New Workshop In Los Angeles on January 14.

I’m teaching an all-day workshop on business for photographers in Los Angeles on Saturday, January 14.

Like all my workshops, this one covers a lot of ground: marketing, websites, contracts, insurance, types of careers, social media, negotiating, digital workflow, affiliated trades, finding work and representation, and way more.

Everyone who attends gets pages of resources, including links to free and paid software, useful blogs and websites, continuing learning, and business books and publications. You also get a set of documents such as sample contracts and spreadsheets.

There will be breaks – including lunch, which is provided – and coffee all day. (There is no reason to suffer while you learn.)

The workshop is sponsored by three organizations: ASMP Los Angeles, the Lucie Foundation through their Month Of Photography (MOPLA), and by the Los Angeles Center of Photography (LACP), where the workshop is taking place.

This particular workshop has been designed to be inexpensive (or free!) to attend through the generosity of the three main sponsors and the support of two more: Dripbook and Yodelist.

Register and find out more, here:

You can also find out more about the workshop by clicking on ABOUT in the menu.

Come On Down!

You Never Know

Ethan Iverson, the wonderful pianist, teacher, and member of The Bad Plus, has a terrific blog, Floyd Camembert Reports.  This is his most recent post, #37: (ECM records, the moral of the story), about being engaged, showing up, and being ready.

“In the 1990s, I went out to see music whenever I could. I was broke but I found money to hang anyway. A lot of the time I was at Smalls seeing Kurt Rosenwinkel, Mark Turner, Ben Street, and Jeff Ballard play their near-weekly Wednesday gig. This band really taught me something about group sound: they all played so great, but together they all seemed even greater.

Things went well for the quartet, they signed record deals and eventually they played the Village Vanguard, which was a big step up from Smalls.”

Read the rest here:


Camera Girl is a title and job from the middle of the last century – but closer to the present than it might seem at first.  It’s not a gender-specific reality.

“I’m what is known as a darkroom girl,” she added. “In other words, I’m supposed to be a photographer—I mean a real photographer—a chemist, a camera mechanic, an accountant, a stockroom clerk, and a practical psychologist, just in case the camera girl starts to blow her top, you know.”

From Hawkins Is Inside, By Berton Roueché in The New Yorker, November 30, 1946.

It’s About The Work

Joe Henry is a songwriter and performer.  He’s also a well-respected producer, and when he’s working with someone else in the studio the process is “not about you and it’s not about them. It’s about it.

Later, talking about a day in the studio:

“You could chase a song in different directions all day, but we have more work that we’re obliged to do. You don’t have endless resources and endless time. I don’t see that as an obstruction. Instead, I see it as something else that’s guiding us. Otherwise, you’ll just get really lost: ‘Okay, we have this, but what else could it be?’ It could be anything else. There are all kinds of things that it might be. But what about right now? Is the song being served and does the song then serve the whole project?”

From The Producers: Joe Henry
Interview by Stephen Deusner in The Bluegrass Situation.

Read the full interview here:





General Principles Edition, Photography

“Most of what I try fails, but these failures are often invisible, while the successes are visible. I have noticed that this sometimes gives others the impression that most things work out for me. As a result, they are more likely to attribute their own failures to themselves, rather than the fact that the world is stochastic, applications are crapshoots, and selection committees and referees have bad days. This CV of Failures is an attempt to balance the record and provide some perspective.”

Johannes Haushofer, CV OF FAILURES.



Projects where I gave ballpark pricing on the first phone call, despite the warning voice in my head screaming “It’s a losing proposition!” (Number of these incidents has been redacted.)

Projects I priced too low so it looked like I didn’t know what I was doing. (Number of these incidents has been redacted.)

Projects I priced too high because I was afraid of pricing myself too low. (Number of these incidents has been redacted.)

Negotiations where I knew in advance of developing an estimate that I had been silently assigned by the art buyers to play the role of “beard” because they had already decided to hire someone else before contacting me, but were required to prove due diligence to their client by getting three bids. I tell myself these interludes are opportunities to perfect my negotiating techniques and maybe the beloved photographer would get hit by an asteroid and they would need a substitute, and, anyway, there was at least one other person who was never going to get that job, either, so what’s my problem? Or so I tell myself.



Gigs where I knew there was not enough money in the project, but convinced myself they would be really painless, easy-to-accomplish, and go quickly. (Hah!)

Gigs where the clients didn’t know much about how the photo or design process worked, but where I convinced myself they could be made to understand the process, so, thereby, in the end, would be easy to work with anyway. (Hah! Hah!)

Projects that came to me through a graphics / branding / advertising agency where I assumed because they’d done this before they knew what they were doing and so would insulate me from their own client who was mostly clueless, and despite this fairly typical obstacle we would produce great work and make good money. (Oy.)



