Listening to the Moment
Before we dive into this month’s column, I want to thank you for your questions, readership, and dedication to learning over the past 6 years (!!!)! As a reminder, the written Dear Bubbles articles published on the first Wednesday of each month will always be free to read.
If you’d like more inspiration, Patreon subscribers gain access to the “Making the Photo” video series on the third Wednesdays (plus other perks!) for as little as $2/month. Exclusive to Patreon subscribers, I’m hosting a special webinar—and recording December’s Making the Photo live!—followed by a casual happy hour on December 16, 2025, from 6–8 p.m. AZ/MT (8–10 p.m. ET, 7–9 p.m. CT, 5–7 p.m. PT). The online event is free for all Patreon members. Mark your calendars now—I’ll send the Zoom details your way early next week!
Thank you again for being a part of this awesome community! On to this month’s column!
Dear Bubbles:
If you go out without the intention of taking photos—and instead, just go hiking, driving, chasing invisible gorillas, whatever—how do you know when it’s time to switch back into photography mode?
~A Guy from Out of Olympic
Dear A Guy from Out of Olympic:
Have you ever heard the advice “let the landscape speak to you?”
I can’t say I understood that expression when I started photographing. I’ll admit, I spent wayyyyyy too much time standing on the edge of a cliff, with my clicker-doo (i.e., my cable release) at the ready, waiting for a cosmic sign—the clouds parting, birds singing, and a mystical booming voice delivering clear instructions. Cue James Earl Jones: “Bubbles, it is time. Photograph now.”
Only I never heard anything like that from the landscape. Ever. The only thing I heard was the wind howling, the waves crashing, and definitely some birds singing—and the voices in my head second-guessing my choices and guilt-tripping me into believing a different moment might deliver something better.
Back then, I’d either mindlessly make a bunch of photographs to cover my bases—an approach we call Spray and Pray—or I’d get paralyzed in too many choices and never make a single frame. In both cases, I went home disappointed and frustrated. Turns out knowing the “perfect” photographic moment does not come from cosmic signs.
I can’t be too dismissive of listening to the land, though. After all, I wrote a book—So Said the River—about how listening to the Colorado River led me to become my own river. In Chapter 20, I wrote:
…but now I understood that any sentiments I heard on my journey between her shores were my own and from the voices she had elevated. A river’s guidance merely reflects the human soul but only for those who attend to hear stories of patience, perseverance, and vigor with reverence. Any conversation we have with the natural world echoes instincts we already possess, either on the surface or hidden deep inside, about life, death, and the space in between.
Nature just exists. When we connect with rivers, we form our own meaning. In other words, we hear what we want—or in my case, need—to hear. If only we are willing to listen.
While I think the phrasing of “let the landscape speak to you” encourages too much passiveness, I can get behind it as a metaphorical way of encouraging listening before we photograph to help us know when we should photograph. That listening happens when we hike, drive, or look for invisible gorillas—all ways we shift focus way from generating results and into staying engaged while paying attention. It means trusting the creative process and yourself. It means receiving instead of taking.
Which leads me to my next point. To be sure, I don’t take photographs. I make photographs. I’m not being pompous. Semantics matter—and how we talk about ourselves, our values, our approaches, and the world around us affects how we experience them. “Taking” implies grabbing something the landscape offers you. “Making” implies you are an active participant in the creative process and in birthing a photograph.
(For a deeper dive into the make vs. take discussion, please review my “Take vs. Create” article at https://dearbubbles.com/2020/07/take-vs-create.)
Making a photograph is never a simple on/off switch in between different modes. It’s more fluid than that. When I head into the field without any pressure or expectation to produce a photograph, I’m not abandoning my photographic process. I’m fueling it. Based on Wallas’ model of creativity, collecting information—observing, sensing, processing—is not separate from making a photograph. It’s the first step. It’s a necessary ingredient. I mean, you can’t bake a pie unless you have first gathered the sugar, flour, eggs, fruit, etc., right?!
(For a refresh on the Wallas model of creativity, visit https://dearbubbles.com/2020/02/keeping-it-fresh.)
And our cameras cannot collect this information for us. To be sure, I do not “fish” for answers with my camera. That is, I do not scan my scenes with my eye to the viewfinder hoping my camera will find the right composition for me. I don’t throw a bunch of pie ingredients in a bowl and hope the mixer will spit out a pie for me. Our tools can’t develop or define meaning—only you can.
In the field, this requires us to put the camera down and give ourselves space to truly immerse ourselves—to listen, observe, experience, and relate to—in what’s happening in the moment. Take inventories of what exists, use all your senses to create individual perceptions, and notice how you’re responding to your surroundings in an emotional or meaningful way. What’s grabbing your attention, and why? Remember, nature just exists. You are merely a reflection of it. Noticing widens our perspectives and opens possibilities for us. Only when we know what ingredients we have available to us can we know what kind of pie(s) we can make.
Only after we’ve established our own meaning can we decide how to visually communicate that meaning through composing the external elements available to us. Incubating, or visualizing how I might incorporate these internal and external components into a frame, is a critical part of step two in Wallas’ model of creativity. I picture my picture before I ever make an actual picture. Ansel Adams called this “dry shooting.” It’s akin to having a recipe for the pie you wish to make.
Only when we have a vision and direction can we effectively make a pie, I mean, a photograph.
