the

VISUAL
VOICE
FIND YOUR VOICE,
EXPRESS YOUR VISION,
MAKE STRONGER
PHOTOGRAPHS

by DAVID DUCHEMIN
BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE SOUL OF THE CAMERA
1
 Your voice
is merely
this: what
you say and
how you
say it. They
are how you
make a
photograph
that is not
only better,

but yours.

2
the
VISUAL
VOICE
01 ABOUT VOICE .................................................................................... 05

02 EXPLORATION THEN EXPRESSION ........................................ 11

03 OWN YOUR TASTE ........................................................................... 16

04 HAVE A DAMN OPINION .............................................................. 22

05 IGNORE THE RULES ....................................................................... 29

06 BE CONSISTENT ............................................................................... 37

07 CONSTRAINTS ARE EVERYTHING ......................................... 49

08 IGNORE OTHERS .............................................................................. 55

09 INCREASE YOUR INPUTS ............................................................ 59

10 SHOOT. A LOT. ..................................................................................... 63

11 MAKE IT YOURS ................................................................................... 69

3
 PREFER TO HAVE A
PRINT VERSION TOO?

Some people prefer to hold it in their hands and write on it. I get
it. I have made a version of this for print and put it up on Blurb for
you. Follow this link and you can buy a printed copy directly from
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4
 01
About
Voice.

5
Hold a camera for more than a few minutes and it won’t be
long before people are talking about style. What’s your style?
Have you found your style?

Style? At the beginning, we’re all busy enough just trying to

wrap our heads around the technical stuff and now you want
me to have style, too? And then we get a little more comfort-
able, the camera isn’t quite so intimidating, and we remember
back to those conversations and wonder if perhaps that’s the
next step for us: to find our style.

Don’t do it. I’m begging you.

Not only do I think the pursuit of style is a distraction, I think

it can actually be a counterfeit. It’s the wrong target. A better
target and, I’d argue, the right one, isn’t style, it’s voice. Style
can be borrowed from others. Styles can be as shifting as the
trends that drive them.

But voice comes from you.

Voice is the way you say the things you say. And yes, after a
time, having allowed that voice to evolve as we do, voice can
begin to look a lot like style—but it’s important that we un-
6
derstand the difference. Style is merely what a thing looks like.
Voice is how we say what we want to say, how we give expres-
sion in our images to the opinion we have of the subject we
photograph.

Forget about style. Find your voice instead.

I wrote this short book because the pursuit of style has side-
lined too many photographers, distracting them first from the
much more important exploration of their own vision: the dis-
covery of something to say, and then later pulling them away
from more authentic expressions of that vision by asking what
others want to see (often the marketplace or our social media
followers) and comparing ourselves with what other photogra-
phers are doing.

It’s tempting to look at what others are doing and adopt that,
forgetting that what we say and how we say it are necessari-
ly connected. In other words, you can’t separate vision from
voice, and you can’t slap a trendy style or look onto your imag-
es and still hope they say what you want them to say, much less
be an authentic reflection of who you are.

7
 Voice is how we say
what we want to say,
how we give expression
in our images to the
opinion we have of the
subject we photograph.

So what is voice? Rather than define it, let me give you some
examples. Ben Thomas has a distinct voice through which he
shows us a particular way of seeing the world—it’s unmistak-
able. And it’s inseparable from what and how he photographs.
His is not a dark dystopian view of the world; spend a few
minutes on his Instagram feed and you’ll see that. That voice
comes from who he is as a unique individual with unique in-
terests and tastes. What makes it a voice rather than a one-off
style is that he’s consistent with it and uses it to explore his
subject with both depth and a wide gamut.

Brooke Shaden is another photographer I’ve often pointed to

as having a distinct voice. It’s in her choice of certain subjects
and her dismissal of others; it’s in her choice of colour palette
8
and mood and composition. All of these elements support
what she’s trying to say, not just a stylistic afterthought.
Elsa Bleda is another good example; her work is recognizable
not only in what it looks like (style) but in what it says (vision)
and how she says it (voice).

This is not a step-by-step guide to finding your voice. It’s not

a recipe. It’s a collection of ideas and exercises intended to get
you closer to understanding the possibilities. It comes with
the caveat that any of this kind of work involves introspection,
mindfulness, and a willingness to ask a lot of questions along
the way.

Like your actual voice, I don’t believe your visual voice is some-
thing you make or even really decide upon. It’s something you
find inside, so don’t worry whether you have a voice or not.
You do. It probably just needs to be refined and honed. And
yes, decisions will have to be made. But if you’re on your way
to a more authentic way of expression, those decisions should
come somewhat naturally once you see that you have the free-
dom to make them.

9
You can’t separate vision
from voice, and you can’t
slap a trendy style or look
onto your images and still
hope they say what you
want them to say, much less
be an authentic reflection of
who you are.

10
 02
Exploration
Then
Expression.

11
I sometimes wonder if some photographers know their camer-
as better than they know themselves. It’s probably what Ansel
Adams was reacting to when he famously (and wisely) quipped
that there’s nothing worse than a sharp photograph of a fuzzy
concept; we have sharp photographs aplenty. But photographs
that have an idea behind them? Much rarer. But a photograph
without an idea behind it is just a lot of words with nothing to
say. They might be really lovely words, but all jumbled up with
nothing giving them order and purpose. What’s the point?
Where’s the connection?

