I’ve been pondering a deceptively simple question: What makes a photograph good as part of my book club this month? But, before diving into that, a couple of quick announcements! I’ve got some new workshops lined up in 2027 at Badlands, Adventures in the Palouse, and the Oregon Coast and Redwoods. Check out the details on my website. Plus, I’ll be teaching a masterclass called “The Landscape is Language” at the Photographic Center Northwest in November 2026.

As for the topic of episode 596, the source of this question comes from re-reading The View from the Studio Door by Ted Orland. In the section Art & Society, Ted comes up with an interesting answer that we will get to at the end of the podcast. Sure, the what is a good photography questionseems like it should have a straightforward answer. We could list out a bunch of qualities: composition, light, color, timing, technical skill, originality, emotion. Maybe a photo resonates because it communicates something important or makes us pause and reflect. So, what are we really talking about when we say a photograph is good?

First off, we need to distinguish between “good” and “beautiful.” A photograph can be stunning without really offering much depth. Gorgeous light, perfect composition, beautiful colors—sure, but does it say anything? Conversely, a photograph can be rough around the edges but still pack an emotional punch.

First off, we need to distinguish between “good” and “beautiful.” A photograph can be stunning without really offering much depth. Gorgeous light, perfect composition, beautiful colors—sure, but does it say anything? Conversely, a photograph can be rough around the edges but still pack an emotional punch.

Who determines what makes a photograph good? Is it because I like it? A critic? Other photographers? Does it matter if it’s hanging in a museum or selling at auction? Or is it simply about whether the creator feels they achieved what they set out to do? The more I reflect, the more I realize there isn’t a universal standard for art—and maybe that’s just fine.

What if we judged the “goodness” of a photograph by its impact?

– Does it make me stop?

– Does it hold my gaze?

– Does it shift my perspective?

– Does it make me uncomfortable or curious?

– Does it inspire creativity in me?

Suppose I take a photograph that falls flat. You have them too. You know the ones with bad composition, poor lighting, missing the mark entirely. On its own, it might not see the light of day. But what if that photo leads me to create ten better ones? What if it highlights what I don’t want in my work or points me toward an unexpected direction? Does that still make it a bad photograph? Aesthetically, sure. Creatively, it could be invaluable.

It makes me wonder if we’re sometimes asking the wrong questions about art. Instead of “Is this good?” maybe we should be asking, “What did this make possible?”

I feel like photographers can get caught up in the notion that their work is a collection of standalone images. You make a picture, then another, and it’s easy to obsess over which ones are the “good” ones. But that’s not really how creativity works. It is a journey for us to follow, and the most important photographs aren’t necessarily the strongest ones; it might be the one that reshapes everything that follows

Ted Orland has this concept I keep returning to: a piece of work can be deemed good if it helps you move toward the next piece. I love this idea because it eases the pressure on each photograph. It doesn’t have to be the final say; it can be a question, an experiment, or even a failure.

I am out on the road this week so just a quick note on the podcast. I hope you enjoy it. I have been driving across Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota so seeing lots of plateaus, but I digress from the topic of the week.

A creative plateau is that strange phase where progress feels stagnant. You’re not getting worse, but it feels like you’re also not getting any better. It’s like hiking. There are flat stretches where you can’t see the summit, yet you’re still on your way there, just on a less steep path. so in this episode we dig into those long flat stretches that are in many ways my favorite parts of a hike.

The great part of creative plateau can be valuable because it slows you down, strengthens discipline, reveals repetitive habits, encourages experimentation, and reconnects you with the deeper reasons you enjoy photography, such as curiosity and storytelling. At the same time, plateaus can bring self-doubt, frustration, unnecessary and unhelpful comparisons with others, or a tendency to blame equipment or technique. For some of us, we might even find a temporary loss of excitement, It is important to rememmber that these are a normal part of creative growth. Rather than signaling failure, a plateau is often a sign that your artistic vision is evolving and an opportunity to develop new skills, perspectives, and habits.