Estimates and contracts that contained buckets of paranoid legalistic language that even scared the hell out of me. And where the font on the Terms & Conditions page was so tiny you would squint through an electron microscope to read it.

Emails whose tone was too casual, or, too coldly businesslike. Or some confusing combination of both.  And too long. Much too long. No, really, seriously, they just went on and on and on and on. You know?



Not going there.



Failing to remember I’ve learned more from my failures than my successes and who cares how much of a cliche that is?  Anyway, I’m only human so I should just chill and give myself a break because I’m reasonably skillful at hiding my disasters, so, really, what’s the problem here?

(Based on Johannes Haushofer’s CV Of FAILURES. He’s an assistant professor of psychology and public affairs at Princeton University. See for yourself:

Why Am I Here?



In Which I Write A Blog Post About Blogging
And The Symbiotic Spokes In The Wheel
That Is Social Media.

For the longest time I could not figure out what social media could do for me. So I did nothing. Or almost nothing: I had a mousy level of participation on Facebook which I joined only so people from my past could find me and everyone else would not think I was a total luddite, including my girlfriend, who was very active, staying in touch with her friends, family, colleagues, and several hundred thousand cat videos. I’m more into dog videos, myself.

It seemed like I should have a blog, everyone said so, but with what content and for what purpose? I have always read lots of blogs, following deep into the links social media sent me to, but was not able to imagine myself as an active, rather than passive, participant.

Then things got slow, business-wise. I knew well how social media could impact one’s business, specifically how a lack of social media participation could be linked to a lack of business. My mind became more focused.

Clients and employers use social media to research people they might hire: What is your personal work like? Who are you? Who are your friends, including professional colleagues? What kinds of hobbies or interests do you have? Are you obsessed with the Kardashians or Satanic practices or some combination of the two? Like that.

Getting a blog up-and-running is not enough in and of itself; a professional online presence has to connect with all the spokes of a social media wheel. I developed a semi-professional presence on Facebook, a thoroughly professional presence on Linkedin, put photos on Tumblr and Houzz, and got registered on Twitter, Instagram, Google +, and Pinterest without any other content than my contact information because…why not? It’s so easy. You never know where people will find you.

Professional blogs need a reason to exist: what’s it for? In addition to my primary gig as a photographer, I also write and teach college classes and workshops on professional practices for photographers. My photography website and Tumblr, along with Facebook, serve as outlets for my photography. The blog is focused on business issues and showing off my writing (and a little photography) in order to encourage people to hire me to teach and write in the same way my photography site is designed to get me hired to make photos. Every bit of my online presence links to every other bit of my online presence, my own little social media universe.

My blog (like my photo site) offers a way to track the comings-and-goings of viewers, and that’s no small thing when you’re trying to figure out why people hire you. Or don’t hire you. The blog and photo site feed and sustain each other in a symbiotic relationship. The spokes of the social media wheel serve as a way for photography clients who visit my website to see that I am a serious professional, someone they can trust to act correctly without adult supervision, and constitute proof I understand their own social media needs.

Since my classes and workshops are about the photography business, linking my blog to my photo website serves as proof I have professional grounds on which to base my teaching. Each post reappears automatically on Facebook, Linkedin, Twitter, Google +, and Tumblr, and I regularly re-post on Medium.

I do have a modest selection of cat and dog images on my photo website, so I’m covered as far as that goes, even though no one has ever hired me to photograph them.  I really like cats and dogs – same as lots of my clients.




For Photographers And Writers A Good Story Is A Virtuous Circle

It might go like this: a photographer makes a photo for themselves, not on assignment, and posts it online.

A photo buyer sees it and shows it to their client. The image suggests a solution for a story they want to tell to the client’s customers.  They hire the photographer to further develop that story.

Here is the circle: the photographer > the art buyer > the art buyer’s client > the client’s customer and back around to the photographer who makes a picture, the art buyer who puts the picture in an ad, and onto the client’s customer: the viewer.

So now when the photographer is making a photo, instead of just doing it for themselves, they are being paid to please a specific audience. This does not preclude pleasing themselves, of course, which is where they started. They got hired because of their voice.

All creative works project a voice, good or bad, practiced or accidental, focused or aimless. Good photographs obey the same mandate as good writing: clarity, nuance, and detail. Clarity makes it easy to to understand. Nuance gives it depth. Detail makes it relatable. Voice.

A photographer’s professional writing may be non-fiction: a bio on a website, a letter of introduction to a potential client, a caption for an editorial photo, a blog post about recent work. It might also be fiction: text applied to a storyboard to explain a concept that illustrates a story they want to sell to an art buyer.