If you want to find your voice, you must get comfortable with
exploring yourself first—and if not comfortable, then at least
willing. I don’t want to overstate this, but the art we make has
its starting place within the artist, and the better you know
that complicated, beautiful, messy, sometimes dark or deliri-
ously happy person that you are and give yourself permission
to say the things you need to say, explore the things that need
exploring, and ignore everything that doesn’t light you on fire
or make you curious or angry or whatever it is that matters to
you, the better the chance of finding that voice. It’s in there.

If I had to guess, I’d say I could discover a part of who you are
pretty quickly by looking at the books you read, the movies
12
and TV shows you prefer to watch, the things you spend your
money on. You can also start there. What common threads
are there? Are the shows you watch all a little dark? Creepy?
Nothing but family-rated comedies? Shows about animals?

Now go deeper. What kinds of things do you worry about at

night? What makes you laugh? What secrets do you most fear
revealing? What traumas most haunt you? What joy would
you give everything you own just to experience? You might
not have answers to these, but some version of this kind of
self-exploration will give you a deeper place from which to
create your art and it is the place from which your voice origi-
nates. You cannot separate your voice from who you are—not
in a way that’s authentic to you. And for the purpose of this
book, that’s the only thing I consider worth discussing.

This exploration applies not only to who we are but to the sub-
jects we find interesting or meaningful enough to photograph.
You must explore them before you have anything meaningful
to say about them, and you must have something to say before
you choose how you will say it. What subjects are important to
you? Which ideas do you most enjoy exploring? And impor-
tantly, what do you not care about? Forget about what people
will think if you say this out loud. If you don’t care about dogs
13
or cats or airplanes or waterfalls or flowers, then own it. More
about that in a bit, but it’s as important to you to know what
you don’t care about as it is to know what you do care about.

You must explore your

subjects before you have
anything meaningful to
say about them, and you
must have something to
say before you choose
how you will say it.

14
your TURN
Grab your notebook and answer the questions I’ve
asked in this chapter.

Answer honestly, and look for the threads, the com-

monalities. And don’t you dare feel a sense of obli-
gation to be anything you aren’t.

If you discover you’re actually a fairly dark per-

son who doesn’t watch Friends or Seinfeld but
are much more fascinated by conversations about
deeper things, own it.

If you realize your whole inner life is consumed with

thoughts of the health of the planet or the laughter
of children, own that too. Write it down.

Make a list of ten things you would really like to

photograph and ten things you’d rather clean your
sensor with your tongue than photograph.

15
 03
Own
Your
Tastes
And
Preferences.

16
If the last ideas and exercises were about exploring who you are
and the kinds of things that are important to you, this is about
what you like and don’t like—and it’s crucial you not only dis-
cover these things about yourself but that you unapologetically
own them because your voice comes directly from your tastes
and preferences.

As far back as 35 years ago, I was drawn to the black and

white work of Ansel Adams, Yousef Karsh, and Henri Carti-
er-Bresson. The high contrast and blacker-than-blacks of Ad-
ams, the texture of Karsh’s portraits, the decisive moments of
Cartier-Bresson all captivated me. Why? I have no idea. But
if I look at my work now, I see their influence (among that of
many others) as the years have gone by. Seeing that, and own-
ing those preferences, has given me permission to pursue them,
to learn how to apply that to my own work, and to take it as
far as I am inclined to. I’ve accepted that I like the darker shad-
ows, the mystery, the loss of detail in darker areas. I’ve experi-
mented with grain to add texture and have played with selec-
tive sharpening to bring more of the texture to play in areas
that feel right to me.

And as I’ve grown and the things I want to say get less cheer-
ful, less obviously optimistic at times, I’ve learned to use all
17
those techniques in service of my vision. And how do I know
when I nail it—when the techniques I use and the look I chase
for a particular image is the best one for me? It feels right. In
my gut I love it, and nothing else makes me feel the same way.
You might not like it, it might not be how you would do it,
but that’s the whole point of having a voice.

I’ve had well-meaning people chime in on Instagram and ask

to see my black and white work in colour. I usually don’t reply
because what I want to say is, “No. You can’t.” You wouldn’t
listen to your favourite musician sing one of his songs and then
ask to hear it more like Elvis would do it, or in a different style.
Why would we ask another photographer to do their art in a
way that pleases us more? For that matter, and more relevant
to you: why would you allow the tastes of others to dictate
what you say or how you say it?

I think it’s important here to make a point about the scope of

voice in our work because having a particular voice does not
mean that voice can’t take different forms; for example, I love
black and white but also work in colour. I think my voice re-
mains a consistent through-line in my work even when shifting
from one to the other. In other words, my voice can be charac-
terized by more than one quality. If I were assessing my voice,
18
I would include tight use of a wide-angle lens, low points of
view, and a desire to engage my subjects as intimately as pos-
sible and wait for moments that give the strongest emotional
or narrative connection. Some are colour, some are black and
white.