Ultimately, creative plateaus are part of your growth as a photographer. Embrace them, and you’ll find new paths to explore.

Starting a new mini-podcast within a podcast this month on the way we see. Episode one is focused on silence. I mean, really, what does silence look like? Can we photograph it? Exploring this can empower you to see with fresh eyes and inspire your artistic practice.
Sure, we might instinctively understand silence as the absence of sound, but photography requires us to think about it. We really have to think about how an image can be silent. Once we get our head around that idea, it is easier to see that some photographs seem to whisper while others seem to yell. That difference has little to do with where they were made and everything to do with how they were seen.
So in this episode of the podcast, I dig into when you live in a world filled with noise, and I don’t just mean audible noise, but visual noise too. How do we overcome the noise to make better images? Practicing mindful observation helps you cut through the clutter and find the quiet in your frame, making your images calmer and more deliberate.
Silence lives in our compositions, and the use of negative space, soft light, and other notions of stillness. Be it a lone tree in morning fog or an empty street before sunrise, the goal is to have nothing fighting for your attention; the photograph lingers.
Working with silence is often less about finding the perfect scene and more about slowing down enough to see. Instead of asking, “What photograph can I make here?” try asking, “What is this place trying to say?” I think one of the greatest aspects of silence is that it teaches patience and restraint. The strongest images are not always the first ones, and sometimes we have to think hard about what to remove from the frame to make a photograph work.
In a world constantly demanding our attention, perhaps the most meaningful photographs are those that encourage us to slow down. Maybe silence isn’t the absence of something at all. Maybe it’s the space where our perception begins.

Just got back from several weeks on the road. the studio is a mess. the dog has to get a tooth pulled that she broke on the road trip, but it was great to see family. All that is to say that things are crazy here at the old studio. but that doesn’t mean we don’t to the podcast. So, in this week’s episode of The Perceptive Photographer, I dig into two big ideas that can impact your photography: who you invite to critique your work, and what it really means to “see” as a photographer.

I have heard this a few times over the past few months so I wanted to talk a little about it this week. That idea is the belief that feedback should come exclusively from those within the same genre. For example, landscape photographers often seek critiques from fellow landscape artists. However, this approach can be limiting. If someone already shares your knowledge and perspective, they may not offer fresh insights. Seeking feedback from diverse art forms can unlock new ideas and perspectives that challenge your usual way of seeing.

Consider, too, those who might not even identify as photographers. Legendary photo editors and publishers often lack a formal photography background yet possess a keen understanding of what makes an impactful image and more than photographers can they are amazing at recognizing the nuances of light, composition, and storytelling. Critiques can be incredibly valuable when they focus on the essence of what resonates in an image rather than genre-specific “guidelines” or “rules”.

The second thing I wanted to talk about was how we approach and talk about the act of “seeing” in photography. for many of us, our initial feelings about an image in the field differ from how we perceive it in post-editing or years later. Seeing isn’t just a one-time event. Seeing is actually an action. It’s something we do. It’s something we engage with. It’s not a passive response.

“Photography is about seeing. And to be a good photographer, we need to be engaged in the act of seeing.”

Welcome to episode 595 of the Perceptive Photographer. This week, we are exploring the importance of asking questions about our work—not questions related to critique or the meaning of our completed images, but rather questions we consider before taking the shot.

I hypothesize that the questions we ask play a crucial role in shaping the central theme of the image. If we prioritize technical elements and settings over feelings or storytelling, the final image may feel off in its narrative. This disconnect occurs because we focused on the wrong aspects when creating the photograph.

When we make a photograph, there is a lot happening in our minds. If we concentrate on the wrong elements, that focus may not be conveyed effectively. However, this doesn’t mean that all elements aren’t important; they are. Composition, technique, emotion, and storytelling all matter. Ultimately, it comes down to determining which of these elements you want to prioritize in your work.