Today, I’d like to share a bit about my own photo journey. Whether you are at the very beginning or nearing the end of your own, I’m guessing you’ll find a few similarities.
I still remember my first digital camera—the Nikon D200. The specs weren’t much compared to today’s standards, but I took that camera everywhere I went. Events. Non-events. Vacations. Staycations. Any excuse I could find to pick up my camera was a good enough reason for me.
It’s not hyperbole to suggest that the bond I felt with that camera is a major reason why I became a professional photographer in the first place. I’d been a screenwriter and director for years prior to that, so I was already artistically motivated. But more technical forms of art (i.e., ones that require some basic understanding of math or science) were always something I shied away from. True, I did study cinematography at UCLA, but at least at that time, that was more of an intellectual exercise to make me better at communicating with my DP than it was out of any interest to operate a camera myself.
That all changed with the D200. Not only was it easy enough for me to use and versatile enough for me to learn the craft of photography, but it also provided me with endless hours of joy. After spending my life working in film, battling through the development process, and dealing with all the predictable hurdles of Hollywood, the D200 gave me an outlet to just go outside at any time for any reason and create art unburdened by the world’s expectations.
Needless to say, a lot has changed since then. I still work in Hollywood as a writer/director, still banging my head against the wall every day trying to get the next project made. But photography grew from a hobby to a career, and I now split my time evenly between three professions: narrative filmmaking, commercial directing/cinematography, and commercial photography. I’ve come a long way and still have a long way to go.
When I look back at those original snapshots I took with my D200 so many years ago and compare them to the images I take now for a living, there is zero question that I am a better artist today than I was then. You’d expect that. But do I still enjoy photography as much as when I was still learning with my D200? Well, it’s complicated.
No, let’s be clear—I love photography. So it’s not a question of passion for the craft. But my relationship with the art of photography has changed throughout the years.
One of the main reasons I became so obsessed with photography originally was because it served as a distraction. Like I said, I already had a professional career as a filmmaker. Glitz and glamour aside, any filmmaker can tell you that there is never a day when someone or something isn’t driving you a little crazy when you’re getting a project made—or not getting a project made. A great part of my life as a filmmaker is spent dreaming up projects, pitching them or writing them out, getting people excited, then seeing absolutely nothing come of it as the project sits on the shelf.
With photography, on the other hand, you don’t need permission to create. There is literally no excuse not to be creating art. With photography, you can just walk outside right now—literally right this instant—and create a beautiful image in 1/8000th of a second. That is such a freeing experience for an artist, especially one used to working in a structured system that requires a million people to say yes to get even a minor thing done and only one person to say no to kill even the best project. With photography, you are your own boss.
Or at least I was—until I went professional. Bob Dylan has a song called “Gotta Serve Somebody,” and never is this more true than as a professional artist. This varies greatly depending on which genre of photography you find yourself in, but an easy rule of thumb is that the higher the budget, the less control you have over the end result.
Of course, this makes sense. The more money being invested, the higher the stakes. I may have graduated with a degree in business, but I don’t have to put that to use at all to understand basic economics. When I am hired to shoot an ad campaign, there are a lot of butts on the line. The company needs this product launch to be successful to turn a profit and not face a shareholder revolt. They go to an ad agency whose reputation and contract with the client are at stake if they can’t deliver the creative that helps their clients keep their jobs.
All this stress rolls down the mountain onto you, as you have somehow convinced this motley crew of executives that you are, in fact, the man or woman best qualified to deliver the assets that will deliver the engagement that will deliver the revenue that will deliver the profits that will deliver the dividends to shareholders that will deliver the bonuses to CEOs that will deliver the jobs for people down the line and hopefully eventually deliver you a second assignment. It’s… a lot. But if you’re the type of person who thrives in a leadership role, it can also be a fun challenge.
Yet that does mean that your art, in many ways, is no longer fully your own. By the time you receive the client brief you’ll be bidding on, the concept itself has likely already been through around six months of internal discussion between the client and the agency before it even gets to you. The carefully crafted shot list they give you is often less an invitation to create and more like a warning to “not screw this up.”
Now, if you are good at your job, which I’m assuming all of you are, you have the skill to take that client concept to the next level. Mix their needs with your own special sauce and come up with a blend that only you can create. That’s your artistic voice. That’s why they are hiring you instead of someone else. It’s not just paint-by-numbers. You need to find a way to elevate the material.
But to some extent, your creativity will still be confined within the walls the client has set for you. Again, this is actually a fun challenge if you see it that way.
However, this loss of control can sometimes extend beyond direct interactions with your client. For example, building a brand as a commercial artist usually requires deciding on a very specific niche. The more competitive your section of the industry, the more narrow that niche is going to be if you have any hopes of standing out. Essentially, you get to choose the box you want to be put into—but you will need to choose a box.