You wouldn’t listen to your

favourite musician sing one
of his songs and then ask to
hear it more like Elvis would
do it, or in a different style.
Why would we ask anoth-
er photographer to do their
art in a way that pleases us
more?

19
your TURN
So what do you like? I don’t mean the stuff that’s
just OK—I mean, what are you crazy about?

Get your notebook out and do an audit on your

tastes.

How do you like to work? I like simple. I like one

camera and one lens when I can. I’m not one to car-
ry a bunch of strobes and no longer prefer a tripod
or filters. That limits me, but it also provides oppor-
tunities and is an easy way to identify elements of
my voice or clarify which things are not my voice.

What kind of aesthetic or look do you like? Do you

prefer black and white? What kind of black and
white? High key? Lots of grain?

What about composition? Do you like simpler com-

positions or more complex frames?

20
Do you prefer abstracts? What about portraits?
What kind of portraits? Colour? Hopeful? Romantic?
Dark and gritty?

What don’t you like?

How about using light? Do you have some ways of

working with light that you prefer over others? I’m
a backlight guy when I can be. I love it. And strong
shadows.

The more you can dial in what you like, what you
lean towards, what feels more like you, the better.
Now own that. Go play with those specific elements
and combine them in ways that spark something
inside you, that thrill you. Listen to your gut.

21
 04
Have
A
Damn
Opinion.

22
When we make a photograph, we are saying to anyone who
will listen our individual version of, “Look at this!” That’s your
vision, the thing you want to say. If you want to have a voice
that’s equal to the task, you need to have an opinion. Part
of discovering your voice is having something to say; I don’t
think they can be separated. And since part of what we mean
when we talk about having a voice is in fact more about having
a distinctive voice, one that’s unique to us and unlike others,
one of the best things we can do, if not also the hardest, is to
be bold. Be courageous. Don’t water it down. This reminds me
of a quote from the writer Franz Kafka:

“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it

logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion.
Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”

What does this mean? It means have the courage not to dilute
what you’re trying to say. If you want to show me something,
really show it to me. Be relentless about excluding everything
from the frame that doesn’t help you say that thing. Get in
closer, use stronger contrasts to highlight the thing you’re say-
ing, choose the most powerful moments, and don’t for a mo-
ment stop to think whether I or anyone else would make these
same choices. Is this about finding your voice? Maybe not, but
23
it’s sure as hell about using it. Turning up the volume. Showing
me what you really think, or asking me uncomfortable ques-
tions, making bold compositions, ignoring the rules, the whole
thing!

How does this apply? Here’s an example. I’m working on a

series of portraits, but not the traditional pretty pictures. I’ve
done the headshots that show people in the nicest light, with
the most flattering lenses. Makeup. Hair. I don’t want that.
I want portraits of people as they are. With all the wrinkles
they’ve earned. With their hair a little on the imperfect side.
And looking to the camera, and to me, the way that I really see
them. So when I photographed my mother, whom I love dear-
ly, I didn’t want the pretty picture. I wanted honesty. And so
that’s what I did. I asked her to come into my studio without
warning, and just let it be a little awkward. I didn’t tell her I
had started, just that I was still getting the lights worked out.
And I got images that were true. That showed her as curious,
worried, witty, but the everyday version of that. And she didn’t
love the photographs. But they’re my favourite images of her
because they show her as she is. They pull the veil back. Wrin-
kles, teeth in need of some work, hair whipped by the wind.
You want to see my mother? These images show a sliver of
who she truly is to me. No flattering lens, no Photoshop. It
24
might not be your way, but it’s what I wanted—what I needed
to do to make my voice true in this matter. Scared the shit out
of me, let me tell you.

If it scares you, it’s

probably a good sign
you’re moving in the
right direction; there
should be some risk.

25
your TURN
If you could make the images you really wanted to,
the kind you might have made before you started
comparing yourself to others and worrying about
whether anyone but you ever saw them or liked
them, what would you say?

What kind of qualities would they have? Where are

you holding back? Are you hedging your bets with
safe compositions?

Are you doing fine art nudes but covering certain

parts not because that’s your vision but because Ins-
tagram told you to? I’m not saying don’t be modest,
and I’m not saying shock us all. I’m saying you are
the only one who should have a say in how you do
your work. And it’s not always others we’re afraid of.
Sometimes it’s ourselves. Afraid of failure. Afraid be-
cause we don’t know where to begin.

26
Get that notebook again. I know I’m asking you to
be pretty introspective, but here’s an easy way to
begin being bold: write down what you really want
from your work.

Maybe you want it to be more romantic and you’re

worried people won’t take you seriously. Maybe you
want to photograph cats and you’re scared of the
jokes people will make. Maybe it’s work that’s real-
ly different from what you do now, like abstracts,
nudes, or boudoir. Complete these thoughts:

If I could photograph anything, it would be:

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

If what I wanted to say with those photographs

could be described in words, it might be something
like:
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

27
I’m not doing that work right now or in that way be-
cause I’m scared of:
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

Whatever your answers to those are, whether you

write them down or they just rattle around in your
brain, find a way to own those desires and make it
happen.

The world has enough photographs. We don’t need

the half-measures or anything less than what lights
you on fire. If it scares you, it’s probably a good sign
you’re moving in the right direction; there should be
some risk. There should be some uncertainty. For-
tune favours the bold.

