Know When to Fold ’Em
Dear Bubbles:
In your last write-up, you talked about knowing when to start photographing. How about knowing when to stop photographing? When do you know when to walk away and move on to something else? Thanks for all your inspiration.
~D.
Dear D.:
In my last Dear Bubbles column, “Listening to the Moment,” (https://dearbubbles.com/2025/12/listening-to-the-moment/), I emphasized how noticing the world around us and how we respond to can help us kick off our photographic pursuits. Starting to photograph can feel exciting and engaging. That moment feels rich with possibility.
Stopping, on the other hand, can almost feel the opposite. Uncertain. Unsettling. Stopping may feel like we’re giving up or walking away too soon or about to miss out on something even better. But as the great singer Kenny Rogers said, “You’ve got to know when to hold ’em… and know when to fold ’em.”
Photography is no different. Knowing when to stay with a scene—and knowing when you’ve done enough—is a key part of the photographic process.
While my last article focused on what to think about before pressing the shutter, knowing when to stop requires something equally important to consider ahead of time: how you define success. Not a generic definition. Not somebody else’s definition. Yours.
What makes a great photograph in your eyes? What does YOUR success for YOUR work look like?
When I first started photographing, my definition of a successful image was pretty conventional: a classically beautiful scene in an iconic location, a colorful sky, and strict adherence to the Rule of Thirds. The image had to be in focus, properly exposed, and most importantly, approved by my mom. I knew I definitely had a winner if someone other than my mom bought a print of it.
By those standards, I made a lot of successful images. I sold enough of them to leave my corporate job! There was only one problem: I didn’t like many of them. Cue sad trombone: wah wah waaaahhhh.
On top of that, I started discovering other ways of seeing and making photographs. I learned that intimate landscapes—sans skies—could be as compelling as grand vistas. That centered subjects could be powerful. That frames that were overexposed on purpose looked like cool Japanese art. That completely out of focus images through a “wild” technique called intentional camera movement could convey movement and meaning. Cue more sad trombone. There went my definition. Honestly? Thank goodness!
Around 2013-2014, after I got sick of making cookie-cutter photographs, I revised my definition of a “great photograph. I used the ideas presented in creative concepts like Wallas’ model of creativity and conceptual blending as a foundation. It’s a definition I still embrace today, and it’s led to images I love and am so proud to call my own.
This definition is my stopping rule. When the photograph meets these criteria—or when I acknowledge I cannot achieve them—I’m done, I fold ‘em:
- The photograph shares an outward expression that matches what I deemed meaningful enough to notice.
- I loved, not just liked, the scene or subject based on personal connection and my emotional response.
- The photograph presents my interpretation, one that derives from my own fresh and unique perception
- My message (and resulting photograph) shows the extraordinary in the ordinary OR the extra in the extraordinary.
- I’m employed deliberate technical execution to deliver my message/meaning/vision effectively, as judged by me.
Note, the first four bullet points refer to creating the message. The fifth is the only one that mentions technical execution. This order matters.
I cannot emphasize this enough: the message drives the technical execution. Not the other way around. When technical execution leads, a photograph can look busy or unclear. When message leads, it guides and clarifies the technical decisions.
I don’t pull a lens out of my bag hoping it will magically frame something I’m excited about. I don’t choose an aperture and focus point praying it will focus on something interesting for me. I establish connection first. I gain clarity on my technical approach second. This is the foundation for knowing when to stop photographing—hold ‘em or fold ‘em.
As Henri Cartier-Bresson said, “Thinking should be done before and after, not during photographing.” Stopping is the “after” part he’s talking about—the moment when you step back and assess whether the photograph has said what you intended it to say.
When you understand what you are trying to say—or at least what you’re responding to—you can more easily evaluate whether your photograph is effectively communicating “it”. We can critique an image with questions like: Is my perspective for this scene or subject optimal for this message? Is this the correct focal length to achieve the proper framing and sizing within my image for this message? Does my aperture enhance the viewer’s ability to see depth and notice the important parts of my frame for this message? Are my visual elements working together for this message?
(For more things to consider while conducting a critique of your images, please visit my Dear Bubbles article “Searching for the One” at https://dearbubbles.com/2023/11/searching-for-the-one/. Remember: the more you do this, the faster and more intuitive it becomes!)
