I remember early on in my journey as a photographer remarking on the seemingly endless waterfall of ideas that many of my favorite photographers seemed to have. I’d think to myself,
“How did they think of that?”
I recognized at that point that most great photography stories are less a reflection of a photographer’s technical skill and much more a reflection of an idea, a spark of creativity, a deeper understanding translated into picture form.
Those sparks just weren’t igniting in me. If I’m being honest, I remember feeling a sort of jealousy. Why weren’t those ideas coming to me?
At the time, I was waiting tables five days a week. As I moved to Austin in 2018 I was looking at a savings account that was nearly empty and while my intention was to work as a photographer I just needed to put my head down and make some money. Before clocking in at 4, I’d be sending emails, applying for grants, making pictures for the local paper, or finding my own stories. It was exhausting.
It wasn’t until I was laid off from my restaurant job in March of 2020 that I realized just how physically and mentally draining that work had been. Tracking my steps on my phone I found that I had been walking 5-6 miles a night in a concrete rectangle for over a year.
As the world slowed down for a bit, my mind was given a moment to pause, to reset, and to feel a real creative spark for the first time since I had moved to Austin. It was during that time that I finished my cookbook Heart-Shaped Tomatoes and started my new photobook Close to the Bayou.
As I was diagnosed with cancer in January of 2022, I was once again forced to slow down as I couldn’t work for nearly six months. During a time when I wasn’t able to make images with any regularity, I was thinking a lot about the images I wanted to make, what I was missing, and what I would focus on once the miraculous liquid that was simultaneously curing this deadly illness and kicking the living shit out of me was out of my body.
As a photographer, I am constantly asked to tell other people’s stories—stories for a brand, a newspaper, a business. That’s what I love doing, telling other people’s stories. But as that miracle liquid left my body and my mind started to *slowly* settle down, I felt a greater sense of urgency to tell the stories that I personally resonate with.
This is not said with any sort of judgment or desire to create a hierarchy of how important different stories are. I say it to acknowledge what I would like to prioritize in my own life and artistic practice.
My mind has shifted to a point where I have the seemingly endless waterfall of ideas that I saw in the photographers I looked up as I was starting out. As I reflect on how far my business has come, I am wildly grateful to say that I also now make the majority of my income from making pictures instead of waiting tables. That has created a dramatic shift in my ability to think creatively. At the same time, for now, my most creative ideas often cost more money than they will make me. To make a living as a photographer I have to look for work that’s outside of that sphere—to tell other people’s stories.
I have always seen the more financially lucrative work that I do propel my next expedition to Mongolia, printing my book, funding an exhibition—these are expensive pursuits. I am really lucky to have found something I care so deeply about that also supports me financially. I also think that at times, that connection can complicate my relationship with photography.
There’s part of me that feels a desire to totally detach the pressure of making money from my work as a photographer.
This is what it feels like to try to make art in a capitalist culture.
I know I’m not alone in what I’m feeling, but it can still feel like a lonely pursuit at times.
As 2023 comes to an end, the existential question I’m asking myself is if making money from photography is even something I care to engage in?
And while I know the answer has to be “yes” in some ways, how can I do more to use my photography to foster connection and create more joy in my own life? Ultimately that’s what I care about.
What I really care about doing with my photography is very specific—documenting a wolf hunting tradition in Mongolia, creating a new body of work about extreme heat in Texas, telling a story about the expansion of I-35 and the displacement of minority-owned businesses.
The list of ideas that I have is long. It can feel like I don’t have enough time to do them all while also making enough money to pay my bills. My days are often consumed writing emails that start with “I’d be excited to introduce myself and my work!”
What I am truly excited about is living with a nomadic family for weeks at a time. I am excited about using the book form as an artistic medium. I am excited to actually make work. My work.
If anyone is still with me as I deteriorate into existential word vomit, here are my photo-related goals for 2024—I have some other personal goals but those are just for me. If you see me, hold me to them.
Do more popups.
Engaging with your community in person fills you up! Do more of that dude!
Print more images.
Instagram is dumb. Websites are dumb. Ink on paper is cool.
*as he posts this on his website and Instagram*
Make more books that will go in people’s homes.
See above.
Exhibit my work in some way, even if it’s in my garage.
Push yourself to exhibit your work in ways that resonate with you. You don’t need expensive frames and a white-walled exhibition space to make this happen!
Make more connections in person instead of online.
Send fewer emails. Meet people, shake their hands, look them in the eye.
Get back to Mongolia.
Riding horses across frozen rivers and looking through binoculars at tiny wolves is the literal dream. 12-year-old Dimitri would have expected nothing less. Do it for him.