28
 05
Ignore
The
Rules.

29
I don’t believe in rules in art. None of them. Nope, not even
that one.

There are principles, reasons why some things tend to work or

accomplish certain reactions or effects. But there are no rules.
You are under obligation to no other living soul to do any-
thing a certain way. Put your horizons wherever you want to
put them. Just have a reason for doing so, even if that reason is,
“This is where I want my damn horizon!” Of course, the rest of
us might not get it. We might feel like a different choice would
be more effective. But how do we know? We aren’t you. And
sometimes flaunting these so-called rules and making the bold
decision is the one that gets our attention the most powerfully.

Slavishly following the so-called rules and not understanding

the difference between those and genuine principles is just
about the best way I know to be certain you neither discover
nor hone your voice. The rules muzzle us. They tell us to hold
our camera still and not wave it around. They tell us an 85mm
lens is a “better” portrait lens than a 35mm. How do they
know? Better? For what? Certainly not at achieving my vision.
Consider this your permission to do things your way. Monet
did. Picasso did. J.W. Turner did. Jackson Pollock and Emily
Carr and Gerard Manley Hopkins and Freddie Mercury and
30
Anthony Bourdain and Jim Henson and Elton John and [in-
sert the name of any artist with a distinct voice]: they all did it
their way.

“Sure, they did it their way, they flaunted the rules, they could
do that because they were ________________!”

Bulls*t. They didn’t get away with anything other than being
boldly themselves. And they didn’t “get away with it” because
they were famous; they became famous because they did it
their way.

This is not your permission to just ignore craft and constantly

discover how things work and what kind of effects are created
by doing this one thing or the other.

It’s your permission to do with those techniques and effects

whatever your will or your whimsy or your curiosity leads you
to. A voice that is indistinct and blends in with the choir is
part of a bigger voice, and maybe there’s something to be said
for that, but it’s not your voice. It’s a blend of many and you’ll
get drowned out.

31
If you want to find your voice and use it with increasing au-
thenticity and creativity, you have to make peace with the fact
that there will be naysayers. The reviews will be worse than just
OK. Some people will hate it. Sometimes that person might be
you; we don’t all get it right on the first try. But I don’t make
my art to be liked. I make it to be heard. I make it because I
can’t not. I hope for the same for you.

If you want to find your

voice and use it with
increasing authenticity
and creativity, you have
to make peace with the
fact that there will be
naysayers.

32
your TURN
This might be just an exercise in imagination for you
but humour me.

I want you to imagine you’ve created the work you

either wrote or thought about in the last exercise
in the chapter about having an opinion and being
bold.

You mustered up all the courage you never knew

you had, or learned the techniques you needed in
order to make it, and you’ve just put your first efforts
out into the world. You’ve done it your way.

And all those people you thought were out there

sharpening their knives have shown up to collective-
ly write a scathing review.

Get your notebook and write it. Write the actu-

al review. Put the acrimony and the vitriol that you
fear down on the page. Now read it. Notice how you
33
didn’t die, your soul didn’t implode, and you’re still
here? Notice how the art police didn’t show up to
stop you from making more art and loving it?

Now do one more thing: ask yourself if they’re right.

When I first started getting Amazon reviews, I han-

dled them with the maturity of a 4-year-old. I took
them very personally. And then I started asking,
“What if they’re right?” And sometimes they were.
Yes, I use more words than necessary. Yes, I talk
more about vision than some (most) authors. No,
I don’t make photographs of the things you make
photographs of, nor do I do it the way you would.
They were often 100% correct. Except the guy who
called me fat, bald, and ugly; I wasn’t that bald at
the time. That one hurt.

Of course, they’re not usually right. All the people

I listed as great artists or individuals with their own
recognizably distinct voices in the last chapter had
their critics. They were written off, ridiculed, slan-
dered, most frequently by those you’ve never heard
of because it’s easier to criticize than to make art.
34
And even the best criticism from the sagest of crit-
ics doesn’t touch our souls and imaginations the
way your art can. So keep it in perspective. Make
your art a gift; ignore the critics, especially the ones
in your head.

Reconcile yourself to knowing that your art will

be for far, far fewer than those for whom it will be
meaningless, trivial, or worse. So what? If you allow
that vast majority to dictate the terms or rules by
which you make your art (or anything in life, for that
matter), you’re playing to the wrong audience.

That audience must first be you.

Always.

And then to those for whom you make your art.

Those for whom your art is a gift because it is what
it is and the fit is there. Rules and expectations and
obligations will weaken your voice until it’s gone or
silenced completely.

35
Here’s a spot for that hypothetical review I want
you to write. Don’t hold back.

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

36
 06
Be
Consistent.

37
Consistency is one of the visual hallmarks of a photographer
who knows his or her voice and uses it—but not because con-
sistency is specifically the goal. It’s that someone with certain
things to say, who, like most of us, is not burdened with mul-
tiple personalities, will say those things in ways that are con-
sistent with who they are and, over time, with the rest of their
work. It’s the result of working in a medium in which we can
all only say so much and master so many forms or devices.
Rather than stretching ourselves thin, trying to say too many
things and in every genre, using every technique known to
humankind, we come to a point where we focus, allowing our-
selves the luxury of going deeper and the chance that brings
with it: mastering the certain forms of expression that one day
become an integral part of your voice.

