The Perceptive Photographer

I am so excited for this episode of In Conversation, where the amazing Rachel Demy joins me to discuss the periphery in photography. I have known Rachel for years, and we had such a great conversation. I was thinking about our conversation over the past few weeks and how to introduce you to Rachel’s work. I think that one of the hallmarks of her latest work is that it isn’t loud. It unfolds quietly, asking you to slow down and look again. Her photographs sit somewhere between studied observation and intuition, where mood, atmosphere, gesture, and restraint become actors in the image.  I love how her work shifts as you spend time with it. The tension of attentiveness moves to a sense of patience.  In this conversation, we start with the topic of the periphery in photography and go down a rabbit hole. Both of us agree that peripheral is not just a biology, but a way of being present while making photographs. We talk about how photography isn’t only about what we choose to place inside the frame, but also about what exists just beyond it. That awareness, at the time of photographing or in processing, of the unseen can shape the image, adding emotional and psychological depth. For Rachel, watching Richard Mosse’s film Broken Specter challenged her perception and became a catalyst for thinking differently about how we see, how we feel space, and how expanded awareness can influence photographic work.  Of course, with any conversation, we dug into how we are trained to think, what inspires us, what worries us about our practice, and how we sometimes have to let go and surrender to the process and path we are on. Trust the seeing. Trusting our intuition,  I really enjoyed the insights I got from listening to her talk about how intuition becomes especially pronounced in her night photography. Working in darkness heightens awareness and taps into what she described as an “animal vision. In those moments, we become less analytical and more responsive, guided by feeling, rhythm, and an embodied sense of presence. We also touched on creative dormancy, with both of us hitting long periods of slow work development. It was a reminder that pauses, rest, and reflection are not failures of creativity, but essential parts of its rhythm. Rachel’s perspective on photography and creativity is thoughtful, generous, and deeply felt, and our conversation was filled with genuine insights and discoveries. I am so looking forward to the next one.  You can connect with Rachel on social media at @racheldemy, on her website www.racheldemy.com, or explore her book Between Everywhere: On the Road with Death Cab for Cutie. 

As we start a new year, I want to talk about a feeling that almost never gets discussed openly, even though nearly all of us experience it. That moment when you look at your recent work and think, “This is fine… but it feels boring.” Not bad. Not broken. unsurprising. feel it myself. And over time, I have come to believe that this feeling is not a warning sign. It is often a signal that something important is happening. The strange thing about making work is that we experience it twice. First while we are making it, and then later when we look at the result. By the time the photograph exists, we have already lived inside it. We remember the walk, the light, the missed frames, the choices, the doubt. All of that context stays attached to the image for us.b But when someone else sees the photograph, they see none of that. They see the distilled result. One moment, one frame, one decision made visible. What feels familiar and predictable to us can feel clear and intentional to someone else. That familiarity or clarity can seem like it drains surprise, but that does not mean it drains meaning.I think clarity is one of the most misunderstood qualities in creative work. Clarity often feels boring to the person who made it because all the hard decisions are already resolved. There is no tension left for us. We already know how it works. Where things often go wrong is how we respond to that boredom. When the work stops exciting us, it is tempting to fix the wrong problem. We add more contrast. We push the color. We introduce drama not because the image needs it, but because we want to feel something again. Restlessness can look a lot like refinement, but they are not the same thing. Sometimes the best thing you can do when the work feels boring is to step away from it. Give it time. Look at it again later, without the weight of expectation. Ask whether it still holds together, not whether it excites you. If your recent work feels boring but still feels honest, still feels aligned with how you see, pay attention. That is often where the real work is happening. Not in the images that shout the loudest, but in the ones that sit quietly and wait. As we move into 2026, I want to encourage you and myself to resist the urge to constantly chase novelty. To trust that not being impressed by our own work is not the same thing as failing. Sometimes it means we are finally listening closely enough to hear what we keep returning to. And that is rarely boring.

In Episode 564 of the podcast, I’m thinking through an idea that comes up often in photography but is rarely examined closely: consistency. We tend to treat a recognizable style as a sign of maturity or a settled voice, a clear direction. And for a while, that recognition feels like progress. But consistency can quietly become a constraint. The problem is that consistency is often mistaken for coherence. Consistency lives on the surface of photographs. It shows up as repeated visual solutions: similar compositions, familiar subjects, reliable color and tone. Coherence operates underneath the work it is similar ot our voice or vision. It’s the continuity of attention or the way a we look, what we care about, and the questions we continue to ask, even as the work itself changes. So this week we talk about how consistency is reinforced by external pressures: audience expectation, institutional validation, and the quiet rewards of being easily recognizable, and how over time, this can lead photographers to protect a look rather than respond honestly to what’s in front of them. We also look at how to think about coherence as a resource forus to use in our work and processing. Steven Shore offers a powerful counterexample. American Surfaces and Uncommon Places look radically different, yet they belong to the same mind. Remember coherence isn’t stylistic. it’s conceptual. In this case of Steven and others, the work remains grounded in observation, description, and the ordinary, even as the visual language shifts. Lots of other photographers like Wolfgang Tillmans, Adams, Minor, and Sophie Calle operate similarly. Their practices change form, scale, and medium, but their attention to what matters remains the same. The danger of consistency isn’t repetition itself. It’s the narrowing of perception. Coherence asks something harder: allowing the work to evolve without abandoning what truly matters. Voice isn’t a look you defend. It’s comes paying attention to yourself, what you seee, and why it matters. And at that core, the work you create can can survive any consistency change.

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.