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.

In episode 542, I explored a topic that I have discussed on more than one occasion. While it’s easy to skip over naming your work—maybe leaving images untitled or defaulting to file names. They’re a powerful way to deepen your understanding of your work and offer viewers a richer way into your images.

One hesitation I often hear is, “Won’t a title limit how others see my photo?” I get it. We want our images to speak freely. But a well-considered title doesn’t shut interpretation down—it opens it up. A title is like the name of a book or a painting—it gives you a way in without telling you exactly what to think. Think about two books I have on color: The Secret Lives of Color and Color and Meaning. Same general subject, but those titles immediately set a tone. Your titles can do that too. A good title invites curiosity, emotion, or interpretation without dictating terms. It’s a lens, not a lock.

What Titles Reveal About You

For photographers, titles aren’t just about the audience—they’re also a way to reflect back what matters to you. When you start titling your work, you might notice themes that keep showing up—solitude in your landscapes, strength in your portraits, memory in your still lifes. A simple name can uncover what you’re really drawn to. It helps clarify what the image means to you, and how you might want to group or present it. Consider a barn photograph. You could call it Red Barn, 1923, Pride of the Valley, or Last Light Before the Storm. Each one reveals a different facet of your experience and intention. Not every title has to be shared. Some might live only in your Lightroom catalog, others on a gallery wall. Maybe you title your images when they go into a portfolio, but not when you post them online. That’s totally fine. The point isn’t that every image needs a title—it’s that titling is another creative tool at your disposal. Use it how and when it supports your goals. You might even go back years later and find that a title you once loved no longer fits. That’s okay too—your relationship to the image can evolve, and your titles can evolve with it.

If titling feels awkward or forced, try treating it as a creative exercise. Write five to ten different titles for the same image. Let yourself get weird, poetic, literal, emotional, or even nonsensical. See how each one changes how you feel about the photo. This isn’t about finding “the one”—it’s about seeing the work through different lenses and tapping into new layers of meaning. Sometimes you’ll land on something that surprises you. Sometimes the title reveals what the image was really about all along. It’s a low-stakes, high-reward way to engage more deeply with your own work.

Different types of titles reveal different things. Descriptive titles like Sunset Over Lake Washington tell us what we’re seeing. Emotive titles like Longing for Home guide us toward a feeling. Narrative titles like The Day We Said Goodbye offer a moment or story. Humorous or abstract titles—Duck, Duck, Goose! or Penguin Power give us a smile. None are better or worse, but each offers a different entry point.

At the end of the day, titling your photographs is less about classification and more about connection—both with your images and your audience. It’s a way to slow down and reflect, to notice patterns, and to give form to meaning. Even if you never share the title, the process of creating one can give you clarity and insight. It can also make your work feel more complete, more intentional, more you. So the next time you finish editing a photo, pause and ask: “What would I call this?” You might be surprised at what bubbles to the surface.

In episode 541 of the podcast, I dig into something that’s been a swirl of ideas, conversations and reactions from different things over the past few weeks. Each one was a little about balance, symmetry and living in an imperfect world. All those got me thinking about the notions of wabi sabi. It’s a Japanese aesthetic rooted in Zen Buddhism, and it’s all about finding beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and the natural cycles of life. For me, it’s become more than a concept—it’s a shift in how I approach photography, and honestly, how I move through the world.

Wabi sabi is about seeing beauty in things that are worn, aged, incomplete, or a little rough around the edges. It’s the cracked teacup, the faded sign, the rusted hinge. It’s the sense that something’s been lived in, weathered, and still has dignity and grace.

In photography, it’s not about giving up on craft. It’s about letting authenticity guide us behind the camera.

Perfection Isn’t the Point

So much of what we’re taught in photography pushes us toward the “perfect shot.” Clean compositions, straight lines, even lighting, perfect balance. But the more I photograph, the more I realize that perfection can at times flatten the emotion out of an image. Sure it is perfect, but it feels sort of soulless. Sometimes we chase those ideals because we want to feel like we’re in control, or because we’re trying to create a sense of calm. But the world isn’t always calm. It’s messy, unpredictable, and full of tension. The cracks, the tilt, the shadows that don’t quite cooperate—that’s where the real energy shows up.

There’s something powerful about the quiet, background details we often pass over. A small crack in the wall, an old sticker on a lamppost, the way moss grows on a forgotten step. Those things aren’t screaming for attention, but they hold a certain weight. They tell stories. They make you pause. I’ve found that the more I slow down and let myself really look, the more I notice these details—and the more they show up in my work in a meaningful way.

One of the things That rusted-out truck or broken down fence? It’s not just a subject—it’s a timeline. A memory. A history. Photography gives us a way to hold those moments, to document what time has done. More than anything, wabi sabi reminds us to slow down. Photography isn’t just about what we’re photographing—it’s about how we’re seeing. When I’m fully present, not trying to control everything, I start noticing stuff:. Things like the texture of a wall, the way the light skims across a surface, a beam of a shadow all become interesting subject matter. When I give myself the time to really see, the photographs that come out of that space tend to be the ones that mean the most to me.

