Ed Schlotzhauer

An artists journey

Category: Artistic Process

Risk
Risk is a part of anything we do. Especially if we are an artist. We constantly try new things that may not work. In creative work we often do not clearly know where we are going. That leads to a lot of failed experiments and dead ends. When we try and fail, is that bad? Is the risk worth it?
Risk
I suspect none of us like to think much about risk taking and failure. But we’re artists. We have to be big boys and girls. Art is risk. We will fail in many of the things we try. Is that a reason not to do it?
Author Herman Melville once said, “It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.” I believe the greater risk in our artistic life is to fail to be creative.
AI is constantly learning how to mimic all existing art. The only solution is to be different from what exists, including our own past work. Not different for the sake of being different, but fresh, new creativity.
If we are repeating the same boring stuff that 99% of photographers do, what have we contributed to art or to ourselves? Chasing likes on social media is normalizing. That is, it brings us down to the average level of everyone else.
Theodore Roosevelt said: “It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed. In this life we get nothing save by effort.” If we are an artist, the risk is to not give it our full effort and not become what we can be. To let what is within us die because of fear of failure. That seems too great a fate to risk.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Attitude
Our attitude about failure will have a lot to do with our results. A reality for many of us is that, if we are not failing, we are not stretching ourselves and developing new skills or vision. As creatives we cannot play it safe. We must be risk takers.
I love a quote from a blog by Benjamin Hardy. He was talking about Molly Bloom who said “The moment you realize you can try and fail — and that everything will be okay — then you are free to create.“
This is a liberating event in our creative journey. Failure isn’t final. It is not even necessarily bad. Failure leads to growth. When you fail, no one comes and takes away your camera or your brushes. No one (who counts) even laughs at us. Realizing we can fail and go on with no consequences frees us to try without worrying much about failing.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Learn by doing
We don’t upgrade our skills and exercise our creativity just by thinking about it. We must take action. There is no way to decide if the result is good until we see the result. But just taking random action will usually lead to random, unwanted results. We need a way to follow a path that will take us to desired results.
You are probably familiar with the “do it, try it, fix it” loop. It goes by different names, but the concept is the same. This is an excellent process for improving things.
The basic idea is you try something new. Then you evaluate the results, Was it a success or an improvement? Decide what, if anything, you want to keep of this experiment to incorporate into your tool set. Then, based on the evaluation, plan what to try next. That becomes the basis of the next experiment. It is important to realize this is a cycle, meaning it continually loops and repeats. It is a proven process of directed experiments leading to growth.
Evaluate
At the evaluation stage many experiments will be tossed out. They did not take us in the direction we want to go. It was a failure, but that does not mean we failed. We just tried something that we decided didn’t work for us.
This is part of a process. It is a deliberate plan to systematically push the limits. To do that, we will try a lot of things that don’t work out satisfactorily. The failures are expected, planned even. Not something to be ashamed of. We should be happy to know we tried. Now we are free to do another experiment in a different direction.
Please understand that a consequence of this is that we must be prepared to deliberately reject much of our work. We must have a standard to evaluate against that allows us to separate acceptable from unacceptable. Don’t be afraid to call some of our effort unacceptable. And do not be discouraged.
It is kind of like the story of Edison inventing the light bulb. He found 10,000 things that didn’t work. They weren’t failures, they were insights.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Freedom
Freedom is at the core of the process. We are not just trying random things and mostly being disappointed with the results and insecure with our creativity. Instead, we are following a deliberate process of improving our self and our art. Knowing we can try anything with no fear of failure is extremely liberating. It is part of the self-confidence we must have as artists.
It is easy to get discouraged and think of our self as the failure. We have probably all felt like a fraud who has no right considering themself an artist. Remind yourself that we have to change and grow creatively, and to do that requires a lot of risk taking and failed experiments. Following a process like outlined above makes it a methodical plan. It helps us keep in mind that the failure is not a personal failing but a necessary and expected outcome of the growth process. It can be exciting. We can risk more when the fails are not catastrophic.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
No fault
There is a tendency in our culture to want things to be “no fault”. It seems shameful and damaging to our fragile self-esteem to be at fault for something. So, we have no fault insurance, no fault divorces, etc. It is a reluctance to take blame for something that didn’t work.