HOWEVER, even if you have the best visualization and recipe, you must be open to the spontaneous opportunities presented at each moment. Visualizations and recipes can only get you so far if the ingredients you expected to materialize change. And in nature, things are constantly changing.
Creative experts agree that you cannot force the “aha” moment in the third step—Inspiration/Incubation—to happen. You must stop thinking about making a photograph to free up the mental resources required to trigger creative insights involved in making a photograph. The fastest way to prevent a meaningful photograph is to force a meaningful photograph into existence. We cannot force an oven to cook a pie any faster than it does by thinking harder about it.
We have to be patient and let our brains—and ovens—do what they need to do to bring a photograph—and pie—to life. We enable the moment of inspiration by approaching instead with curiosity, confidence, and openness to experience. Trust that you’ll know how to make a photograph when the moment presents itself. Because you will. If you’re listening…
The “aha” moment has often been characterized with visuals like light bulbs suddenly turning on or someone yelling “Eureka!” Sometimes the spark to make a photograph comes in those profound and obvious forms. More often than not, though, the moment I decide to turn on my camera isn’t overly dramatic or loud. It’s actually pretty anti-climatic and quiet. In both cases, it comes from listening—to the landscape AND to myself.
I recognize that a connection or idea is stirring in my brain when I stop and stare at something for a short time. I described my self-imposed Three-Second Rule in a previous Dear Bubbles: https://dearbubbles.com/2024/09/counting-to-three. I also pay attention to the voices in my head when they say things like “Oooh look at that!” “Isn’t that interesting?” and “I’ve never seen that before.” Other triggers include me singing (oftentimes songs become sources for my titles) and dancing (out of sheer delight and excitement). When we talk about paying attention, it’s not just to what’s happening “out there” but also how your mind and body are responding to a situation.
The moment I decide to make a photograph comes once I feel a connection and alignment between the outside world and how I feel about it. It occurs once I feel like I’ve successfully organized the chaos “out there” into a manageable arrangement of order—or I, at least, have gained enough clarity about the chaos to make it make sense to me, if even in a chaotic fashion. It’s when my thinking, digesting, incubating, stops, and my brain gets laser- focused around a singular idea or concept. I get tunnel view on delivering that message visually. Decisions on where to stand, what focal length to use, which aperture to use, to help me communicate that message become clear and straightforward.
I’ll pick up my camera when the external elements line up to my liking to support my vision. It happens when the wind stops—or starts—blowing. Or when the wave crashes against the cliff in just the right position to create separation between the water and shoreline. Or when a cloud lines up in the same shape as the coastline. Wait…is that the landscape speaking to me?! (HA!!!)
Sometimes this happens so fast, especially in a fleeting moment, that I can’t always explain why I’ve chosen to pick up my camera and make a photograph. I just do. I’ve been doing this long enough (25 years!!!) that so much of this happens through reflex and intuition.
Here’s the thing: I don’t always know if the moment I choose to photograph is the right or wrong time. There’s isn’t such a thing as right or wrong. Every moment can be the right time. Regardless of whether it’s a conscious act, I make a photograph to elevate and celebrate my existence in this exact moment.
There aren’t a bunch of pre-made photographs out there in the landscape waiting for you to find them or take them. YOU bring the photograph to life. You hold this power. You get to decide when the “right” time to make a photograph is. You get to decide what you notice, appreciate, and feel. You get to decide to celebrate this moment—and you can never be wrong about celebrating what is important to you in your life through any artistic means. It’s YOUR photograph.
Besides, there’s no significant penalty or cost for being wrong or off on your timing. Worst case, you burn through some pixels or film. Maybe you learn more about your timing and approach in fleeting light or decisive moments. Maybe you learn more about your preferences, interests, style, and habits. Maybe you learn something new about your technique in the act of creation. Maybe, just maybe, you even make a masterpiece of which you’re proud. Like hockey legend Wayne Gretzky said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”
The growth you glean from each “shot” are worth it even if the photograph doesn’t turn out on the first, second, or even hundredth try. As you discern how, why, and when you photograph, you develop better instincts for recognizing the moments you value enough to memorialize in pixel form. In the same way there’s no wrong time to photograph, there’s never a wrong time to learn! Use the practice of photography as a way explore yourself, your craft, and the world—not “take” it.
And know that the “aha” moment doesn’t always happen. Sometimes we don’t feel compelled to translate what we experience into a photograph. That’s A-OK too. You can still call yourself a photographer. Not every experience or moment needs to be photographed. Witnessing them is enough. Sometimes, my most productive and joyful days are the ones when the camera stays tucked away in the bag. I still feel alive, present, and full of wonder just the same. Feeding your brain knowledge and ideas and visualizing are integral parts of the creative and photographic process. When you get better at perceiving (including listening to the landscape and yourself), you’ll discover more possibilities.
This is all long for, how do I know when to make a pie? Whenever I feel like it. That’s reason alone to make photographs (and pies). Trust yourself. You’ll know. And do make a photograph (and pie) whenever you damn well please.
Be well, be brave, be wild,
~Bubbles
Have a question about photography, art, and/or the creative life? Looking for advice or inspiration? Send your question to Dear Bubbles at colleen@colleenminiuk.com to be possibly featured in a future column post. (If you’d prefer a different display name than your real first name, please include your preferred nickname in your note.
