Ed Schlotzhauer

An artists journey

Tag: creativity

No I in Team
It’s a well-worn motivational expression: There’s no I in “team”. Whenever I hear it, I automatically turn it around to reverse the meaning. My art is not a team sport.
Teamwork
Teamwork can be a powerful force. Getting a group together and focused on a common problem can have amazing results. The comradery built can be very strong. In extreme cases, like a military group, members will sacrifice their lives for each other.
This is a phenomenon that we seldom find in our everyday lives. Perhaps you have the good fortune to have been a member of a great team. It is probably something you remember as a powerful experience.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Some things need a team
There are obvious cases where a team is required. Most sports require a team. No single player, no matter how skilled, can play all the positions simultaneously. All must work together to defeat the opposing team.
A team can be a force multiplier. The group can perform more physical work than an individual. Think of a bucket brigade.
Today’s workforce emphasizes teamwork and collaboration. It is taken as a truth that good teamwork improves productivity. I can sort of agree. Having seen both sides, I can say that working in a well-functioning team is much more productive and fun than being in a situation where there is conflict and tension.
I say “sort of” because I also do not believe that teams are the best structure for everything.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Introvert
Here’s one of my problems with the team concept: I’m an introvert. Group activities drain me rather than energizing me. An introvert can be a good team contributor, but it takes a savvy leader to make it happen. It is all too easy for a quiet introvert to be dominated by loud extroverts.
I have too often seen group efforts steered by the loudest or most opinionated members. The results were not always excellent.
As an introvert, I have a built-in suspicion of group activities. It is not an environment I naturally thrive in. It can happen, but it is rare.
Here is an example of it working: I worked with a fairly consistent group of excellent engineers for several decades. It was extremely productive and congenial. We got along well, we respected each other, we could disagree and resolve issues, and we supported each other. Managers and projects would come and go, but our core group stayed mostly intact. That is not to say we were best friends. We didn’t socialize much, although now that we are retired, several of us still get together weekly for lunch. The team bond was that strong.
That is a situation I don’t expect to see repeated much these days. But is my example of what a good team can be.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Artist
However, I am an artist now. I think that changes everything. The rules, the expectations, the responsibilities are all different now. It is a different world than the corporate environment.
Corporations are anonymous groups of people working to make a profit. The individuals doing the work, no matter how creative, are seldom known. Apple back in the Steve Jobs and Jonny Ivy days might be the exception.
But for an artist it is the opposite. My work is judged to be my own. My name is on it. It is very personal. It should be the best work I am capable of doing in any given situation. Good or bad, I’m the one held responsible.
As an artist and an introvert, I work in my head. Quietly. Other people’s voices and opinions are distracting noise. What I create is based on my own vision and decisions. After I have created a piece, I am very willing to listen to your opinion of how I could have made it better, but I don’t want you there talking to me while I am in the field working. If I were to listen to you there, the resulting work would be our piece, not mine.
Collaboration
This strikes to the heart of one of the great beliefs of the corporate world, that collaboration is the key to everything. I disagree.
Some proponents of collaboration say that results achieved by collaboration are always superior to results of any individual. Again, I disagree. I have seen good and bad results from collaboration.
I will claim that the results are about the average of the capability of the group. But in a lot of groups, some of the individuals are below average. Therefore, the group result seems better. This is the actual benefit to the corporation: collaboration usually produces acceptable results.
Whether or not collaboration is superior in corporate settings, I believe that it is always a mistake for me in my art, mainly fine art photography, which is my subject. My reasoning is that a work of art is an expression of the artist’s creativity and vision and feelings and skill. If I collaborate with someone, I cannot put my name on it and claim it as my creation. You would not see me; you would see a group effort.
Besides, I am not interested in making acceptable images. I strive to create excellent ones. If I fail, I want it to be completely my fault.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
No Team
I believe an artist is required to succeed or fail on his own. The kind of art I do is not a team sport. What I create is solely my responsibility. It will stand or fall on my ability. No excuses. No one else is directly contributing to it.
I would love to have a mentoring or support group of fellow artists, but I have not found one around me and there is a rather small population of local artists I share a vision with. It seems like it would be rewarding to be able to try out ideas with other artists and have a close enough group that they could tell me when I am veering off in the weeds. Shared ideas, education, and encouragement would be great.
But even if I had such a group, I would not collaborate with them on any of my works. Suggestions might be given and received, but it would be totally my decision what to do with the advice. The result would be mine and my responsibility. All praise or blame falls on me.
A strange side effect of this is that being an artist is a kind of arrogance. It is my work, my creativity, my vision. No one can tell me what I should do.
I did it my way
This is an extreme position, but it is the way that seems necessary for me. I can’t create in a noisy environment with other people trying to give me inputs. It’s part of my introversion. An atelier would not work for me, although I can see that it would be a good fit for some.
