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.