Voice develops from intention: Is the writing simply to please yourself?  Is the writing to sell yourself?  Is it to sell a concept?  Is it to document what happened while a photo was being made to enable an editor to write descriptive text?  Clarity, nuance, and detail: voice supports the story and story supports the voice. It’s a shortcut to meaning. Good writing – like a good photo – is not reductive, it does not have to clarify every little thing. It’s more personal for the reader to make the leap, and they’ll feel more engaged.

Engagement comes in myriad forms. While it’s a poor communications strategy to make a reader to feel stupid, there is nothing wrong with making them look up a definition.  John McPhee is widely considered a writer’s writer, on staff at The New Yorker (arguably the most well-written magazine in the country) for over fifty years, a Pulitzer Prize winner, still going strong in his 80s, and there are words in every article that make me reach for a dictionary. His writing is so irresistible I don’t care, his voice so seductive I had to cure myself of trying to copy it. He doesn’t use those unfamiliar words to impress.  He uses them because they are the best words he can find. He is a craftsman.

People respond to McPhee’s writing like they respond to a good photo. There is a compelling personality projecting his stories. (It does not hurt he sounds like a guy you’d want to have a drink with.) It gets under your skin. Good work is the result of the work that goes into it and McPhee’s writing is specific to him: clarity, nuance, and detail: his voice.




In my twenties I wanted to be a field biologist. I loved the idea of engaging with the elements and how naturalists develop broad conclusions based on specifics. Research never ends; there is always more to learn, deeper to look, farther to go.

In particular, I was attracted to a primary feature of the scientific method: that data could validate or deny preconceptions. The best and most successful scientists have open minds because data’s job is disprove preconceptions as much as prove them. That’s how science moves forward.

Chemistry is a requirement for a biology degree, but sadly, a neurotic disinclination towards algebra made passing chemistry an impossibility, so away went that dream. I got to know a few highly accomplished biologists pretty well, however, fascinated at how they studied their subjects up close and in detail while simultaneously casting attention far-and-wide to confirm if their efforts – and their data – were relevant to their research: context was everything. They were on the lookout for failures as well as successes while aiming for the validation – the proof – their preconceptions were correct. It’s a nice feeling to be validated, scientist or not.

I try to do the same as I hunt for my clients. I photograph the built environment and people, so any article that mentions an architect or designer gets my notice: data. Trade and shelter magazines and websites publish newsletters promoting their content: more data. Out in the field, architects conveniently like to put their names on construction sites, along with their contact information. Contractor’s websites, even though they are not my primary clients, sometimes list their design partners. Data is everywhere, and it’s mainly represented in websites.

Designer’s websites quickly reveal two things: if their work is any good and if they care enough to hire professional photographers to document it. Designers who don’t meet these criteria are unlikely to pay my rates, so they get voted off my private island. If the designer is not in my geographic area and all their work is local to them, they are not relevant to me. If their website is old (tiny fonts, small pictures, old-style design), they are not relevant.

If they meet my standards and have pictures of people in their architectural photography, even better, since I also produce portraits and documentary work, and sometimes get hired specifically because I do both, a particularly pleasing form of data validation.

I used to think the more data I developed – large lists of potential clients – the better, telling myself that even people with crummy websites were dying to get their hands on a clever professional like myself to bring their marketing to a higher level. That theory turned out to be a bad use of data for a simple reason: it was not true, thought it turned to be (temporarily) a good use of data because it cured me of believing that larger data samples would lead to more work; an unbelievable waste of time. When you’re self-employed, time really is money. I want to be sure I have enough free time to fall asleep on the couch in front of the TV like a normal person instead of contacting people who will never hire me.

Once I’ve sifted my data and located a possible client I click to their website to discover the person who hires people like me and call to introduce myself.  If that information is not listed, I call the company anyway to suss out who I should be speaking with or sending an email to.  I look for responses validating my preconception they need my services, testing my data.  If they turn out to be my kind of client, great, I enter their information into a database.  If not, off the island they go.

Then I start the process all over again, looking for data and validation. There is no greater validation than getting hired, and no way to get there without good data, which, hopefully, develops into something that allows me, later, to fall asleep on my couch instead of wasting my time.

Coherence and Productivity



There’s no standing still when you’re an entrepreneur. I’m a one-man band, a typical circumstance for a photographer. My skill-sets include all the mechanics of running a business while at the same time sustaining a holistic view of how it all works in combination. Roughly speaking, my skills fall into three categories, but they are irrevocably connected:

Process-oriented skills are focused on the idea that time = money; in other words, skills that keep me efficient and support high-quality work.

Technical skills involve learning new software and buying new hardware to remain competitive. As a professional gear-head, this brings particular joy, sorrow, and frustration ( just like the rest of life).

Soft skills are the hardest to develop and the easiest to maintain; for instance, simply trying to be a nicer person with better listening skills, which comes in handy outside my professional arena, as well.