I’m suggesting that when we take risk with our art, and the result is a failure, we are responsible for the failure. It is our art. We made the creative decisions that led to the outcome we didn’t like, or we were not skilled enough in our craft to pull it off. No one else did it. Accept that as a growth opportunity.
I made the point that our artistic failure is not a personal failure. I strongly believe that is true. An artistic failure does not have blame or shame. We had an idea to do something creative. We took a risk. It didn’t work out the way we anticipated. That is OK. A failed experiment does not make us a failed artist or a bad person. The benefit is that it informs our future efforts. It creates a steppingstone forward. It is a healthy risk.
If you always succeed, you’re not trying hard enough.
Woody Allen
April 22, 2026
Dancing With the Frame
All 2-dimensional art exists within a frame. The frame is a powerful creative spark, because it requires choices and it strongly influences the resulting image. This is the magic of the frame. I have come to consider the process “dancing with the frame”.
Finite
I do 2-dimensional art. Most paintings or photographs are. But besides being flat, 2-dimensional works are also bounded. They cannot extend to infinity. So, a print may be 16×20 inches, or maybe 6×9 feet, but there is a limit. A print of a landscape scene is not an attempt to physically transport the scene to your wall. The image is an interpretation.
And because the print is bounded, there are edges. The edges create the frame, or more precisely the bounding rectangle of the image. I am assuming rectangular prints for the discussion. So, in simple physical terms, the frame is the box that encloses the print.
Likewise, our sensors or film are rectangular. There are pragmatic reasons for this. The point is, though, that the image we see through our viewfinder and capture in our camera is rectangular. It lives within the bounding box of a frame.
It turns out, though, that this simple bounding box gives life and drama to the content. And taking a picture is dancing with the frame. At least, for me.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
A window
The frame is much more than an annoying constraint of the shape of the sensor or print. Something magical happens when we look through the viewfinder or crop our image in our processing software.
What we see through the frame is our window onto the world. This window sparks much of our creativity. As we move and zoom and continue to examine our subject through this window we compose our image within it. We visualize the image and intuitively or deliberately decide what is important to bring out, what should be excluded, and how the parts should be arranged.
Since we are photographers, we are usually working with an existing scene, at least, I am. We seldom can go physically re-arrange things to suit us – at least I don’t. Instead, we must change our position or lens selection to arrange the parts in what we consider the most advantageous orientation.
We may realize the interest is not the whole scene, but only certain parts of it., and they should be presented from a certain point of view. So, we adjust our window and keep searching for the magic.
After all, if we are an artist, we want to bring something to our viewers that is more than just what anyone would have shot if they walked up on the scene. We bring our own interpretation. A big part of this is how we decide to arrange what we see in our window.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Composition
Over the centuries many “rules” of composition have been formed. I put it in quotes because there are no real r ules. The “rules” are observations of patterns that have been found to be generally pleasing to viewers.
It was very interesting to me to realize that most of these “rules” are defined by or relative to the frame. Let’s look at a few.
The rule of thirds helps to increase dynamic tension by placing the subject along the intersection points of dividing the window into 3 groups horizontally and 3 groups vertically. This is totally relative to the frame.
Along with that is the oft quoted “do not put the subject in the center” – of the frame.
The horizon should be level – relative to the frame.
Diagonals can add a lot of interest to many compositions. The diagonals exist because of their relation to the frame.
Leading lines are often recommended. They help encourage the viewer’s eye to lead from the edge of the frame to the subject and keep them exploring.
We need to be careful to not have distracting elements at the edges of the frame.
Unless it is really your intent, we must be careful to not cut the subject off at the edge of the frame.
This could go on a long time. Go examine your favorite composition rules and see how many are describing relationships to or within the frame.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
The dance
What I describe as dancing with the frame comes from my typical shooting style. I am mostly an intuitive photographer. I don’t carry flip books of composition ideas or sample books of other photographer’s work. My shots are seldom pre-planned.
