I’ve been asking myself a question lately. What value do my photographs actually bring to someone else?

It’s a strange question to be asking after more than twenty years of photography, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about.

I remember standing at art fairs, watching people walk past my booth. Some would glance over and keep walking. Others would stop, sometimes for what seemed like an eternity, just looking at a photograph.

I loved watching those reactions.

Sometimes I’d walk over and ask if they had any questions. Other times, I’d just let them look. Eventually, we’d get into a conversation about the image, where it was taken, or what they saw in it.

And those conversations were often the best part of the day.

I remember one woman studying some of my black-and-white photographs. I walked over and mentioned that they were infrared images, which is why they looked a little different.

She looked at me and asked, “Wait, you took these?”

I said, “Yeah.”

She told me she’d been wondering how someone was getting away with selling Ansel Adams photographs.

I laughed and told her, “Don’t put me in that category!”

Believe it or not, I had similar conversations more than once.

*The Winter Woods Outside Knoxville*

The trees have let go of everything except the light.
In the woods outside Knoxville, Tennessee, winter has stripped the branches bare, and every limb catches the sun as if it were lit from the inside. The bark stands dark and certain. Long shadows lie across the forest floor, and beyond the trunks the grove glows pale and far away.
Infrared turned the bare crowns to frost and the sky to near black. I walked in slowly, the way you do when a place is keeping a secret.
It felt like a sanctuary, and it was very quiet.
Photographed in the field in infrared, near Knoxville, Tennessee.

View Artwork

Another time, a family was walking past my booth. The father was on the far side of the group when something caught his eye. He turned, cut behind his family, walked straight into my booth, pointed at a photograph, and said, “I want that one.”

And he bought it right off the wall.

No long conversation. No explanation of the process. Something about that photograph caught his attention, and he wanted it.

Then there were the people who would simply stand and stare.

Sometimes they’d tell me the photograph drew them into the scene. Others said it reminded them of somewhere they’d been or gave them a little escape from everything going on around them.

I always appreciated those moments, whether they bought something or not.

Of course, I was a little disappointed when someone walked away without purchasing a print. I was there trying to make sales, after all. But I was also genuinely happy that something I’d created made them stop and look.

And that’s something I’ve been thinking about more lately.

The Strange Thing About Selling Photography

Here’s something I’ve never quite figured out.

I’ve sold photographs that I personally thought were just okay. Nothing wrong with them, but they weren’t necessarily my favorites.

Meanwhile, some of the images I absolutely love, the ones I finish editing and think, “Damn, that’s amazing,” have never sold.

Why?

I honestly don’t know.

Maybe someone has a personal connection to a particular place. Maybe they love the colors. Maybe a photograph just fits perfectly in their home.

Or maybe they simply like the way it looks.

That’s usually how it starts for me.

I see something interesting, photograph it, and then experiment with different ways of bringing it to life. Sometimes that means infrared photography, sometimes traditional photography, and sometimes trying something completely different.

I don’t always have a deep philosophical reason behind an image.

Sometimes I just think it looks really cool.

And I’m perfectly happy with that.

What Does an Image Give Someone?

If money weren’t a consideration, I’d happily give my photographs away to people who genuinely loved them.

I mean that.

There’s something pretty wonderful about knowing someone wants to live with an image you created.

Of course, printing, equipment, travel, and running a business all cost money. So yes, I need to sell my work, and I believe the time and craftsmanship that go into it have value.

But selling photographs isn’t why I started creating them.

I do this because I love photography. I love experimenting, discovering new places, and seeing what I can create.

And if someone else loves the result, that’s even better.

I hand out these little business cards called Mini Moos. Each one featured a different photograph, and people spend time looking through them, deciding which image they wanted to take home.

There are a couple thousand of those little cards floating around somewhere now.

Maybe some are sitting in drawers. Maybe someone has one tucked into a wallet or pinned to a bulletin board. Maybe one day somebody will come across one and decide to look at my work again.

At least that’s my hope.

I’ve been thinking about those art fairs lately, and the people who stopped to look.

Maybe I’ve been spending too much time trying to figure out what makes a photograph worth buying and not enough time remembering what made people stop in the first place.

I still don’t know exactly what makes one image connect with someone while another doesn’t.

And maybe I never will.

What I do know is that I’ve watched people get lost in photographs I’ve created. I’ve heard their stories, seen their smiles, and enjoyed conversations that started because something on my wall caught their attention.

That’s worth something to me.

And perhaps the value of a photograph isn’t entirely mine to decide.