Being consistent means getting good at a few things and be-

coming so familiar with those forms that we understand the
possibilities. We know what works for us and how. It means we
have time and energy and the luxury of being taught import-
ant lessons by our failures to know how to use techniques with
more power, nuance, and control than others who just dabble
with a technique here and there. That doesn’t mean we don’t
experiment and look for new aspects of the craft we might pre-
viously have ignored; rather, it means we make certain
38
choices once we’ve experimented, and we get really, really good
at those things.

Joe McNally has a particular and recognizable voice because

he knows how to use artificial and blended light like few peo-
ple alive, and he’s turned those tools into an important part
of how he expresses himself and finds the strongest expression
for his subjects. But there are probably many more techniques
Joe doesn’t have the slightest interest in, because to become
really good at them would come at too high a cost: neglecting
his primary tools. It is partly out of this from which his strong
consistency emerges.

Grooves become
ruts that quickly
become graves for
the creative soul.

39
Another example is Lee Jeffries. Spend 10 minutes looking
carefully through his Instagram feed and tell me he doesn’t
have a very consistent voice—consistency that comes not for
its own sake, but from mastery and focus of the tools that best
fit his personality, tastes, and the subjects he chooses to ex-
plore. At a certain point, you must make choices. But don’t
mistake me; when I talk about consistency, I’m not talking
about uniformity. I’m also not talking about an obligation to
remain in a particular groove. Grooves become ruts that quick-
ly become graves for the creative soul.

Some people will develop a voice that remains consistent

throughout their lifetime. Others, like Picasso, will change
their voice often. However, it’s important to note that while
Picasso’s voice was not consistent from one period to anoth-
er in his work, it was consistent with who he was, and that’s
much more important. His voice was his and his alone, and in
his particular periods (the blue period, for example), his work
consistently explored similar forms and left others unexplored
because they weren’t right for what he was trying to do. But his
voice was always a consistent expression of who he was.

40
your TURN
This one is going to take some commitment from
you.

Take your favourite subject. Set some constraints

(discussed in the next chapter), make some deci-
sions, and explore that subject for a year. Really
mine it.

Find out what works and what doesn’t. Learn to use

these instruments as your voice to make the images
absolutely yours.

For me, it’s black and white portraits of the people

closest to me—those who make my life richer. It’s
called “The Treasury.” And what I found early on was
that I wanted a very particular look: wider lenses
(28-35mm, 50mm at the very most), very deep focus
(no bokeh here), and one single light very close to
the subject.

41
What will a year give you? Focus. Depth. Possibility.
Failures and successes you wouldn’t get in a single
weekend of shooting and calling it done.

It will give you time to get your visual vocal chords

wrapped around the things you want to say, and
to a large degree, it will help you figure out exactly
what you want to say and how. And because you’ve
committed to your constraints, you can’t just run off
to buy longer lenses, more lights, fresh gimmicks, or
try on a bunch of fancy Lightroom presets.

Give it a try. One year.

You in? I don’t often make guarantees, but if you do

this project consistently for a year, you will have a
better sense of what your voice is and is not.

42
the Treasury
This is a first glance of the beginning of my
own one-year project. Strictly limited to
monochrome portraits made with one simple
light and no lens over 50mm, I want to create
a collection of honest portraits of the people
in my life. No hair, no make-up, no real pos-
ing of any kind. Just a collaborative effort to
make images that feel like an honest reflec-
tion of these wonderful people, never asking
for a smile or an emotional reaction other
than what happens together when I’m as close
as I need to be with these wider lenses.

This project came purely from me asking the

kinds of questions I am asking you in this
book. What do you want? What is import-
ant to you? How might that look? And what
kind of choices do you need to make this hap-
pen?

43
44
45
46
47
48
 07
Constraints
Are
Everything.

49
If you’ve read anything of mine or taken any of my courses, you
knew this was coming. I used to think intentionally created
constraints were important to the creative process. Now I’ve
become almost militant in my belief that almost nothing will
help the creative process move more smoothly and in more in-
teresting directions than well-chosen constraints. To put it dif-
ferently, you’ve got to make decisions. The more escape routes
you have, the less seriously your muse will take the task and the
sooner she’ll bail on you. I promise this is the case.

When we make specific decisions, we begin to accomplish

the consistency I discussed in the previous chapter. We force
our creativity to solve new problems, and with each problem
solved, we get a keener sense of the possibilities. And with
time, those possibilities become part of the language we speak.
When those possibilities combine and we use them consistent-
ly to say the things we want to explore and express with the
camera and the photographs we make, we have a voice. Some
will mistake it for style. Call it what you want. What matters
is that you get to the point where you understand this funda-
mental idea: your voice isn’t just one choice, like using black
and white. It’s a group of choices you’ve come to make your
own in a combination that is uniquely yours. Black and white?
Sure. But with a 28mm lens and sharp lighting, with post-pro-
50
cessing that focuses on deep blacks and unusually satisfying
textures? Now we’re talking.