When my subconscious notifies me that there is potentially an interesting shot nearby, I get engaged. I seem to know from experience the lighting and exposure details and camera settings. Those don’t occupy much of my thought. The dance really starts when I raise my camera to my eye and see what the camera sees. What I perceive through the viewfinder now becomes the main focus of my attention. The view in the frame.
Now I can inventory what I have to work with in the scene. It probably looks like a performance art to the observer. I move and zoom and bend and twist to rearrange things in the frame. What is important? What needs to be minimized? Are there diagonals I can use? Where should I move to make the composition pop? Are there distractions at the edges that I could remove by repositioning?
These decisions seem to flow effortlessly during the dance. It is kind of like manual focusing. Turn the focus knob. Did it get better or worse? If worse, go the other way. Keep going until it gets clear then starts to get blurry again. Carefully go back a little to where the peak sharpness was.
Working within the frame is like that to me. It is a dynamic process of optimizing. The big difference is that, with manual focus, the results are objective. Composing within the frame is an intuitive process of real-time judgment. That is part of what makes it hard but fun.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Artist’s judgement
So, part of the work of a photographer is to arrange the elements within the frame in the most pleasing or impactful way. This is the magic of the frame. The frame imposes a dynamic tension between itself and its contents. It is the canvas where we compose. It is the crucible where our creativity is tested. I can only do it well while looking through the viewfinder.
Since the camera sensor captures everything in the frame, it is not only critical to arrange the elements as we wish, but it may be as important to know what to exclude. That is one of the tricks of photography. What is in view of the sensor will be in our image unless we consciously figure out how to eliminate it.
Much of the artistry is in working the frame: figuring out what is significant and how to present it within the frame. It is the stage where we work our magic. It turns out that the frame is more important in our work than we usually express. This is what, to me, is the magic of the frame.
April 15, 2026
And Be There
If you have done photography for a while, you probably have heard the expression “f/8 and be there.” Have you ever thought about it?
Origin
The quote is most often associated with the photographer Arthur Fellig (more commonly known as Weegee). It is not known for certain if he originated it or even said it. But it has stuck and become a cliché.
Keep in mind that this originated in the first half of the 20th Century. As a photojournalist Weegee used a bulky SpeedGraphic 5×7 film camera with film holders. These are slow and heavy and difficult to use at the best of times. These were manual focus, manual exposure with no metering, and single shot film holders.
Weegee shot mostly at night in New York City in fast moving situations. He was usually competing with the police to be first on scene so he could get a good picture. Often, he developed his film in a makeshift studio in the trunk of his car.
He became one of the masters of this craft of gritty photojournalism. When asked the secret of his photographic technique he is supposed to have replied “f/8 and be there”.
Was that just a clever throw-away phrase or did it have meaning?
©Ed Schlotzhauer
f/8
We know that f/8 refers to the aperture of the lens. It is a truth of lens design that the “sweet spot” or maximum sharpness of a lens is generally around f/8 or f/11. That was very true in Weegee’s day and is still true today. So, presetting your aperture to f/8 is a pretty good initial guess for a balance between exposure, depth of field, and sharpness.
Weegee is reported to usually leave his camera focused at 10 ft and aperture f/11 or f/16 (contrary to the reported quote). Then it was already set to a good guess for a fast-breaking situation. His big flash bulb would light up the exposure at night. Remember those?
Weegee was a master of his craft. His Speed Graphic was slow and heavy compared to modern cameras, so he believed in presetting his camera to a good starting guess for the situations he expected. He was comfortable using his tools and tried hard to keep time consuming technical decisions out of the way.
This sounds like good advice for us, too. Being so familiar with our cameras that we can adjust them quickly, even instinctively, for the creative situation we encounter will usually help us come away with good pictures. Anticipating settings for what we will encounter is even faster.
So, my takeaway here is that f/8 is not a magic setting, but we should practice using our tools until we can adjust them to the settings we want quickly and even in the dark. The technical process should fade into the background. It is sad to miss great pictures because we are fiddling with camera settings.