Even if you don’t have a clear vision ahead of time—and at times, I don’t either—I don’t want to discourage you from making photographs. You can get to a right answer with your photograph by paying attention. Refine your direction by asking yourself two simple questions:
- What do I like about this image? Emphasize those parts—keep them and make them even more noticeable in your frame by making them bigger, changing their position within the composition, or make a note to brighten them in processing later.
- What don’t I like about the image? Eliminate or minimize whatever that is. Or move it to a different part of the frame. Or plan to darken it in processing software.
Keep repeating these two questions after every single frame you make. Don’t just shrug and say “I just don’t like it.” Be specific. The more specific your answer, the clearer your direction. Keep adjusting. Keep trying. No one tracks batting averages in photography. No one cares whether you made one frame or 1,000 frames to get to the one you like. The key is that you learn from each attempt.
When I run out of answers to the second question—or when I cannot resolve the issues through thoughtful effort—then I know you’ve done the best you can. This is when I know I can stop photographing with confidence—whether the process has resulted in an image or not.
Sometimes it’s truly this cut and dry. Sometimes it’s not.
Sometimes I leave a composition to rest when I know that what I’d like better isn’t going to materialize because of changing external conditions. Maybe I lose connection with the scene because the light changes or water alters the composition or the wind moves a key visual element into a different position that doesn’t support my message. Or the moment passes faster than I can react to it. Sometimes I realize the message I developed doesn’t fit this moment, that it’d be better at a different time of day or seasons or conditions.
Sometimes I change my message mid-process which requires different external components or conditions. Sometimes I get distracted and see something even more appealing. (This is (in)formally known as The Shiny Chicken Syndrome or “Squirrel” approach.)
Sometimes I exhaust my technical options for making a composition work. Sometimes I get so absorbed in a moment that I forget why I am making a photograph and have to recalibrate my intent. Sometimes I’ll start to see repetition from frame to frame without meaningful growth. Sometimes I simply stop having fun.
Ceasing effort on a composition does not mean you’ve failed. If you’re paying attention to your progress, you’re learning. You’re feeding your brain ideas and knowledge which seeds the creative process. Your attitude matters here. Be nice to yourself. After I walk away from a composition that didn’t come together quite to my liking, I’ll say to myself: “That didn’t really work out—but I appreciate your enthusiasm!”
Although I have done editorial and commercial assignment work (where specific images were required to support a story or specific advertisement), I do not consider what other people make think of it, how many likes it will get on Facebook, whether it’ll win an award, or honestly, whether it’ll ever get processed and see the light of day on the other side. I remain faithful to my own vision by being the ultimate judge in whether I’ve made a photograph I’m proud of.
Even after all this thinking, sometimes I still wonder if I’ve stopped at the “right” time. To be sure of my decision, sometimes, I’ll step aside from my tripod and return to observing. I ponder: What else? What am I missing? If I hear something or come up with a new or refined idea, I pursue it. If I hear nothing and cannot come up with any other ideas, then I know I can wrap up my efforts for that scenario.
Ultimately, knowing when to stop comes down to a gut feeling—an intuition developed through years of practice, mistakes, (over)analysis, and thousands of frames. In short, I stop when I’ve made the photograph say what I want it to say, given what the moment offered me. Have I done the best I can? Is this good enough for now?
Only you can decide that for yourself. It’s your photograph. You get to decide when you’ve reached your success point. Trust yourself. Support yourself in that decision.
In that spirit, here’s your homework to kick off the new year: if you haven’t done so already, contemplate and write down your own definition for what makes a great photograph. If you already have a definition, dust it off and see if it still fits. If you are willing to share your definition, I’d love to hear what you come up with so leave it as a comment here.
Don’t feel too overwhelmed or overcommitted to a singular definition. Your beliefs can change over time as you grow as a photographer and human, so I’d advise revisiting and fine tuning this definition often (and especially after any profound moments of insights).
Also, while hearing what others use for their own practice can spark ideas, don’t get too quick to adopt what others believe is right for their work. The beautiful thing about art is that everyone’s definition can differ and be the right answer for YOU and YOUR work. In fact, in art, if we are expressing our own perspectives, our versions of success should differ.
Happy new year! Go forth and create!
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.