Look at the work of Annie Leibovitz, Steve McCurry, Dan

Winters, or any other photographer you admire and ask your-
self what makes their voice really theirs. Is it just one thing?
Never. It’s a combination of choices, from how they use light
to choices about composition, point of view, optics, moment,
geometry, scale, and any other number of things that have ap-
pealed to them at some point in time and seemed like the right
tools for the job.

I’ve become almost militant in

my belief that almost
nothing will help the creative
process move more smoothly
and in more interesting
directions than well-chosen
constraints.
51
We get there with constraints. But we don’t get there easily.
The photography industry wants us to learn it all, try it all, buy
it all, and go from tip to trick to gimmick, always playing, nev-
er settling down and mastering any one thing. When I started
my portrait project, one of my constraints was no new gear
until I’d proved my concept. I made an exception and bought a
$100 50mm for the Nikon D5 I wanted to work with for this
project—and it turns out that was a premature decision.

It’s easy to think we’ll be able to do it better if we just get the

new strobes, a bigger softbox, etc., but that gives us the oppo-
site of what our muse so often needs: working with what we’ve
got and doing it sooner than right now. Work with it awhile
until you’re moving on the project and you see a new tool that
works within your constraints but truly adds something to the
process. More often than not, my constraints are much more
powerful in helping me make great work and stay on track
than any new piece of gear is. That new gear usually introduces
unfamiliarity and the need for problem-solving that’s ultimate-
ly unrelated to the creative work I’m trying to do.

52
your TURN
Go back to the project you started in the last chap-
ter. You did start it, right? Now look at your con-
straints with fresh eyes.

Have you been intentional about it? Have you cho-

sen something that will challenge you but isn’t so
challenging you’re going to spend all your energy
starting from square one?

Are your constraints consistent with the way

you’ve created your best work in the past? Do your
constraints make sense to you and are they consis-
tent with the kinds of things you’re trying to say in
the work you want to explore?

Write them down. Is it a particular lens you’ll use

all year? A specific subject? Specific aspect ratios,
frame orientations, colour treatments, moods, sto-
ries? Is it specific technical challenges, like no shut-
ter speed over 1/15th as you explore motion in your
53
work? Is it something more conceptual, like the pur-
suit of interesting juxtapositions in the frame?

Whatever it is, pick a couple of them, but do it once

you’ve proved the concept and have indeed found
that the colour, slow shutter speed, on-camera flash
with rear-curtain sync, horizontally framed pictures
of dogs at the local park is going to work for you.

But when you have proof of concept, then stick with

it. And if you run into problems, don’t change your
constraints—change your approach. Solve the prob-
lems. That’s what creativity is.

54
 08
Ignore
Others.

55
If constraints are one of the single biggest aids to the creative
life, then comparisons are one of the single biggest obstacles.
Comparison to others is the diet of a creative soul that’s dy-
ing on the inside. Comparing yourself to others will steal your
voice, or so infect it with the desire to do what they’re doing,
or do it like they’re doing, that the things that made your voice
what it was in the first place will die of starvation.

The creative life is always one that begins looking first on the
inside, asking the questions that matter to you: following your
curiosity, your passion, your priorities, your indignation, or
whatever it is that drives you or pulls you forward. What mat-
ters is that it is yours and no one else’s.

That does not mean you can’t learn from them. Or some of
them. Carefully chosen, our influences matter a great deal. But
I worry that social media, particularly Instagram, is making
it harder than ever to create our work, in our own way, with-
out being overly saturated with the work of others. And not
because we study it but because we don’t—we just skim it. So
we see the best work of others and miss the chance to do the
one thing looking at the work of others has always been best
at: learning. But we don’t. We just wonder why we can’t be
as prolific. We wonder why their work gets so many likes (an
56
imbecilic measure of art, at best) and we allow that emotional
energy to be diverted from wrestling with the muse. Instead we
wrestle with our egos and our emotions.

Forget what others are doing, unless you will do one of two
things (and even then, sparingly): either study and learn from
that work, or celebrate it as their unique expression of their
unique self, with no obligation to be remotely like them; or
create work that’s similar in any way. Either way, we’ve all got
to stop consuming it so quickly, and we’ve got to focus more
on our work as if it’s the love of our lives and not always play-
ing the field to see what else is out there. That approach is fa-
mously unproductive in both love and art.

I guess what I’m asking you to do is to be especially mindful

of anything that threatens your individuality and pulls you to-
ward emulation or imitation. I know that imitating is a helpful
thing at the beginning. But if you’re reading this and are con-
cerned with matters of voice, you’re past that. Stop it. Look to
yourself. Wrestle with your muse—don’t try to stalk the muse
of others. She isn’t for you.

57
your TURN
OK, I’ve been easing you in to this one. Everything in
you is going to kick and scream. You aren’t going to
like this:

Take a one-month sabbatical from all social me-

dia. All online sources of photography.

Yes, you can. Uninstall Instagram from your phone.

For one month. And stop looking at the work of oth-
ers. With one exception (explained in the next chap-
ter).

