Last week, an influencer reached out to me, asking if she could use my studio for free for two hours. In return, she’d give me a mention on her social media—her way of offering “great exposure.” I run a small local photography studio in Union Square, New York, so I asked her how many of her followers were actually based in Manhattan. She didn’t know. I have no use for visibility in places like India or Australia—those people will never be my clients. Since I’m always on the lookout for new faces to photograph, I countered with an offer: she could use the studio for two hours if she modeled for me for two hours in return. You’d think that was a fair deal. I never heard back from her.

You’ve heard it before: “We can’t offer compensation, but it’ll be amazing exposure for you.” But let’s be honest—exposure doesn’t pay the bills, buy new gear, or justify the time and effort put into creating great work.

The promise of exposure is one of the biggest falsehoods in the creative industry. It preys on photographers eager to build their portfolios or get their name out there. But in most cases, exposure is a mirage—a vague, unquantifiable benefit that rarely leads to tangible opportunities. If an organization truly values your work, they should be willing to compensate you for it.

Of course, there are exceptions. Sometimes, working for free can make sense—if it’s a personal passion project, a cause you deeply believe in, or a strategic collaboration that genuinely benefits you. But these should be deliberate choices, not something you’re pressured into accepting under the illusion of exposure.

Before the internet, there were magazines and newspapers. If you wanted to see a photo or read an article, you had to buy a magazine or newspaper. There was a lot of money going around, and top photographers were paid top dollar. Then the internet arrived, and suddenly, everyone assumed content should be free.

What followed was a steady decline in payments, turning the industry into a race to the bottom.

And it wasn’t just photography—everyone in the creative industry suffered. Musicians who once sold albums now had to settle for pennies per stream. Writers who made a living through magazines and books saw their work devalued by blogs and free content. Graphic designers were undercut by cheap online templates, and illustrators watched as AI tools took over their commissions. The internet democratized creativity, but it also stripped it of its worth. Suddenly, everyone expected art for free—or for exposure. Platforms like Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok made it easier than ever to share creative work, but harder than ever to get paid for it.

With photography becoming increasingly devalued, many talented photographers struggle to sustain a career. The average lifespan of a new photography business is shockingly short—many leave after just two or three years. They don’t get the chance to build long-term experience, refine their craft, or establish a loyal client base. Instead, they burn out, unable to compete with the flood of free content and unpaid gigs disguised as “opportunities.” The result? A revolving door of photographers and an industry that loses skilled professionals before they ever reach their full potential.

I wish there were a cryptocurrency called Exposure. That way, creatives could actually convert “Exposure” into real money when it’s offered as payment.

So, next time someone offers you “exposure,” ask yourself: Who really benefits from this arrangement? If the answer isn’t you, it’s time to walk away.

Photography critiques are supposed to help us grow. That’s what everyone says. Post your work, get feedback, and improve. But what if the opposite is true? 

What if critiques are actually harming your photography?

Here’s the problem: critiques push you toward conformity. Whether it’s a panel of judges, an online forum, or a well-meaning friend, feedback is often laced with personal bias. Someone tells you the lighting is wrong because it’s not what they would have done. Another says the composition is weak because it doesn’t follow a rule. Suddenly, you start questioning your instincts. The photo that once spoke to you now seems flawed. Why? Because someone else said so.

Photography isn’t about pleasing a crowd. The best images—the ones that last—aren’t born from committee approval. They come from instinct, emotion, and risk-taking. Yet, critiques push you in the opposite direction. They train you to seek validation rather than expression. You start shooting with the critic’s voice in your head, worrying about technical perfection instead of raw impact. And in that process, something dies: your personal vision.

The irony? Many of the photographers we admire today would have been torn apart in a modern critique session. Think about the grain in Robert Capa’s war images. The blur in Saul Leiter’s street photography. The high contrast of Daido Moriyama’s work. By conventional critique standards, these are “mistakes.” But in reality, they are defining choices that make the work unforgettable.

Critiques don’t make you better—they make you safer. They mold you into an average photographer, one who knows all the rules and follows them well. But safe photography is forgettable photography. If you want to grow, forget about critique. Trust your instincts, experiment relentlessly, and let your work evolve on your terms. Because in the end, the only opinion that truly matters is yours.

This issue ties into a larger problem with modern photo culture. We live in an era where social media algorithms and online engagement dictate what is seen and valued. The photos that get the most likes aren’t necessarily the most compelling—they’re often the most digestible, the ones that fit neatly into an existing trend. This creates an echo chamber where originality takes a back seat to popularity, and where photographers feel pressured to shoot what they know will perform well rather than what truly moves them.

A photographer’s personal photo culture doesn’t form in isolation. It’s shaped by what they consume, the photographers they admire, and the creative influences they surround themselves with. From early inspirations in books or exhibitions to the social media feeds they scroll through daily, all of these elements contribute to their artistic perspective. Over time, these inputs influence what they consider “good” photography—sometimes without realizing it. The danger is that if most of these influences come from mainstream, critique-driven spaces, it can limit rather than expand creative thinking.

As a result, photography is becoming increasingly homogenized. The obsession with perfection, technical mastery, and social approval stifles the raw, imperfect, and deeply personal elements that make images powerful. The more we cater to critique and approval, the less room we leave for experimentation, failure, and artistic breakthroughs. Photography culture should be about pushing boundaries, not reinforcing them.