If you want to dig deeper, Wabi Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren is a great. It’s not dense and an really easy read. I’ve read it more than once, and every time I come back to it, I find something new.

Workshops Coming

If this way of seeing resonates with you, I’ve got a few workshops where we lean into exactly this kind of approach:

And if you haven’t subscribed to The Perceptive Photographer, it’s a good time to jump in. I’d love to keep this conversation going.

Composition comes up all the time in photography conversations—and honestly, it’s one of those topics that can be both helpful and frustrating. Like a lot of folks, I started out learning the so-called “rules”: rule of thirds, leading lines, foreground interest… you know the list. They’re easy to teach, easy to check off. But over time—and with influence from people like Robert Adams, Paul Caponigro, and Ben Shahn—I started to realize that arranging lines and shapes in a pleasing way doesn’t necessarily lead to a photograph that matters.

In this episode of the Perceptive Photographer Podcast, I again sit down with Ken Carlson to dig into this idea of composition—not as a checklist, but as a way of seeing and expressing intention. We kept circling back to the same question: Why do we, and so many other photographers, get stuck on the rules? It’s tempting to believe that if you just follow the formulas, your photos will be good. Social media and tutorials love to sell that promise. But as we both admitted, that approach often leaves the work feeling a little hollow.

Ken shared some stories about technically perfect images that left him cold. I’ve certainly made my fair share of photos that looked “right” but didn’t feel right. That disconnect really boils down to one thing: intention. If we’re just arranging things because we’re supposed to, not because we mean something by it, the work loses its spark. Ken asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re just arranging things for the sake of arrangement?” That question stuck with me.

Ken also brought up a metaphor I love: composition as a quiver of arrows. Each element—light, tone, line, texture, perspective, and so on—is an arrow you can reach for when the moment calls. You don’t need to use them all at once. You just need to know which one to grab, and why.

Here’s a quick breakdown of those arrows and what they can offer:

The goal isn’t to follow rules or use every tool—it’s to make choices that support what you want to say. Sometimes that means breaking the rules entirely. A centered horizon might be the right choice if it serves the image.

Ken and I also touched on abstract photography, where recognizable subjects fall away and form does all the talking. Without literal content to lean on, the weight of meaning rests entirely on structure, color, and design. That’s where a deeper understanding of composition really pays off.

We also talked about the way certain compositional choices carry personal or symbolic weight. Vertical lines might feel like support beams to one person and barriers to another. That’s the beauty of it—your experience informs how you compose, and that’s what gives your work its voice.

If you’re looking to explore this more, Photography and the Art of Seeing by Freeman Patterson is a fantastic resource. It’s clear, thoughtful, and goes beyond just making things “look good.”

At its core, composition isn’t just about arranging elements. It’s about creating meaning. As Ben Shahn once said, the artist’s job is to assume a viewer who is sensitive and intelligent—and to make something that speaks to that shared humanity.

In this episode of The Perceptive Photographer, I explore three ideas that have been shaping my creative process lately: truth, wonder, and trust. A recent chat with my friend Bruce and a stack of good reading got me thinking about how these elements are often at the core of meaningful work. When they’re all in balance, photography becomes more than just technical execution—it becomes a space for curiosity, honesty, and growth.

It’s easy to get caught up in gear and technique (guilty as charged), but sometimes we need to step back and allow ourselves to play, make mistakes, and stay open to what’s in front of us. That openness—that sense of wonder—is often where the real magic starts. And then there’s trust: trust in ourselves, in the process, and in the images that might not make sense yet but still feel right.

For me, photography works best when I’m not just trying to get it “right,” but when I’m chasing something true. That might be a feeling, a gesture, a quiet moment that lingers. I hope this episode encourages you to lean into your own voice and let truth, wonder, and trust guide your work too.

Key Takeaways:

In this week’s episode of the Perceptive Photographer podcast, I dig deep into a topic, prompted by a thoughtful question from a long-time listener, Dennis. His struggle is one I know many of us share: Are we creating for ourselves, or for others?

In this post, I want to break down the main themes from that episode, offering nuanced insights for photographers and creatives who are navigating this complex terrain. I’ll explore the impact of feedback, the role of ego, the influence of social media, and the importance of understanding both your audience and yourself.

At the heart of Dennis’s question is a tension I think every artist feels:
Personal Expression– The drive to create something meaningful to me, to explore my own ideas, emotions, and perspectives.
External Validation–The desire for recognition, approval, or even just acknowledgment from others.

It’s tempting to say, “I make art only for myself.” But if I’m honest, that’s rarely the whole truth. There’s an ego component—wanting to be seen, understood, and appreciated. The challenge is to recognize this duality without letting it undermine the authenticity of my work.

Feedback is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it can help me grow and see my work from new perspectives. On the other, it can pull me away from my own vision, especially in the age of social media.