Do you trust me? I know, you’re freaking out right

now. But if you want to stop comparing yourself
and recalibrate the way you look at photographs
and have more time for your own work, try it for
a month. You owe it to yourself. No one will miss
you and the benefits are worth it. Really can’t do a
month? Chicken. Try a week, or two weeks. But try it.

58
 09
Increase
Your
Inputs.

59
Assuming you’re still reading and listening to me, and assum-
ing you aren’t mindlessly consuming images on social media
this month, I want you to replace that activity with another
one that’s arguably more productive. Let me explain why.

If your voice comes in part from your tastes and preferences,

and if you are constantly evolving, then it’s important your
tastes are also given the chance to evolve, and that happens
through challenge. It doesn’t happen through the less-than-
mindful approach we take to consuming images in this culture.
But we must increase our inputs. We must be learning and
constantly challenged, and this is where social media fails us.
We consume images we’re comfortable with, the stuff we like.

Very few of us intentionally follow artists we don’t like or un-

derstand. And of those we do like and understand, how much
time do we spend studying their work and interacting with it,
listening to it, wrestling with the questions it raises, and learn-
ing from it, rather than offering up the binary like it / don’t
like it that social media encourages?

I’m not knocking social media; I just don’t think most of us

have asked the hard questions about how we use it. So for
now, since you’re on a social media fast because you trust me
60
and know that a month isn’t that long, I want you to consider
doing something else instead: go to Amazon, your favourite
bookstore, or the local library and get a book or photographs
by a photographer you’ve never heard of.

Get a book of photographs you don’t understand. Get Daido

Moriyama’s Daido Tokyo. Get something by Mapplethorpe.
Or Sally Mann. If you prefer black and white photographs, get
something in blazing colour, like Alex Webb’s The Suffering of
Light, or Ernst Haas’ Color Correction. If you’re always look-
ing at the work of Edward Weston, look at Helmut Newton
instead. And if Karsh is your guy, then look at Platon.

What I’m getting at is that you challenge yourself, that you

push beyond your comfort level and see if you can learn some-
thing new instead of reinforcing old forms and visual
prejudices.

And I want you to spend one month with one book. Look at
every image and let them sit with you. Several times. You don’t
have to like it, understand it, or “get it.” You just have to lis-
ten. Ask yourself why the photographer made the choices they
did. Ask yourself what characterizes their unique voice and
what you think they’re saying, pointing at, or what questions
61
they seem fascinated by. That’s your assignment for this chap-
ter: to slow down, to question your visual preconceptions and
tastes, and to expose yourself to something new. Increase the
inputs—that’s how we learn and find new questions and ideas.
Seeing how others use their voices is much easier when it’s not
so threatening and we aren’t compelled to like it or comment
on it, but to simply listen.

If your voice comes in

part from your tastes and
preferences, and if you
are constantly evolving,
then it’s important your
tastes are also given the
chance to evolve, and
that happens through
challenge.

62
 10
Shoot.
A
Lot.

63
You need skills if your voice is going to evolve. Like a singer,
the more range you have, the better. What I do not mean by
this is that you should learn everything; I think I’ve already
done my best to dissuade you from that. But there are a hand-
ful of basics you need to master. By master, I don’t mean you
need to learn a lot of information. I mean you need to get the
camera into your hands and make a lot of photographs. You
need to develop muscle memory. You need to get to the point
where the buttons and dials are not your focus, where you ar-
en’t trying to remember how to move the focus point or shift
into rear-curtain sync or whatever particular function you
need when you’re trying to remain in the flow.

Flow is achieved when the level of skill matches the level of

challenge you’re undertaking, not when you’re so far out of
your league you’re downloading camera manuals to try to re-
member how to do one thing or another. Flow happens when
you’re being challenged creatively, not trying to remember the
basics. Think of a poet writing his verses: if he’s still grappling
with the language in which he’s writing and can’t get to the
words he wants, his poems will remain as basic as his grasp of
the language, and no more.

64
I could write and write and write about finding your voice. But
it won’t amount to a hill of beans (which is a bizarre metaphor,
but seems to apply here) unless you get so comfortable with
your tools that you can focus on what you want to say and how
you want to say it, and not on the mechanics. You must make a
lot of photographs, even if they’re just junk. Even if there’s no
film or memory card in the camera; the making of actual pho-
tographs has value of its own, but it’s important that you get
the camera into your hands and know what buttons do what.
It’s important that you know what your lenses create at any
given combination of aperture and distance from subject. It’s
important you know how to deal with tricky exposure, know-
ing when to over- or underexpose relative to what the camera
is telling you to do. Can you move your focus points, change
your ISO, and get to the shutter speed you want when you
need it?

Flow happens when

you’re being challenged
creatively, not trying to
remember the basics.

65
your TURN
I talk a lot about vision, but voice will always be
limited by two other things: our grasp of the tools
and our grasp of the language.

The tools are the techniques and mechanics; the

language is the visual design, the storytelling, and
the composition. A deficiency in these—any lack of
curiosity or apathy about the tools and language
we’re most likely to use—will result in a voice with a
limited range, unable at the right time to find the
tools for the job or the words to do the telling, visu-
ally speaking.

Use your camera a lot.

Pick it up and play with it.

