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The Terrible Photographer is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
Episode: Why Shapes How
On Intention, Execution, and the Lie of Objectivity
[Cold open - conversational, slightly amused tone]
So there I was, eighteen months into owning my Triumph Thruxton, standing in my garage at ten PM on a Tuesday night, covered in motor oil and actual blood from my knuckles, holding a wrench like I'd just slayed a dragon. I'd changed my own oil and brake pads. With YouTube as my guide and three pints of Guinness as delicious Irish fuel, I'd actually done it.
And I felt... incredible. Like I'd unlocked some primal masculine achievement. I literally yelled "Victory is mine!" to my empty garage like some suburban conquistador claiming victory over basic motorcycle maintenance.
[Pause, self-deprecating chuckle]
Dork behavior. But also? Felt like a goddamn legend.
But here's the thing that hit me while I was cleaning grease from under my fingernails: just because I can change brake pads doesn't make me a motorcycle mechanic any more than knowing f-stops makes someone Ansel Adams.
And that realization? It's been eating at me ever since. Because I think we've got this fundamentally backwards in photography.
Welcome to The Terrible Photographer Podcast, my name is Patrick Fore and today’s episode is called, Why Shapes How. I’m really excited about this because this episode is adapted from Chapter 5 of my book, Lesson’s from Terrible Photographer
We've become obsessed with the "how" of photography - the technical execution, the gear mastery, the pixel-perfect precision. Meanwhile, the "why" gets treated like some optional philosophical add-on you can worry about later.
But what if the relationship is completely reversed? What if why doesn't just matter - what if why literally shapes how?
The technical stuff - exposure, focus, composition rules - that's just maintenance. Brake pad territory. Essential? Absolutely. But not what separates memorable work from forgettable technical exercises.
And here's what keeps me up at night: the "how" is getting laughably easy. Autofocus systems can literally track your eye movements now. AI can composite a burning dumpster into an enchanted forest and make it look like Monet painted it during a particularly inspired acid trip. You don't even need to understand what you're doing anymore - just a credit card and decent WiFi.
So if the "how" is increasingly automated, what's left for us?
Intent. Purpose. The conscious decision to engage with why your images matter.
That's the question separating great photographers from everyone else with expensive cameras.
[Personal story - more intimate tone]
I have this friend Jamar. Legitimately skilled portrait photographer, corporate gig that includes photography work, genuinely loves what he does. But whenever I bring up studying masters or developing artistic voice, he pushes back with this polite but firm resistance.
"I just like making cool portraits," he told me recently. "I'm not trying to be an artist or make some grand statement about the human condition."
He's not wrong. But he's not entirely right either.
Because even if you're not trying to say something, your work always does.
Even though Jamar insists he "just takes portraits," his images reveal unmistakable patterns. Specific lighting approaches. Particular expressions he gravitates toward. Compositional choices that are distinctly his. These aren't random decisions - they're expressions of his aesthetic values, his unconscious perspective on what makes a portrait worth creating.
The difference is that photographers who engage consciously with their intent gain something powerful: creative direction. When you understand what drives your work, decisions become purposeful instead of random.
[Concrete example - storytelling mode]
Here’s what this looks like in practice.
Two photographers. Same family. Same general goal: “family portraits.” But how they approach it? Completely different planets.
Photographer A runs a tight 45-minute session — same shot list she’s used for the last four years.
Clients choose from one of three familiar locations.
She gives the same wardrobe tips to everyone: “neutral tones, no logos.”
She moves fast, hits the checklist, gets the smiling-at-the-camera shots, and calls it a day.
Technically fine. Emotionally vacant.
You could swap one family out for another and barely notice.
Photographer B slows way down. She asks questions.
What makes this family them?
She learns their kids are obsessed with bugs and always bring home rocks in their pockets. The parents fell in love hiking.
So they meet in a wooded trail near the family’s home.
They wear earth tones because it fits the vibe.
The shoot is timed for early morning — soft light, no crowds, no pressure.
There are snacks packed specifically for a mid-shoot break.
She’s not just capturing faces — she’s chasing moments. The flash of joy when the daughter finds a caterpillar. The way the dad crouches down without thinking. The look the mom gives him in that exact second.
Yes, she gets the “everyone smile at the camera” frame.
But even that feels cinematic — like a still from a story that’s still unfolding.
Every decision had a reason. A why.
And the work feels alive because of it.
That’s the difference.
Same subject. Same tools. Same general assignment.
But one photographer is ticking boxes.
The other is telling the truth.
[Broader cultural critique - more analytical]
Here's where it gets interesting: every photograph is fundamentally a decision, a choice, a subjective interpretation of reality filtered through human consciousness. You choose what to include, what to exclude. You decide when to press the shutter, when to wait. You determine what to emphasize through focus, lighting, composition.
But we've been sold this lie that images can somehow be objective - that a photograph simply captures reality exactly as it exists, free from human interpretation.