And f/8 is a pretty good default choice.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Being there
Maybe the more important part of the phrase is “being there.” We can plan, we can spend all day on Google Earth or PhotoPils or studying people’s online posts, planning what we would do if we were there, but if we are not there, we can’t shoot it.
My virtual mentor Jay Maisel said:
If you are out there shooting, things will happen for you. If you’re not out there, you’ll only hear about it.
Jay Maisel
Weegee was out there, every day, in the worst conditions, racing the police to crime scenes. His persistence is one reason we still talk about him today. He got results.
Going out and making photographs where you are may be more useful than spending all year planning for that “big” photo trip. What good is it to get to that bucket list location but not know how to use your equipment well enough to capture what you planned? What do you do if you get there and conditions are completely different from what you planned for? Do you have the mental toughness and technical savvy to look around for something else interesting?
If you shoot fast and instinctively, constant practice develops the muscle memory that makes camera settings automatic. That frees more of our mind for considering composition, feeling, and interpretation. Part of it is education, but a lot of it is practice.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
For us
I think, for most of us, the situation is very different from Weegee’s day. We have fast acting and accurate automatic cameras with speedy auto focus lenses. So then, is the f8 and be there saying still relevant?
I think so. I read it as encouragement to learn our equipment well enough that it is not a barrier to getting the shot we want, and to put ourselves out in the action, because that is where things are happening.
The “action” does not have to be fast breaking photojournalism on the gritty streets of New York City. Go out exploring frequently in your local environment. Take a few day trips to surrounding places. Try to get a window seat on the airplane and be that guy who shoots out of the window during the flight.
Basically, be tuned in (mindful) wherever you go and wherever you are. Weegee may have meant the phrase as a quickly tossed off platitude. But I believe it contained some truth we can learn from. It may have been a platitude, but that does not make it incorrect.
F/8 and be there. Practice it.
April 8, 2026
Two Questions and a Problem
I don’t like to get too deep into philosophy, but sometimes I step in it and get some on me. Lately I have pondered the question of what is good in art. A quote by Henry James brought up 2 questions and a problem that I can’t resolve.
The quote
Henry James was a well-known literary critic in the late 1800’s to the early 1900’s. Many people rightly disagreed with Henry James, but he was articulate and good at presenting and defending his points, and never at a loss for an opinion.
Even though his work was in literary criticism, many of his comments seem to me to apply to visual art, too.
Anyway, James once proposed what might be a template for art criticism. Paraphrased, it is “What is (the artist) trying to do? Does he do it? Was it worth it?”
When I first read it, it seemed reasonable. But the more I considered it, the more I got sucked into a spiral of imponderables. I will be forced to reveal the shallowness of my philosophical thinking.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Author’s intent
This first question is the artist’s intent. At first, it seems like it shouldn’t be a problem. We just need to decide what the artist wanted to create or achieve with the work. I often hear this given as a necessary step in analyzing art.
But… how can we know? Unless the artist clearly stated their intentions, all we can do is speculate. Any criticism of the work would start with I think they were trying to do this, or I think their goal was to create that.
Doesn’t that setup a framework of our own ideas that we evaluate the work against? That seems invalid and unfair to the artist.
Some genres might be deduced with relative accuracy. We can look at some images and think that “that seems to be a traditional realistic landscape along the lines of Ansel Adams.” But it is still our interpretation of their intent. Therefore, it may or may not be right.
And, on the other hand, is the artist required to justify each piece by thoroughly describing their intent? Without doing this, does it open them to criticism based on any criteria the viewer sets up? What about the artist who wants to leave such questions to the viewer? Are they sabotaging themselves?
So, I’m already stuck on the first question and haven’t even gotten to the one I called a problem.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Author’s success
The second question embedded in James’ statement is whether the artist achieves his intent. To me, this still has the problem of not being addressable without knowing the answer to the first question. If we don’t clearly know what they are trying to do, can we say if they did it?
