A chapter-one earworm that won’t let me off the hook.
There’s a sentence from Chapter 1 of Ansel Adams’ The Camera that’s been looping in my head like an earworm: the idea that a photographer should be making pictures, not taking them.
And the more it repeats, the more I realize it’s not a cute semantic distinction. It’s a diagnosis.
Because if my only outcome is “I hope I get something pretty”—whether I’m heading out on a photo walk, or setting up a self-portrait shoot in my living room—then I’m not making anything. I’m collecting. I’m rolling dice. I’m taking pictures.
Sure, I might accidentally come home with a banger. It might even be portfolio-worthy. But the process that created it is foggy, and that means the result is not repeatable. I can’t refine what I can’t name.
The difference is intent
When I “take” pictures, the goal is vague:
- “Let’s see what happens.”
- “Maybe the light will do something.”
- “I’ll know it when I see it.”
That mindset isn’t evil. It’s how most of us start. It’s how I operated for decades.
But when I “make” a photograph, I’m forced to answer a question before I press the shutter: What am I trying to say with this frame?
Not “what am I trying to photograph,” but what am I trying to do.
That shift changes everything. Because intent creates a target. And a target creates feedback.
Why “pretty” isn’t a plan
If the outcome is just “a good photo,” there’s nothing solid to review afterward.
You can look at the exposure triangle, sure. You can nitpick sharpness, noise, and dynamic range. You can get lost in technical autopsies.
But the real problem is bigger: without intent, there’s no standard.
No benchmark. No criteria. No “did I succeed?”
So improvement becomes random:
- You repeat what worked without knowing why it worked.
- You abandon what failed without knowing what actually failed.
- And you keep hoping the next walk will deliver the next “happy accident.”
That’s not a workflow. That’s gambling.
Repeatability is the doorway to improvement
This is the part that hit me hardest.
With intention and vision, you can review:
- What you set out to do
- What choices you made (lens, distance, light, framing, timing)
- What worked
- What didn’t
- What you’ll tweak next time
That’s how a process becomes repeatable. Not perfect—repeatable.
A process you can trust.
A process you can improve.
A process that can produce work that belongs together—not just individually good images, but photographs that hold hands as a body of work.
This ties directly into the idea I explored in The difference between a snap and a photograph. A snap can be great. But it doesn’t usually come with a method you can reproduce on demand.
Making photographs does.
The uncomfortable professional realization
Here’s the part that stings a bit:
After forty-plus years of photography, I’m still learning the difference between being experienced and being reliable.
From my perspective, the professional isn’t someone who never misses.
The professional is someone who can:
- define the outcome
- build a process to reach it
- evaluate the process honestly
- and deliver consistently on a timeline
If I can’t do that, then I can’t be trusted—by a client, by a collaborator, or even by my future self building a portfolio.
And that reframes what it means to “go pro.” It’s not a label. It’s not gear. It’s not a website.
It’s a repeatable process buried under intent.
What “making” looks like in my work right now
This is exactly why I’ve been leaning so hard into constraints lately—because constraints force intent.
My 28mm discipline isn’t just a style choice. It’s an operational choice. It’s me reducing variables so I can see cause-and-effect faster. That’s the core of Finding style in the street: the 28mm field of view and the discipline of presence.
Same thing with self-portraits. If I walk into a shoot thinking “let’s make something cool,” I’m going to spend two hours inventing the shoot while trying to shoot it. That’s not making. That’s wandering.
But if I walk in with a defined outcome—mood, gesture, contrast, emotional temperature—then I can evaluate every choice against it. That’s the foundation under Winter can’t stop the work: using self portraits to learn portrait photography and my ongoing fundamentals series, starting with Visualization is the real camera.
A simple “Making” checklist (the one I’m trying to live by)
Before the session, I want to be able to write a few sentences:
- Outcome: What should these photos feel like? What are they about?
- Constraints: What’s fixed today? (lens/field of view, light approach, location rules)
- Process: What steps am I going to follow to get there?
- Success criteria: How will I know I got it? (3 keepers? one frame with a specific gesture? a sequence that reads as a set?)
After the session, I want to answer:
- What part of the process clearly helped?
- What part clearly hurt?
- What’s the one tweak I’m carrying into the next session?
That’s it. Nothing heroic. Just measurable intent.
The real point
This “making vs taking” idea isn’t about being precious. It’s not about overthinking the joy out of photography.
It’s about building a practice that can support a body of work.
Because my goal isn’t to occasionally stumble into a great frame.
My goal is to produce photographs that work together—strong enough to hang, publish, sequence, and stand behind.
And that means I need more than taste.
I need a process.
I need intent.
I need to make photographs on purpose.
A small self-assignment (for the next session)
For my next walk or shoot, I’m holding myself to this:
- Write the outcome in one sentence before I start.
- Choose one constraint I won’t break.
- Review the session like an experiment, not a mood.
If I do that consistently, then improvement stops being a mystery.
And “professional” stops being a dream.
It becomes a habit.