The Social Media Trap

I’ve seen—and experienced—how easy it is to start “gaming the algorithm.”
Chasing Likes– I might find myself posting images I know will get attention, even if they don’t resonate with me.
Losing My Voice–Over time, this can lead to a disconnect between what I want to create and what I actually produce.

When I put something personal into the world, negative feedback can feel like a personal attack. That’s natural, but it’s important to separate myself from my work.

Even in editorial photography, where I’m hired to fulfill someone else’s vision, my unique style and perspective are what make my work valuable. But before anyone else sees my images, I’m the first audience. I’m the one who clicks the shutter, edits the file, and decides if it’s finished. Ego isn’t always a bad thing. It can drive me to push boundaries and share my work. But unchecked, it can make me defensive or overly focused on external validation.

While it’s important to create for myself, sharing my work allows it to grow and take on new meanings. Others may see things I never intended, and that’s part of the creative journey.

Be honest about your motivations.
It’s okay to want both personal satisfaction and audience engagement.

Use feedback as a tool, not a compass.
Let it inform, but not control, your creative process.

Remember you are your first audience.
If your work doesn’t resonate with you, it’s unlikely to resonate with others.

Balance ego with openness.
Confidence is good, but humility keeps you growing.

Let your work live in the world.
Sharing is part of the creative process, and it can lead to unexpected growth.

The question of who we make our work for isn’t one I expect to answer once and for all. It’s a tension I revisit with every project, every photo, every share. What matters most is staying true to myself while remaining open to the world around me. That’s where the real magic—and growth—happens.

In the first episode of my new In Conversation series, I sit down with my friend and fellow photographer Ken Carlson to talk about his decision to pursue an MFA in photography. Ken’s path to grad school isn’t the usual one—and that’s exactly what makes his story so insightful. From a career in veterinary medicine to deep dives into critique and artistic voice, Ken brings a unique perspective to what it means to grow creatively, stay curious, and learn with intention.

We talk about a lot in this episode: mentorship, the benefits (and limits) of structure, the importance of mastering craft before chasing higher-level study, and what it means to be a good listener—not just in critique, but in your own work.

Life experience counts.
Ken’s not starting from scratch. His years outside the art world give his work a grounded sense of perspective. He references Jung’s stages of life—how the early years point outward and the later years draw inward. That internal shift, he says, leads to deeper, more personal work. Whether you’ve been photographing for five years or fifty, taking stock of where you are in life can help you figure out where your art wants to go next.

Mentorship and structure serve different purposes.
During the pandemic, Ken worked with mentors, but eventually realized he needed more structure and push than informal feedback alone could provide. The low-residency MFA he chose offered a balance of community, accountability, and flexibility—something a lot of photographers might benefit from, regardless of age or background.

Know your tools before you leap.
We both agree: if you’re thinking about an MFA or formal study, don’t wait to learn the basics once you’re in the program. You want to walk in with your camera skills solid so your energy can go into exploration, not troubleshooting. Craft should support creativity—not get in the way.

Critique is a skill.
Ken admits that learning to listen again—to really be open to feedback—wasn’t always easy. But it was necessary. We talk about critique as a conversation, not a judgment. And how good critique requires vulnerability, not just defense.

Curiosity over conclusions.
One of my favorite takeaways from our conversation is this idea that snap judgments kill curiosity. Ken encourages us to slow down, take in the world, and let our work surprise us. That open-mindedness is essential for making work that evolves and resonates.

If you’re considering an MFA—or just looking to push yourself creatively—Ken’s story is worth a listen. It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about staying open to the questions, being honest about what you need, and finding the courage to keep learning.

You can hear the full conversation on The Perceptive Photographer. And as always, if something from the episode resonates with you, I’d love to hear about it.

Daniel

In this episode of The Perceptive Photographer, I spent some time digging into a concept that’s easy to overlook but deeply important: the point of entry in photography. It’s that first moment of connection—the thing that makes you stop, raise your camera, and engage. Sometimes it’s obvious: striking light, bold color, or an expressive face. But often it’s more subtle, like a mood, a memory, or something you can’t quite explain. That entry point isn’t just a visual cue—it’s a clue to why you make the work you do.

When you start to notice what consistently pulls you into a scene, you begin to recognize your tendencies, your voice, and what matters to you emotionally and creatively. It shapes how you compose, what you leave in or out of the frame, and how your work is experienced by others. I’ve found that slowing down—pausing before I click the shutter and asking what’s actually catching my eye—makes a huge difference. It turns the act of photographing from reactive to intentional. Over time, those small observations build up into a deeper sense of clarity about your process and your perspective.

What makes this even more interesting is that no two photographers have the same point of entry. We each bring our histories, biases, and emotions to the act of seeing, and that’s what gives photography its richness. That’s why I always encourage conversations, critiques, and sharing work with others. When you can articulate why you were drawn to something—whether it’s a subject, a color, or a feeling—you’re well on your way to making more honest, more resonant images. So next time you’re out with your camera, take a moment to notice that first spark. That’s where your real work begins.