Close your eyes and find the ISO button. See how
fast you can change drive modes or get to servo
mode or whatever function you aren’t so familiar
with.
66
And then, make many, many photographs and let
them give you feedback.

What do you like?

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

What don’t you like? Why?

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

What works for you, and what doesn’t ? Why?

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

67
What other techniques or compositions could you
have tried to get closer to what you like?
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

All the shooting in the world will make you really

comfortable with the camera, and that’s good, but
it won’t improve your photographs. Only studying
them and questioning your compositional choices
will do that.

68
 11
Make
It
Yours.

69
I’m a big fan of questions as a means of digging up the truth
and learning. There are a lot of great questions to be asked in
photography, specifically about our images as we allow them to
give us feedback as I suggested in the last chapter. But to me,
once you’ve gotten to a certain basic level of technical compe-
tence, no question is more important than this one: is it yours?

You can make the best image in the world (whatever that
means), but if it’s not yours—if it’s not authentic and doesn’t
thrill you or say what you want it to say in the way you want
to say it—what’s the point? Don’t you practice this craft and
make your art for you, first? Does it do any of us any good if
we create work that others love, that meets the ever-changing
standards of the world out there but fails to bring us joy, or
gives us that frisson of pleasure we get when we’ve made some-
thing that’s just inexplicably, unapologetically our own?

The big need in photography (and probably art in general, if

not in life) is not more photographs made to look like every
other image on Instagram. It’s not the need for more over-fil-
tered, over-sharpened, over-copied images. There’s no poet-
ry in those. No soul. And while I can’t speak for you, I know
there’s no long-term gratification in them for me. Just the
gnawing feeling that I missed a chance to make that image my
70
own, to bring something of mine—a piece of me—to the ta-
ble, to take something we’ve all seen and show it in a new way,
to interpret it first for myself and then for a world that, despite
itself, is clamouring for voices that say more than, “Me too!”

We already know what

it all looks like, so let’s
skip that part and get
to the good stuff, the
part where you tell us
through tears or head-
thrown-back laughter
how you see it and feel
about it.

71
Yes, it’s true. Everything has been photographed. But not in
your way, from where you stand, in this moment, ever so elo-
quently by you.

We already know what it all looks like, so let’s skip that part
and get to the good stuff, the part where you tell us through
tears or head-thrown-back laughter how you see it and feel
about it.

The part where you share your joy, your anger, curiosity, or the
perspective that’s yours alone by virtue of the years and the sto-
ries only you have lived in so unique a combination. The part
where you follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly, un-
diluted, unfiltered, and unedited according to the fashion. Do
that.

Let that be your voice. Let that be your gift to yourself and
then (and only then) to the world. And don’t think for a mo-
ment that doing so won’t be a gift and that, for the effort, it
won’t get you to making images that are not just compelling,
but truly yours.

72
your TURN
Get that notebook again or, if you’ve printed this
book, use the space below. I want you to write
an artist statement. Not one of those pretentious
statements that no one understands — something
simpler and just for you. Let it be as long or as short
as you like. Answer these questions:

Who are you, as an artist? Or who are you becom-

ing?

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

73
What is the one common thread in your photogra-
phy, or the one thread you most want to be there?

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

How is that thread, or theme, expressed visually?

And if you work in a couple mediums or, yes, styles,
just pick one to write about. You can do the others
later.

_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
____________________________________________.

74
Here’s mine:

I am fascinated by life and want my photographs to

express that fascination and immersion. I am drawn
to what is different from the culture I grew up in, and
to wildness in all its forms. I want my photographs to
express that immersion, to feel like I feel when I am
there. I use wide lenses and alternate perspectives that
re-create that feeling for me, favouring the nostalgia of
gritty monochromes or punchy colours that reflect the
film I used in my youth. Preferring to work in natural
light with a minimum of post-production, I limit my-
self to simple tools, believing happily that less is usual-
ly more to me.

Is that complete? No.

Will it change? Of course. But it keeps me focused,

especially when I doubt myself or my methods or
find myself lapsing into comparing myself with oth-
ers.

75
Now go and put the ideas from the last 11 chapters into action. I
hope in doing so, you will find the freedom to chase the stories and
the poems that are yours alone to tell. Find the freedom to tell them
haltingly, brokenly, incompletely, but never with the voice of anoth-
er. Have the courage to interpret the world for those of us who don’t
(and can’t) stand where you stand.

Stop comparing yourself to anyone but yourself, and even then,

cut yourself a break. The camera is an amazing thing, but it’s just a
tool—the real magic is in you, and in the willingness, and courage to
make choices and always be asking if those choices best reflect who
you are, what you want to explore or express, and in ways that best
reflect your own tastes and desires.

You are where the ideas come from. It’s from you that the visual
words come and form the thousand-word sentences and paragraphs
you make with your art. Make them often. And make them yours.

For the Love of the Photograph,

David duChemin
Nanoose Bay, British Columbia, 2019

76
the
VISUAL
VOICE
by DAVID DUCHEMIN

Published By Craft & Vision

Copyright © 2019 David duChemin

All Rights Reserved.

Craft & Vision Press is a division of

Pixelated Image Communications Inc.

CraftAndVision.com

David duChemin can be found online

at davidduchemin.com.

77