We can criticize it for being out of focus, or what we consider to be an unbalanced composition, or poor lighting or exposure. But maybe the artist was making a satirical comment about postmodernism and the meaninglessness of meaning. Maybe what we criticized was exactly what they intended to do, and they successfully did it.
Without understanding intent, can we do more than saying “I don’t like it” or “this doesn’t appear to be as well done as other images that seem similar”? Maybe both are true statements, but do they address the artist’s intent?
There’s a big difference between saying “that didn’t succeed by my standards” and “that did not achieve what the author was trying to do”. One is judging it by my standards, the other is judging it by the author’s intent, which we may not know.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
The problem
But then comes the problem for me. The part of the question that asks, “was it worth it?” Who can answer that?
A Twentieth Century science fiction author named Theodore Sturgeon put forth what is known as Sturgeon’s Law. He said that “ninety percent of everything is crap”. These are words I have lived by, but my corollary to this is that Sturgeon was an optimist.
I have become rather jaded in my view of art. It seems like a small percentage of the art I see, including photography, including mine, has any great inherent worth. Value is subjective. A Rolex watch has a high price tag, but low value to me. I don’t want one. I know people who value them highly and wear them. A personal value judgment that I can’t criticize.
It is a joy to me when someone sees one of my pictures and values it enough to spend money to have it. It means that they want to hang it to see every day and it has worth to them. But that is a personal judgment based on their values. Did it mean that picture was worth it? Well, it was to them. Probably to me. But not necessarily to someone else. Worth seems a very subjective thing.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
What does it mean for me
I guess my takeaway is that I’m not going to precisely and accurately figure out the value of other artist’s work and other people are not going to be the faithful judges of my work. So, I should stop being a critic and I should develop a thick skin against criticism from others.
Should I have to write a detailed description of my intent and thought process behind a picture? I hope not. Most of the time I couldn’t give a very impressive explanation. I much prefer to leave it to my viewers to create their own story.
I have developed a cynical view of theories and movements and lots of words poured out by people who talk but don’t do.
If a critic or a juror or a gallerist or another artist gives me feedback, I should receive it gratefully as input and consider it, but not necessarily take it as a truth carved on stone that I must act on. It matters more to me if the image met my expectations. If it succeeded according to my intent. They did not know what was in my mind.
I see a scene or I have an idea, and I make an image that represents the best of my ability. If it is a true representation of what I saw or felt or wanted to convey, and if it is a level of creativity and craftsmanship that I am proud of, that, to me, may be a good image. If it delights me, it is worth it. But not all images that meet my intent actually have lasting power. That is another discussion.
I find that when I over-analyze my art or get too formal in making it, some of the life gets sucked out of it. Better results come from following my instincts and my feelings. Doing that leads to pictures that I can say are worth it.
“What is the artist trying to do? Does he do it? Was it worth it?” The 2 questions and a problem I brought that I struggle with. I can only discuss them accurately about my own pictures.
The deeper questions of criticism will have to be left to philosophers. I don’t know what makes good art. But I know what delights me.
I decided to accept as true my own thinking. I have already settled it for myself, so flattery and criticism go down the same drain, and I am quite free.
Georgia O’Keeffe
The purpose of art is to inform and delight.
Horace, 1st century AD
April 1, 2026
A Blank Canvas
Some people seem to hunt for the same images others have already taken. I go out with a blank canvas to fill with what I experience or visualize.
Research
I have known many people who would never go anywhere without thoroughly researching the location. They study samples of photos there. An itinerary will probably be planned, scheduling locations and the best time of day to be there and places to stand to shoot each scene.
The internet has amazing resources for doing this type of research. You can see exactly when and where the sun will rise and set. Likewise, when the moon will rise and set and the phase. You can virtually “stand” in any location and look around and see the view. And, of course, there are endless galleries of photos from most locations.
I am not criticizing this. We each do what works best for us. This does not work for me. I am not a planner in this way. I would. prefer to be surprised. Finding something interesting is more important to me than coming away with a certain pre-planned shot.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Iconic locations
And how many people plan whole vacations around traveling to prime iconic locations to photograph? I guess, if you are new to photography, there is an excitement around being able to say, “I can shoot that, too.” Some have their “bucket list” they want to fill out. Maybe it seems to build a sort of credential.