The most challenging soft skill is learning to take a step back in order to put my career into context.  I’m not alone in this, it’s a entrepreneurial requirement for plumbers, lawyers, teachers, and creatives of all kinds. Sometimes it comes down to simply being able to recognize when skills I’ve come to rely on no longer serve me well.

I photograph a lot of architecture. After much study and picking the brains of colleagues, I developed a process of blending images in the computer to make up for the limits in my camera (and my poor lighting skills). Lighting spaces artificially takes a lot of time to do well, but my new process enabled me to light less – or not at all.  A great bonus is the software allows me to produce substantially more images during the limited time I am on location.

I got so dependent on that process it took longer than it should have (about a year) to recognize that my latest camera had improved so much over the previous model that I could get away with blending fewer images: I could be more efficient.

Another perk: now, on location, once I’ve gotten the images I’m contracted for, there’s often “extra” time when I can slow down, take a breath, adjust my perceptions of the space, and perhaps, if the creative gods are with me, produce an image that is aesthetically above-and-beyond what my client anticipates. This makes my day. And hopefully encourages my client to hire me again.

It took awhile, but now my skill-set includes a facility in recognizing when I need fewer skills to accomplish the same or better result, a kind of virtuous circle.

Next up, another soft skill: learning when to stop working on Sunday nights in time to watch The Good Wife.

A Feature Not A Bug (What Is Risk?)



It took some years of being self-employed to understand that accepting insecurity is a career requirement; taking risks equals job security. To people who work for other people, this likely sounds counterintuitive, but the longer you’re self-employed the more intuitive it becomes. Championing risk as a factor in building a successful career is prescribed in books, magazines, conferences, movies, all over the culture at large. To be reliable, which is what the work-world demands, while at the same time being innovative…can make your head spin.

I earn most of my keep in the photography world, which becomes more of a commodity every year because the bar to entry gets lower all the time. Professional photographers need differentiators to separate ourselves from the amateurs we are compared with and from emerging photographers who by default charge less than us because they can’t justify charging the same as an experienced pro.  No less, journeyman photographers have to differentiate ourselves from each other.

One separator is working harder than everybody else, including constantly refining our analytical skills by paying attention to our industry, our customers, and our own particular career. Working harder, in and of itself, does not equal taking risks, of course, but it’s a necessary element.

Chris Kimball is a successful guy. The creator of the tv shows America’s Test Kitchen and Cook’s Country; a successful publication that predates the shows and is still going strong, Cook’s Illustrated Magazine; a subscription-based website and plenty more, Kimball long ago figured out how to differentiate his business from his voluminous, frothy, and ever-changing competition, departing from his industry’s commoditization in all kinds of ways. In an interview on The Federalist website some years back, he said,

“We recently did an analysis here: We spend $12,000 to develop a Cook’s Illustrated recipe. That’s a lot of money. That’s weeks of work. The reason we do it is because that’s the point of differentiation. If you have something people can get in ten other places, I just don’t know how you make a go of it in the web world, unless you’ve got a lock on some sort of traditional media.”

To be successful in the arena Chris Kimball operates in – food, a well-known commodity – requires something well beyond reproducing the same thing over and over again like a reliable recipe: you have to be useful, entertaining, and dependable in a variety of media and subject matter. A high bar to match. It’s no small thing to fulfill those criteria.

Taylor Swift understands this as much as Chris Kimball, as she reveals in the November 2015 issue of GQ, interviewed by Chuck Klosterman. Swift has had a phenomenal ten-year career in an industry in which most people don’t last ten minutes, so it would be a serious blunder to believe she does not posses top-level skills of self-analysis linked with a clear-headed awareness about how her industry  operates. Her last album, 1989, is a massive hit (as every album has been), and the reason she was interviewed for the article. Despite that track record, as she prepared the album for release everyone at her label tried to dissuade her from doing what she wanted to do, which was to make exactly the record she wanted to make. They assured her taking that path would be a massive mistake.

“But to me, the safest thing I could do was take the biggest risk. I know how to write a song. I’m not confident about a lot of other aspects of my life, but I know how to write a song. I’d read a review of [2012’s] Red that said it wasn’t sonically cohesive. So that was what I wanted on 1989: an umbrella that would go over all of these songs, so that they all belonged on the same album. But then I’d go into the label office, and they were like, ‘Can we talk about putting a fiddle and a steel-guitar solo on ‘Shake It Off’ to service country radio?’ I was trying to make the most honest record I could possibly make, and they were kind of asking me to be a little disingenuous about it: ‘Let’s capitalize on both markets.’ No, let’s not. Let’s choose a lane.”

It might be counterintuitive to consider both Taylor Swift and Chris Kimball as role models, but it helps me remember to choose a lane. The real risk is not choosing one.