I will have to be content being a lone wolf, working independently, taking full responsibility for my own creation. And at this point in my life, I would not want it to be any other way. My purpose is to exercise my creativity and create art that pleases me, not to become commercially successful in group projects that I contribute to.
There’s no I in team. I am not in a team. A team is not where I work. That would feel lonely and isolated to some, but it energizes me.
April 29, 2026
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 have to 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 have to 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 help 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 are 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 stepping stone 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
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
Elevate Me
Why do you view art? Is it just to enjoy it, to see what other people are doing, to get ideas? I do those, but at a slightly deeper level, it is to elevate me.
Elevate
I admit to being somewhat jaded about art after years of focusing on it and trying to make it. It seems sometimes that my artistic appreciation is dulled, drained. I have seen so much that it is unusual to encounter anything that excites me. It is a sea of sameness.
I read an article that said that our dopamine sensitivity falls off 10% per decade after we get to be adults. Therefore, the things that excited us in the past don’t have the same impact later. I think I feel this in my life. I don’t get juiced as easily.
But then it happens. Something breaks through my deadened barriers and grabs me and shakes me. An artist has created something that speaks to me, shouts to me even.
When I thought there was nothing new to discover, I discover something new. When I thought I couldn’t get excited any more, suddenly I am – metaphorically – jumping and shouting.
This piece lifts me up; pulls me out of the depressing sameness I thought was the norm. It elevates me. I see more clearly and can think new thoughts. I become a better person. There is reason to go on.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Inspire
An event like this is inspiring. When I was beginning to think there is nothing new and creative to be done, suddenly that depression is shaken, even broken.
A new work like this can point the way to new ways of viewing my work. Not to copy the other artist, but as the introduction of new ideas into my thought process. New ideas are there to chase. New possibilities appear.
It is a joy to be given the gift of new vision to see the world with.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Challenge
Events like this are a challenge to us. Rather than depressing us because of the remarkable insight another artist had, it is an enticement to use it to catapult us to a whole new place. I may not want to do work at all like theirs, but something in their work shook me. Something helped reveal new directions. It gave me a glimpse of a distant place I want to find.
I used to believe that the best creative challenges came from within. Now I see that other artist’s creativity shapes many of those challenges. Yes, they come from within, but part of them may have come from something we see in another artist’s work that reacts with something in us to germinate a new idea.
There is an old quote I always liked but never fully understood:
Immature artists imitate. Mature artists steal.
Lionel Trilling
As mature artists, we do not imitate something we see that inspires us. Copying does not recreate their work or produce new work we can be proud of. Instead, we try to isolate what excited us, distill it down to its essence, and incorporate that flavor, that scent, into our thought process. It influences our new work.
I steal the inspiration and re-form it into something of my own. It elevates me. From this elevated position, I can see further. I can discover new things.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
Artist’s intent
Where does meaning and intent come in? For me, it doesn’t matter much. I have said before that I believe I must try to bring my feelings and intent out in my images. But I have also said I believe the only thing that matters to a viewer is the feelings and meaning they derive from the image.
Christopher P. Jones is a writer on Medium who analyzes the structure and composition and symbolism painters put into great works. His articles are very interesting, and they reveal background and levels of depth I had no idea about. It is educational.
But, when I look at a famous painting or another artist’s photograph, all I can get is what I perceive, the meaning and depth I take from it. To the artist, it may be the deepest, most symbolic and meaningful work they have ever done. And that may be completely lost on me. Sorry, I’m rather dense. I’m not very interested in theoretical analysis of art.
Because of or despite their intent, I may perceive something fresh and creative in the image. Something that attaches to something in me to strike a spark that might ignite a fire. It may have nothing to do with the artist’s intent. But it is my valuable takeaway.
Artistic value is a difficult concept. But I am more an artist than a viewer. It is more important to me to develop my own creative eye than to become a more knowledgeable viewer.
©Ed Schlotzhauer
It could be mine
I love those rare times when an artist’s image sparks excitement in me. But sometimes there are golden events when my own image does that.
I am not being egotistical. Honestly, I take a lot of bad images. Occasionally there are some pretty good images, but only rarely does one take my breath away. Often, I do not recognize it at the moment. Most often when I am shooting, I am experimenting with camera or subject motion or working a scene to try to refine my point of view or caught up in the flow or shooting. Later, when processing the images, it may get a “hum, that is kind of interesting.” It is usually after doing some color correction and processing that the image comes into its own and starts to reveal itself.
Sometimes there is a magical one that jumps out and grabs me. I get a chill and my breath catches. It is a rare one. It is like finding a treasure.
What an absolute joy to find that one of my own images thrills and excites me. Something I shot elevates me. Wow. That is a double bonus.
But whether it is one of our own images or something from another artist, great images elevate us. They make us see a new point of view on something. They give us new ideas. That makes us better artists.
March 4, 2026