Your perspective is always present, shaping how you see, influencing what you notice, determining what feels worth capturing. The question is whether you're conscious of that perspective or just letting it run on autopilot.
[LED Volume story - more vivid]
Last year I was hired for this major commercial shoot in LA. We were working inside an LED Volume - think "The Mandalorian" technology, but for selling luxury car stereos. Massive curved wall of LED screens transforming a warehouse into a digital backlot.
My job was creating "authentic" images of a family naturally using the car's technology in this completely artificial environment. Two pristine vehicles, dozen crew members, client teams scrutinizing everything down to the water bottle color in the cup holder, and a digital sun frozen at 'late golden hour' on a 60-foot LED backdrop.
But here's what surprised me: even within all that manufactured chaos, genuine moments broke through. The child actors started giggling for real - completely unscripted joy. The woman playing the mother shot me this slight grin, acknowledging how ridiculous this elaborate production was, and somehow that self-aware smile made her look more natural than any direction could have achieved.
All the polished artifice faded into background noise. Despite being surrounded by millions of dollars of technology designed to simulate reality, something genuinely real happened.
That's what conscious intent does - it helps you recognize authenticity when it breaks through, even in the most artificial circumstances. Because you know what you're hunting for.
[Cultural observation - more passionate]
At its core, photography is a conversation. As photographers, we obsess over technical perfection, social media engagement, gear specs. But for viewers? None of that technical masturbation is the point.
They're searching for something they can connect with on a human level - something that validates their emotions, sparks joy, shifts their perspective just enough to make them think differently.
Look at the TikTok explosion. People were desperate for real, unfiltered content. Instagram had become this platform of carefully angled vacation photos and artisanal latte art. TikTok threw that polished performance out the window.
Videos shot directly in-app on basic phones consistently outperform highly produced content. People don't care if the lighting is perfect or the footage is smooth. They're drawn to authenticity like moths to flame. It might be rough, weird, sometimes terrible - but it feels real.
Turns out, humanity prefers a cracked window over a stained-glass filter.
The content that genuinely moves me? Stories that touch something deeper. The kid alone with a guitar and raw dreams. The grandfather doing stand-up for the first time at seventy-five. All the dog videos on the internet.
These creators aren't technically perfect, but they're intentionally authentic. They know why they're making what they're making, and that clarity of purpose cuts through all the noise.
[Technical/artistic insight - more contemplative]
Here's an uncomfortable truth: a technically perfect image can still be emotionally shallow. But an image that makes you feel something profound? That burns into memory forever.
Think about the photographs that have genuinely stuck with you. They're rarely technically flawless. More often, they're raw, messy, maybe imperfect - but absolutely brimming with conscious intent.
Eddie Adams' "Saigon Execution" from 1968 is slightly out of focus. The framing feels rushed, the background is cluttered. By conventional standards, it fails multiple technical criteria.
But Adams knew exactly what he was documenting - the casual brutality of war, the moment when humanity fractures. That clarity of purpose is what gives the image its devastating power. He wasn't just recording what happened - he was revealing a larger truth about violence and its consequences.
The technical imperfections don't matter. What matters is the unwavering intent behind the image.
[Practical application - more instructional]
When you know your why, every how becomes clearer. You're not just picking a lens - you're choosing intimacy over distance. You're not just adjusting depth of field - you're deciding what deserves focus and what can blur away. You're not just waiting for the right moment - you're hunting for the specific emotion that serves your larger purpose.
This is what separates conscious creation from unconscious button-pushing. Every technical decision becomes an expression of your intent rather than just following some predetermined formula.
Making purposeful visual decisions means constantly asking: "Does this element help communicate what I'm trying to say, or does it distract from the emotional core?"
It's never just about capturing what's in front of your lens - it's about actively curating reality in service of your specific vision. The hero of your image needs space to shine. Everything else should either support that story or get out of the way.
[Closing reflection - slower, more contemplative]
When every choice carries intention, your work will say what words never could.
[Pause, shift to Light Leak - more intimate, almost whispered]
Light Leak.
Intent isn't a mood. It's a muscle.
Most of us learned photography by asking how: How do I shoot this? How do I light it? How do I make it look "good"?
But rarely do we pause to ask: Why am I choosing this? Why this light, this crop, this color, this moment?
[Slight pause]
It's easier to chase tutorials and presets than to sit in that question. Because asking why means taking responsibility. It means standing behind the decision even when it's not trendy, clean, or algorithm-friendly. It means making a mess on purpose — and being okay with the discomfort of owning it.
This week's episode is about building that muscle. Not just learning to shoot — but learning to choose. To direct. To declare. To stand behind a photo not because it's perfect, but because it's yours.
[Soft outro]
Next week: the performance of authenticity. Spoiler — it's exhausting.
[Beat]
Go make something that makes you feel alive.
[Word count: ~2,450 words | Estimated runtime: 16-17 minutes at 150 WPM]
Think about the photographs that have genuinely stuck with you. They're rarely technically flawless. More often, they're raw, messy, but absolutely brimming with conscious intent.