I do not resonate with this. I have little interest with going somewhere just to metaphorically put my tripod feet in the holes others have worn over the years. It is great to visit beautiful locations. I cannot help but snap some pictures. But I would seldom consider putting them in a portfolio. To me, this is filling my canvas with someone else’s picture. But then, I’m weird.
A possible exception is an iconic location I can become intimately familiar with. For instance, I live less than an hour from Rocky Mountain National Park. I have shot a lot there. I am beginning to develop a relationship with it. It’s moods and weather changes, its commonly seen and out of the way sights are familiar. I feel this lets me see it in a very different way from an occasional tourist. Still, though, most of the pictures I would choose to show are somewhat different from the classic iconic shots. By getting familiar with a location, I can discover how I see it on a deeper level.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Likes
And there is the great lure of social media likes. It is a deep psychological addiction the tech companies have hooked people on.
I can’t say it is impossible to make actual friends on social media. And I agree that there can be some benefit to posting some photos to see the reactions. I’m afraid, though, that for some of us, it becomes a game of collecting the most “likes” to validate ourselves.
Thank you, but I’ll pass. The way to maximize likes is to shoot the bland, ordinary pictures that the masses like. A pretty sunset always gets likes. I would rather create images that excite me. If I am going to go to the trouble of filling my canvas, shouldn’t I make something that pleases me?
©Ed Schlotzhauer
What is a blank canvas?
I have been using this metaphor of a blank canvas, but what does that mean? I think of my digital file as a canvas. It is a surface to paint on.
As photographers, we paint with light. I and many others have noted that one of the unique aspects of photography is that, when we click the shutter release, everything in the field of view of our lens is recorded. So, we must be very careful to decide beforehand what we want to image and what to exclude. This is one aspect of filling my canvas.
Alternatively, we can use a more painterly technique of drawing and brushing or copy/pasting or compositing to build an image “from scratch.”
Either way, a digital image is created. That is my workflow. I do not do film anymore.
Both the paths I described involve deliberate artistic decisions rather than just “Pretty – Click”. The camera and computer are tools to use to make art. We must bend the tools to our will and vision.
Some of us focus a lot on the technology. We use only the best prime lenses with the highest resolution sensors and always use a steady tripod to capture the finest detail that can be obtained. I understand.
Personally, I have fallen out of love with technology. I no longer will decide not to print an image because it was shot with a lens that did not have optimum lines of resolution. Ultimate technical perfection is no longer my goal.
So, basically, my blank canvas is my digital file. It starts as empty. I choose what to image or draw or composite onto this canvas. Hopefully, it is a well-chosen creative decision.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Who am I shooting for?
In the end, I want to create images that please me. I am the audience that matters most. The ones I really like are seldom standard iconic scenes anymore and they are not designed to maximize likes.
Rule of thirds? Don’t care. Expose to the right? Maybe, maybe not. Sharp focused subject? Not necessarily. Locked down on a tripod for maximum sharpness? Probably not, maybe exactly the opposite. Don’t photograph in the middle of the day. Ridiculous!
Those technical considerations are of little interest to me. I delight in going against normal conventions. A good image is usually one I consider creative, a fresh point of view, something I’ve never seen and that I think my viewers have not seen.
But there is a problem with that. Once I have shot it, it is not as creative anymore. I might explore the idea for a while until it has run its course, but then I must keep going to find something else new and creative. But that is part of what excites me. The goal line is always moving. There is no point where I believe I will be able to say, “I have arrived; I am the perfect artist.”
My photography is an exercise in creativity. It is a creative image that I want on my canvas. Even if it is not technically perfect. It may even be impossible to make the image technically perfect. That does not bother me anymore.
What will you choose to write on your canvas? Copies of the same standard shots or fresh, new work? We make the choice every time we pick up our camera and contemplate that blank canvas.
March 18, 2026