The Perceptive Photographer

Have you ever looked at two versions of a photograph where one is technically clean and the other one a little rough around the edges. For some reason, you feel something pull you toward the scruffy one. It drives you crazy because you can’t explain it and put words to why? Well for this weeks podcast we are going to dig in a talk about that and how to sit with that feeling.

In my practice and in helping others I see us spend a lot of time learning to justify our choices. Composition, exposure, light direction, timing all comes with vocabulary and frameworks that let us explain what we did and why. Sure I like to know all that, but there’s a quieter voice underneath. A voice that responds before the analytical mind catches up. It’s the part of you that knows an image works before you understand how. It’s your instinct.

Instinct isn’t mystical. It’s more of a super fast compressed process where the thousands of visual decisions you’ve absorbed and cataloged show up. The problem is we’ve been worked over to not trust that intuition. Social media rewards certain aesthetics. Portfolio reviews push us toward legibility. Mentors see through their own eyes, not ours. Almost without noticing, we give up our taste to external feedback loops.

In this episode, I hope that we can get to some reasons and talk about what happens when logic interrogates intuition. I also offer up three practices that have helped me build trust with that quieter part of my seeing: shooting without immediate review to stay connected, setting aside low-stakes time for experimentation where failure is the point, and learning to articulate choices after the fact rather than rationalizing them.

Instincts aren’t broken but rather they sharpen with reflection. They deepens with repetition. And the more you learn to listen to it, even when you can’t yet explain what it’s saying, the more your work starts to feel like yours.

so head out and notice one moment where your gut reacts before your mind can explain it. Honor that reaction in some tangible way. Then come back to it after a few days and see what you notice.

Have a great week

Daniel

Hey all. We are up to episode 589 of the Perceptive Photographer. This week, we are going to talk about how nothing is ever wasted in the creative process.
I think one of the most damaging ideas for artists and photographers is the belief that every effort must produce a successful result. We head out with our cameras, hoping for great light, compelling subjects, and portfolio-worthy images. When those expectations aren’t met, it’s easy to label the experience a failure.

But creative practice doesn’t work that way. Every frame, every mistake, every abandoned idea or project adds to our growth and journey. The value of an experience shouldn’t ever be only measured by the images we bring home. There is a deep value in what we learn along the way.

A failed photograph can teach us more than a successful one. It reveals weaknesses in our timing, composition, or observation. It helps us recognize patterns and refine our approach.

What appears to be a mistake today often becomes a lesson that strengthens future work. The same is true of unfinished projects and creative detours. We might learn that a project long forgotten or abandoned years ago eventually becomes our favorite thing to work on. I know that, for me, subjects, themes, and questions often remain hidden until I am ready to explore them more fully. What once seemed like a dead end may have been preparation for the next stage of development.

I like to think of creativity as a form of composting. Experiences, experiments, successes, and failures all accumulate over time. I like to think about it as compost for the garden. We add in all sorts of things that we don’t want, but they break down, transform, and eventually nourish new work. The process is rarely immediate, but it is always active.
Sure, we might be someone whose photograph are never shown, printed, or shared outsound our own eyeballs. But, the act of seeing, exploring, and engaging with the world shapes us and refines us. In that sense, every creative effort matters. Nothing is wasted. It all becomes part of the photographer you are becoming.

Before we dive into this week’s episode (number 588, btw), just a quick reminder: two spots are still available in the Photo Book Club—Click on the link under the workshop menu for more details. 

This week, the inspiration for this episode came from the book we are reading for the book club — Robert Adams’s Why People Photograph. But before we dig into our topic. We lost two great photographers this past week. Both Duane Michals and David Hockney passed away. Duane pushed photography into the realms of narrative, imagination, and personal expression, and reminded us that photographs could ask questions rather than provide answers. David said he took pictures (30,000) from time to time, and he continually encouraged us to reconsider how we see and work with ideas as complex and dynamic rather than as frozen moments. While they will be missed, we have such a great archive of their work. If you haven’t looked at their work, it’s worth your time. 

