I’ve read Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being, and I’m now in the process of reading Ansel Adams’ three books (The Camera, The Negative, The Print). I’m only on chapter 6 of The Camera, but it’s already having an impact on my process.
Not because Adams has given me a new trick.
Because he’s quietly reshaping how I think about the relationship between seeing and making—between the moment out in the world and the discipline required to translate that moment into a photograph that actually holds up.
And here’s the surprise: Rubin and Adams don’t conflict in my head. They click.
I’ve started to see them as two engines in the same machine.
- Engine One: Play (Rubin’s permission)
- Engine Two: Craft (Adams’ responsibility)
One engine generates energy. The other engine gives that energy a body.
Engine One: Play (and the courage to stay open)
Rubin puts the paradox right on the table: “Making art is a serious matter.” (p. 215)
And then he immediately flips it: “Making art is pure play.” (p. 216)
That pairing matters. Because I know what happens when I hold only the first half—when the work becomes “serious” in the wrong way. It tightens me. It makes me reach for certainty too early. It makes me judge frames while I’m still standing in the street.
Rubin gives the correction: “Take art seriously without going about it in a serious way.” (p. 216)
And he names the cost of getting it wrong: “Seriousness saddles the work with a burden.” (p. 216)
That line is uncomfortably accurate for photography—especially if you publish, or if you’re building a body of work with a timeline attached to it. The moment the camera turns into a scoreboard, play evaporates.
So Engine One is a practice of openness:
- shoot to discover, not to confirm
- collect seeds without deciding what they “are” yet
- let the day be a day, not a verdict on your talent
Rubin says it in one sentence that feels like it was written for long walks and long projects: “The work reveals itself as you go.” (p. 95)
That’s Engine One. You walk. You notice. You try. You don’t force. You don’t demand proof on command. You stay in motion long enough for the work to start whispering back.
Engine Two: Craft (and the discipline to finish)
This is where Adams enters my process—and why by the end of chapter 6 of The Camera is already changing me.
Rubin is the voice that protects the spark. Adams is the voice that says: now earn it.
Even this early in the Adams journey, I can feel the shift toward a more deliberate mindset:
- seeing isn’t only a feeling—it’s a decision
- the camera isn’t only a recorder—it’s a translator
- craft isn’t decoration—it’s integrity
Rubin explains the internal tug-of-war that shows up right after every shoot: “The inspired-artist aspect of your self may be in conflict with the craftsperson aspect…” (p. 58)
That’s the exact moment between Engine One and Engine Two.
Engine One comes home excited about a feeling, a moment, a possibility.
Engine Two opens the files and asks harder questions: What actually landed? What’s the photograph actually doing? What survives the edit?
Adams—especially across the three-book arc—treats that second phase as sacred. Not glamorous. Not mystical. Sacred in the sense that the work deserves to be finished with intention.
And I think that’s the heart of the two-engine merge: Rubin keeps me from choking the life out of the work. Adams keeps me from calling “life” something that isn’t finished yet.
Constraints without religion
This is where my long-running love of constraints finally makes more sense to me.
Rubin offers the cleanest definition of a “rule” I’ve ever read: “A rule is a way of structuring awareness.” (p. 135)
That’s exactly how I want to hold my 28mm discipline.
Not as a limitation. Not as branding. Not as identity.
As awareness.
A chosen constraint that sharpens attention:
- distance becomes consistent
- timing becomes more honest
- composition becomes a habit, not a gamble
But Rubin also warns about the trap photographers fall into when a method works once and becomes a belief system: “Any rule is worth testing… Challenge your assumptions and methods.” (p. 67)
That line is a pressure relief valve for anyone building a style. It reminds me that consistency isn’t the goal. Work that is alive is the goal. And sometimes the thing keeping the work alive is temporarily letting go of what I think I “am,” so I can see what else is possible.
How the two engines actually run in my week
This is the practical part—the part I’m actively trying to live.
Engine One: Play Session (no stakes)
I go shoot with the goal of staying open. I’m not hunting for a portfolio frame. I’m collecting seeds. I’m following curiosity. I’m letting myself be surprised. If I start to tighten, I remember Rubin’s line: “In play, there are no stakes.” (p. 216)
Engine Two: Craft Session (high standards, calm mind)
I edit with seriousness, not drama. This is where the “adult aspect” comes in after playtime (Rubin even describes that handoff directly). (p. 216)
This is where I try to see what the work is actually saying—separate from what I wanted it to say.
Engine Two: Finish Session (output something)
This is the part photographers skip when they’re stuck in perpetual “learning.” Finish forces clarity. Print it. Post it. Sequence it. Archive it properly. Name the thing. Move the work from “potential” into “real.”
And here’s where Adams is already affecting me, even by chapter 6: I’m starting to respect finishing as a form of honesty. It’s easy to stay in the warm fog of possibility. It’s harder—and more useful—to bring a photograph into the world with intention.
The mindset shift I’m chasing
What I’m really building is a rhythm that keeps both truths intact:
- The work matters (p. 215)
- The making should still feel like play (p. 216)
Because if I can hold that paradox, I can keep showing up.
And when I’m stuck—when I’m holding on too tight, too outcome-driven, too “serious”—I’m going to remember this: “Sometimes disengaging is the best way to engage.” (p. 57)
That doesn’t mean quitting. It means loosening the grip so the work can breathe again.
The merge
Rubin gives me the spark-protection philosophy: openness, curiosity, play, lightness.
Adams is giving me the craft-responsibility philosophy: intention, clarity, control, finish.
Two engines. One process.
And even though I’m still early in the Adams journey—only chapter 6 of the first book—I can already feel my practice shifting from wanting a body of work… to building one on purpose.