Photojournalist Eddie Adams, in 1968, captured one of the most famous images of the Vietnam War - the very instant of an execution during the chaos of the Tet Offensive .
Most of you have seen this image. Slightly out of focus, rushed framing, cluttered background. By conventional standards, it fails multiple technical criteria.
But Adams knew exactly what he was documenting. A snub-nosed pistol already recoiling in an outstretched arm as the prisoner's face contorts from the force of a bullet entering his skull. To the left, a watching soldier grimaces in shock. Ballistic experts say the image captures the precise microsecond the bullet entered the man's head.
It's hard not to feel the same repulsion and guilt, knowing you're looking at the exact moment of death. This image galvanized American sentiment about the war's futility - not through technical perfection, but through unwavering intent.
There's no workshop to teach how to recreate that moment. No preset to capture that raw, terrible honesty. The how didn't matter. Intent was everything.
[Closing reflection - slower, more contemplative]
When every choice carries intention, your work will say what words never could.
[Pause, shift to Light Leak - more intimate, conversational]
Light Leak.
Intent isn't a mood. It's a muscle.
Most of us learned photography by asking how: How do I shoot this? How do I light it? How do I make it look good?
But rarely do we pause and ask: Why am I choosing this? Why this light? Why this crop? Why this color? Why this moment?
[Slight pause]
It's easier to chase tutorials than to sit with that question. And let's be honest - there's a lot of money in photography education teaching you the how. How to light like this person, how to create this effect, how to capture the entire cosmos and still have it in focus.
All those answers are out there on the internet waiting for you.
But when someone asks you why, you're gonna say "Well... it depends." It depends on what you're going for, what you're trying to communicate. There's no tutorial for that.
[More personal]
The hardest part about photography for me isn't taking the photo. Sometimes the hardest part is making the decisions - deciding what my intent will be. And I think intent is like a muscle. You have to develop that muscle of making choices, having direction, standing behind your work.
That's what this episode is about - building that muscle. Not just learning to shoot, but learning to choose. To direct. To declare. To stand behind a photo not because it's perfect, but because it's yours.
[Challenge section - direct but encouraging]
So here's this week's challenge: Look at the last serious photo you took - for a client, a test shoot, your portfolio. Don't cheat and pick your best one. Just the last one.
Ask yourself some honest questions: Why did you light it that way? Why did you crop it that way? Why did you process it the way you did?
For some of you, the answer might be "This is what I've always done" - learned from a tutorial, copied from an influencer, never really questioned it.
For others: "This is what's trendy right now" or "This is what the client wanted" or "I don't know how to do anything different."
[Pause]
Just sit with that. Don't change anything. Don't judge yourself. Just notice where your decisions are coming from.
And the next time you shoot, pause before you reach for that lens or set up that light. Ask: Is this what I want to do? Where is this instinct coming from?
Be a little self-critical. Analyze your choices. Think about the why behind the work.
Okay so let’s put a bow on this episode shall we.
Here is what we’ve learned (for you ADHD kids like me that just forgot everything you heard)
You can know every setting on your camera, shoot with $5K lenses, and still make work that feels like hospital food.
Because how is easy now.
Cameras do most of it for you.
But why — that’s the hard part.
That’s the part you can’t Google.
Intent isn’t some artsy bonus prize.
It’s the difference between ticking boxes and telling the damn truth.
And if you want to make work that feels alive — not just “clean” or “correct” — you’ve got to get brave enough to decide what you’re actually trying to say.
If that idea feels like a gut punch (or maybe a relief), you should probably be on the Field Notes list.
It’s a weekly behind-the-scenes letter for photographers who are tired of pretending this whole industry isn’t secretly ridiculous.
No fluff. No presets. No “top 5 poses your clients will love.”
Just honest, messy, creative thinking from someone who’s still figuring it out.
When you sign up, I’ll send you the first chapter of my book, Lessons From a Terrible Photographer — in both PDF and audio.
It’s part memoir, part creative survival guide, and part flame-thrower aimed at everything shallow, fake, and gear-obsessed in this industry.
Go to terriblephotographer.com, throw your email in, and I’ll send it your way.
And in the meantime — go make something that feels like you.
Even if it’s weird.
Especially if it’s weird.
Because perfect is boring. And perfect doesn’t last.
But honest?
Honest might just matter.
They learn to freeze motion and expose an image properly, make the background out of focus and suddenly — they’re a professional photographer.
I’ve met some who can’t even do that half the time and still charge clients a premium.
They hit the lowest possible bar for the craft, then plant a flag like they’ve conquered Everest.
It’s like hiking from the parking lot to base camp and calling it the summit.
But what if the fundamentals aren’t the finish line?
What if they’re not even the point?
Maybe asking “How do I take a good photo?” is the wrong question.
Maybe the real question — the one that actually matters — is messier.
And harder.
And way more interesting.