Our main topic for the week is about those exact moments of the shutter clicking. For many, photography is something we do almost automatically. Cameras are always within reach, and images are made billions of times a day. Yet beneath every photograph lies a simple question: Why did we choose to photograph that particular moment?

In this episode, I explore some of the ideas behind the why of our photographs. For some of us, photography begins with attention. Before there is a photograph, there is an act of noticing. Something in the world captures our interest, interrupts our routine, and asks us to pause. The camera becomes a way to acknowledge that moment.

We might photograph to remember, but photographs aren’t records of the past. They become memory triggers, opening doors to experiences, emotions, and stories that often fade or are forgotten. 

We also photograph to understand who we are and the world we live in. The camera allows us to investigate the world, ask questions, and discover meanings we might have overlooked. It allows us to push back when things aren’t right and celebrate what is good.

Maybe our photographs reveal something about who we are. The subjects we return to, the moments that move us, and the scenes that capture our attention all provide clues about what we value and how we see the world, all acting like a form of self-portraiture. 

Ultimately, photography may not be about collecting images at all. It may be about collecting these moments and places of attention and creating a deeper connection to the world around us.

Before getting into today’s episode, I want to acknowledge the passing of Jeff Schewe. Jeff’s contributions to the photographic community were immense, and his passion for the craft touched countless photographers worldwide. I learned so much about printing and processing from Jeff. He will be deeply missed, and my thoughts are with his family, friends, and everyone whose life he influenced through his teaching and work.
On a happier note, congratulations to Makeda Best, who recently stepped into a wonderful new role as the photo curator at the MOMA. I can’t wait to see the programming, exhibitions and content that the photo department puts out under Makeda’s watch. She has a great background and has curated several really interesting projects and exhibitions in the past. 
As for today’s podcast topic, we are exploring a simple idea: the photographs we almost make are, in some ways, one of our greatest barriers to our true work. Most photographers think their biggest mistakes happen after pressing the shutter, things like exposure errors, missed focus, or weak composition. But the greatest loss is the image we never make at all. We see something interesting, pause for a moment, and then let hesitation talk us out of taking the photograph.
My biggest issue is that I sometimes expect something better down the road. For Others, we’re uncertain whether the scene is worth photographing. Sometimes we’re distracted. Whatever the reason, the moment passes, and the photograph exists only in memory.
This week, I’ll explore why hesitation may cost us more images than technical mistakes and how learning to trust our curiosity can lead to richer photographic experiences. After all, some of our favorite photographs are often the ones we almost walked past.
Thanks for listening, and as always, keep seeing the world through your images as gifts that keep giving. 

Photographers often hear that they should “shoot with intention.” I agree with this for the most part, but thought it might be a great topic for today’s episode of the Perceptive Photographer (episode #586). Like I said, I do agree that there is some intention always at play, but I don’ think we always know that intention before we pickup the camera. Sometimes, we learn about that process when editing, processing or writing about our work and more important than that, intention doesn’t always begin as a fully formed idea.

More often, it starts as curiosity or awareness of something we like to photograph and then moves to intention. You know, you get a feeling, a subject that keeps drawing your attention. You may not know why you’re photographing something but you know that it matters enough to return to it again and again.

We make photographs because something catches our eye, and only later, through editing and reflection, do we discover the themes, questions, and emotions that connect the work. What initially felt random often reveals a deeper intention over time. This is why it’s important to trust the creative process. Not every photograph needs a detailed plan behind it. Sometimes the act of photographing is how we uncover what we’re trying to say.

It is in the work that we sometimes find our intention. As we become more aware of it, we can move more and more towards using it as an active part of our process rather than a passive approach. Intention matters, but it isn’t always a map, and eventually it can move us towards a deeper understanding of our work.