We live in strange times. Never before has an artist of any stripe been able to put their work into the world so broadly and so quickly. Never before has an artist been able to hear every voice that cares to praise, criticize, or issue feedback with neither context nor conversation. Most often it’s just a binary reaction: a like or not, a heart or no heart. And the subtle shades of human reaction and emotion and all our complexity goes out the window and gets replaced by comments like “Nice pic!” or worse, an emoji.
Not only can this suffocate our creativity, it can lead us to misunderstand who our audience is. Surrounded by the metrics of social media or the dozen people in your camera club, it’s easy to begin thinking that they are your audience. They are not. Not at first. You are.
You are your own first and most important audience. That’s how you please your audience. By making your art for you.
But how easily do we forget that when we put our work into the world and get mixed reactions or no reactions at all, especially when we put it out there so soon after we make it and are still unsure about what we ourselves think and feel about what we’ve just made?
I think the biggest struggle of the artist is to know his or her own voice, and I’m going to discuss that in the next Contact Sheet I send you on June 09. It’s an important struggle, but I think parallel to it we must come to grips with who our audience is.
For whom do you make your art? If you don’t know this, or mistakenly believe that it is anyone anywhere who looks at your photographs and has the means to tell you what they think about it, you will have a tough time ever discovering and taking responsibility for your own voice.
Voice is about authenticity and you will not create authentic work when your first question is, “What do they want?” instead of, “What do I want?”
Of course, we all hope that if we answer the latter question every day with our art—in the most sincere, vulnerable way—that the crowds will love us and everything we make. So let me make it easier for you: they will not. Some will. A few people with whom your work resonates will eventually applaud, and that feels good. That audience might even grow. That feels even better. But it must still not be the point, and it must never seduce you.
If you want to make your art for your audience and have a chance at that audience loving your work and resonating with it, and—best of all—discovering something of you in it, you must make it for yourself.
And you must be your first and only audience. That means not worrying how others will react to what you make. It means not putting your ego into your work so much that when the world out there doesn’t so much as look sideways at your art, you don’t mistake the rejection of your art for the rejection of your self.
We live in a big, big world. The vast majority of our over-populated planet will not applaud. And like you, they have other things on their minds.
But rather than letting that deflate you, consider the freedom that brings to do things your way. To ask yourself the questions most important to you alone and answer them with your art.
And here’s the miracle of art: when we do create just for ourselves, and we do it in the truest way possible, there might be some person that is touched in some way by your honesty. Your search for beauty. Your unflinching gaze. Your willingness to ask the hard questions. The astonishingly rare courage to be yourself.
If you want to know what the world wants from your art, that’s it. Right there.
Your art must be about you, and for you, first of all.
It’s about the meeting place of that honest soul and the places, times, and circumstances of life. Art is the mashup of you and life: a collaboration. And it can only be a gift to others, help others heal, or be a light to them if it begins not with them, but with you. Because you are all you really know. You are the source of your art. And you must be the first and most important audience for whom that art is made.
That is where you must find your joy. In the making. In the discovery. In getting your hands dirty and unearthing some new thing about yourself and the way you see the world. If you search for it there, you’ll find it.
If you search for joy in the applause or recognition of even one other person before you find it in yourself, not only might you never find it, you might discover the art you make begins to have less and less of your own voice within it.
You are your own North Star—your own demanding audience—and the only one that can make the art you most want, or need, to see in the world. Let that be enough. Let that be the bold source of your own voice.
Don’t look over your shoulder at what others are doing; don’t cock your ear to one side to better hear the reactions of others or the longed-for applause. Make it for you, and for now, only for you.
And if you must seek feedback, as an earnest student of any craft must do to grow and learn, then do so from those few voices you yourself know and trust and choose to listen to. Stop asking the f*cking internet and crowdsourcing your joy; nothing will dilute your voice and the love of your craft so heartbreakingly quickly.
For the Love of the Photograph,