Beyond actual assignments, this can start to extend to your personal work as well. Going back to my D200 days, I would just go out and shoot anything I wanted that day—whatever I was in the mood for. Then, I would post the final images (usually way too many of them) to any site I could find. There was no financial incentive behind posting the images. The likes on social media were nice, but it wouldn’t affect my finances if a particular shoot didn’t quite come off. But once you become a pro, all that changes. I still go out and shoot for fun, but rarely. Usually, when I pick up my camera for a personal project these days, the project is at least a little bit of a backend spec shoot. In other words, the personal work has to not only be at the same standard as my professional work—because my clients are likely to see it and judge me accordingly—but it also is likely going to be within the same box as my professional work. Again, because my clients are likely to see it and judge me accordingly.
Like I said, I still can shoot whatever I want. But I can only publicly show work that fits into my brand. Without the possibility of ever actually showing the images publicly, I notice that I am often less motivated to create them in the first place. What can I say? I love an audience. Take away my audience, and a great photograph is just as depressing as a great screenplay still sitting on my shelf. But that does mean that sometimes, even in my personal work, I end up forcing myself to conform my concept to a certain niche so that it becomes something I could potentially use to market myself professionally rather than just going for what is interesting in my gut. It’s a smart strategy from a business perspective, but it can certainly douse the passion from the perspective of an artist.
The tools I use to create my art have also changed greatly over the years. I mentioned how my D200 wasn’t exactly a technological marvel, but pretty much every photographic tool I use these days is amazing by any unit of measurement. I have top-of-the-line cameras, top-of-the-line lenses, and top-of-the-line lighting. This may sound like a boast, but I should also point out that all that also comes with top-of-the-line credit card bills, top-of-the-line buyer’s regret when you make the wrong choice, and, most importantly, top-of-the-line muscle fatigue whenever I go to set.
The thing about accumulating great gear over the years is that, in the end, you just end up with more of it. Having two lights doesn’t automatically make you a better photographer than someone with only one. Having an expensive new camera doesn’t make you better than someone with a 20-year-old camera from the thrift store. Even if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford the best, when you are actually shooting, you can only use one camera at a time, one lens at a time, and, more often than not, the simplest solution is the best solution.
I realize that’s a great problem to have. But it does lend itself to a question that I'm often unable to fully answer: Is it worth it to have all the toys and all the success at the expense of enjoyment and creative freedom? When you become a professional, you gain a certain level of respect and (hopefully) a meaningful income. But you trade in a certain amount of unbound joy in exchange for responsibility and restrictions. Like I said earlier, restrictions can actually be a beautiful thing. But when you net it all out, is the juice worth the squeeze?
My growth as a photographer wasn’t a result of being able to afford more expensive toys or sharper lenses. It came as a result of years and years of practicing my craft with whatever was in my bag at the time. Those first five or six years with the D200 and the superzoom kit lens that came with it were among the happiest and most productive periods of my life.
You know, the other day I was going for a walkabout just for fun. I wanted to take a camera to snap a few shots. I grabbed a Nikon Z6 III, then went to decide on a lens. I had an assortment of choices—everything from a tiny $200 40 mm pancake lens up to a $2,500 50 mm f/1.2 prime. Both are great pieces of glass for different reasons. Logic would suggest you shoot with the f/1.2 any chance you get—it’s just so beautiful. But instead, I opted for the less perfect piece of glass, the 40 mm, because, well, it’s significantly lighter. How’s that for a simple answer?
I took the 40 mm out with me and snapped some shots. And you know what? I had an absolute blast. Granted, I didn’t get the same exact technical detail I would get from the more expensive lens, but I enjoyed the process of shooting a lot more with the lightweight alternative. Because I enjoyed myself more, I took better pictures. There’s something about photographing for the joy of the process versus being hyperfocused on technical specs. In my humble opinion, you always do better work when you prioritize creativity over technical details. Not that technical details don’t matter—but creativity matters more. And the more enjoyable your shooting experience, the more free you are to forget about the camera and just focus on your subject.
Not that I shot anything that day that you’ll find in my portfolio. Like I said earlier, at this point in my career, the slots in my portfolio are as much about strategy as they are about whether I like a shot or not. But days like this, where I travel light and just take photos for the love of the game, are critical as they remind me of why I picked up a camera in the first place.
It was for the escape. It was for the freedom to create. It was for having a camera with me at all times as an extension of my hand. My artistic expression is as fundamental a part of my personality as my signature. None of that goes away as you grow from hobbyist to full-time pro. But every now and then, it pays to remind yourself of how it all began.
