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:

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. 

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.

Instead of obsessing over numbers, what if we tracked things that really deepen our photography?

These are harder to quantify, but far more valuable in the long run.

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.

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.