“There are no rules for good photographs; there are only good photographs.“- Ansel Adams.

Maria and I were driving past green and yellow pasture this morning, I saw something out of my eye that made me think – or feel, really – that there was a picture, but I couldn’t say what it was.

Maria said, “no, I don’t see anything special,” She is a brilliant artist, a visual artist who sees things I don’t see every other minute of the day. But that is different from photography, which she is also very good at.

“I saw something,” I said,” looking for a space big enough to turn the car around and go back to the pasture, “so I’m going back.”

She still couldn’t see what had drawn me there. But I never doubt myself, if I feel it, I take the shot. There is nothing to lose, and photography has taught me to trust my own instincts, not the instincts of others.

I often fail, I sometimes succeed. But my instincts have grown and deepened over the last decade since I started taking pictures. I appreciate photography, it is one of those things you get better at as you get older. You learn more about the technical tools, and you learn to trust your instincts.

And there is nobody there to tell you what to do or stick their nose in your business.

It was a simple pasture, really, I loved the line of trees and my eye caught the yellow flowers, I wasn’t sure what they were. But what I saw was a perfect configuration – trees, blue sky, yellow pasture, green trim, the green hills of Vermont well into the background.

To me, a perfectly composed photograph. I got out of the car, took a few shots, loved what I saw on the viewfinder, and came home. This is the shot above.

When I take a picture, I also ask if there is anything in the photo for other people. If it might be beautiful or calming or touching to them. I don’t want the photos to just be about me.

I remember Susan Sontag’s great quote about photography: “All photographs are memento more. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s ) mortality and vulnerability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.”

It is an honor and a privilege for me to take someone’s picture.

I know now that you don’t take a picture with just a camera, I bring to the process all the experiences in my life, all the pictures I have seen, all the books I have read, the beautiful things I have imagined or known, all of the music I’ve heard, all of the things and people that I’ve loved all the good and the bad that I’ve done.

Photographer Gregory Heisler wrote that “all the planning, intuition, technical prowess, and knowledge, as well as the trust and rapport you have (or haven’t) established, will show up in  the picture, frozen forever.”

For me, taking a picture is very much like holding my breath, it’s a precise moment where mastering – or failing to master – an image becomes either a great intellectual and creative joy or a  disappointment to be attempted again.

I am learning to live with frustration and failure. I am basking in the glow of some success.

In one sense, every picture is a snap decision based on a quick reaction to a glimpse, or sense and the ability – nourished over much time – to quickly size up a situation and make a record of my perceived truth.

There is nothing like it for me. Photography is, at the core, about one’s personal idea of truth and reality. It is no better or worse than me.

I liked this photo a lot. So did Maria. “Oh,” she said, “I get it now.” I’m glad we stopped.

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“When you photograph people in color, you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in black and white, you photograph their souls.” – Ted Grant.