One of the least discussed truths in photography is also one of the most useful. Most photographs are not very good. Not yours. Not mine. Not even those made by photographers whose work hangs in fancy galleries or graces the pages of coffee-table books. The difference is not that successful photographers avoid failure. It is that they accept it, learn from it, and build their photographic practice around it.
Photography has a habit of presenting itself as a highlights reel. Social media feeds, portfolios, and exhibitions are all edited realities. They show the polished result, not the hundreds of awkward attempts that came before. This creates the illusion that good photographs arrive fully formed, as if talent alone is all that’s needed. It might be comforting, but it’s wrong.
Martin Parr put it bluntly in his excellent top-ten list of advice for emerging photographers. “Acknowledge that you will mainly take failures.” That line matters because it reframes the entire process. Failure is not an unfortunate by-product of photography. It is part of the process. The camera is a tool for testing ideas, not proving competence.
Article continues belowMost of the learning happens when things do not work. When the light disappoints. When the framing falls apart. When the idea you were convinced would be brilliant turns out to be a disappointment. While these failed moments might dent the ego and feel frustrating, they can also teach you far more than a run of successes ever could.
Making a good photograph can feel satisfying, but a bad one asks questions. Why did this fail? What was I really trying to do? What would I change next time?
This is why volume matters. Not in the sense of indiscriminate shooting, but in giving yourself enough chances to get it wrong.
The photographer who only presses the shutter when they feel confident rarely moves forward. Confidence is often just familiarity in disguise. Without the expense of film and processing, working with digital photography makes this much easier.
Ansel Adams understood this well. He famously suggested that “twelve significant photographs in any one year is a good crop”. Taken literally, that is sobering. Taken properly, it is liberating. It gives you permission to stop chasing perfection. If 12 images matter, the rest are not wasted. They are part of the process.
The problem is not taking bad photographs. The problem is expecting not to. Once you accept that most of what you make will be ordinary, confused or unsuccessful, the pressure lifts. You begin to experiment. You take risks. You pay closer attention.
Good photography is not built on avoiding mistakes. It is built on making them, noticing them, and showing up again the next time with your eyes a little more open than before.
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