today, the question of where an image will be posted arrives almost immediately after the shutter is pressed. Sometimes it even arrives before. That subtle shift can quietly change our relationship to photography. The act of sharing begins to define the act of seeing. Over time, photographs can start to feel less like a process of exploration and more like a product designed for approval.Some photographs are meant to function as visual notes. They help us understand light, place, or emotion. They clarify what we are drawn to and what we are still wrestling with.These images might be strong, but their purpose is internal rather than public.They move our work forward even if no one else ever sees them.There are also photographs that are emotionally close. We might make images that are more closely related to memory, vulnerability, or personal experience which often carry a different weight. We can opt to keep those images close to home so to speak as a way of honoring the moment of seeing.
Not to completely rag on social media and photographs, but right now the algorithms reward familiarity. They favor images that resemble what has already succeeded. If every good photograph must be shared, then experimentation becomes a no go. We will slowly stop taking risk to make more interesting work. We stop taking risk in the editing of images, the selection of images and ultimately in the sharing of images.
Remember, editing is not just about selecting the strongest images. It is about shaping meaning. A body of work is defined as much by what is excluded as by what is included. Choosing not to share a photograph is still an editorial decision.
I love sharing work so I by no means am trying to say that sharing is unimportant. Sharing connects us. It builds conversation and community. But it works best when it is intentional rather than automatic. When sharing becomes a choice instead of a reflex, it regains its power.
I think it is worth redefining what success looks like in photography. A successful photograph is not always one that is widely seen or highly praised. Sometimes it is an image that teaches you something, shifts your attention, or reminds you why you enjoy making photographs in the first place.
Letting some images live only with you does not diminish them. In many cases, it strengthens your relationship to photography. It allows the act of seeing to exist without expectation. And in a world that constantly asks us to show everything, there is quiet value in choosing to hold some things back.

In this episode of The Perceptive Photographer, I talk about book ideas for the holiday season, especially for photographers and creative folks. Thanks to a listener, David, I once again share some of my favorite reads or books for giving ranging from creative practice and photography theory to memoirs and photo books. The goal of this week’s episode (561) is to hopefully help you find meaningful books for yourself or the photographers in your life. so without future adieu here is a list:

Creativity / General Art & Practice

Photography Conversations, Interviews, Thought

Photography Theory / Essays

Photobooks / Monographs

Additional Mentions 

If you are looking to buy a book you can ‘t go wrong with

PhotoEye.com

Bookshop.org

Abe’s Books

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.