Most of us have experienced the quiet tyranny of the ‘masterpiece’ mandate—that exhausting belief that every press of the shutter must produce a perfect hero shot. We work hard to master the first element: the technical control of our cameras, light, and exposure. Then we add the second—a genuine artistic vision, where composition, balance, and the principles of design are applied thoughtfully and deliberately. Yet, even when both are present, something can still be missing. The image might be successful or even beautiful, but it doesn’t quite draw you in. It doesn’t leave a question hanging in the air or push the viewer’s imagination towards a next thought. That elusive quality—call it story, resonance, or simply the third element—is what separates a well-made photograph from one that stays with you. And here’s what I’ve come to believe: it rarely arrives in a single frame. It exists in the series.

Curation in Long-form Visual Storytelling

When images are arranged into a series, something fundamental changes. The individual frame is no longer expected to bear all the weight on its own. In long-form visual storytelling, a modest or quietly beautiful image — one that might seem unremarkable alone — finds its place within the larger rhythm. Its goal isn’t to surprise; it’s to breathe, to pace, to link what came before with what’s to come.

Photo essays showcase this beautifully. Not every shot needs to be a ‘breathtaking’ moment. When a series of photos are carefully arranged, something emerges — a perspective, a feeling, a narrative thread that none of the individual images could create alone. The collection as a whole gains that third element quality. A few quiet moments, gathered with purpose, become something that lingers.

Curation Part I – Culling (Selecting & Excluding)

High-volume shooting is straightforward; high-quality curation is genuinely difficult. You might return from a shoot with thousands of images, narrow them down to one hundred, and still face a challenge. To a viewer, one hundred images aren’t a story — they’re overwhelming. The message gets lost in the volume.

The true craft lies in what some might call the art of the cull. It’s about discovering the unifying element in your work and — this is the challenging part — removing even strong images when they don’t support the larger story. This is the moment your photographic voice begins to emerge. Not only through the colours you select or the contrast you establish during editing, but also in the silence of the frames you omit. What you choose not to show is just as expressive as what you do.

Practical tools like cataloguing and keywording in Lightroom help manage the chaos, but they’re part of a deeper process — the intentional, almost curatorial act of shaping a shoot into a clear path that the viewer can follow and connect with.

Curation Part II – Sequencing & Image Relationships

If culling is about exclusion — determining what is essential — then sequencing concerns relationships. It is the photographer’s deliberate choice of order, and that choice alters everything. The same ten images arranged differently can tell entirely new stories, evoke different emotional journeys, or even lead viewers to different conclusions. Sequencing is where the photographer’s influence is most noticeable.

A key part of good sequencing is understanding that not every strong image advances the story — and not every weak one should be removed. This is perhaps the most counterintuitive lesson in visual storytelling: narrative tension depends on the difficult moment, the frame where things aren’t falling into place, and where the outcome remains genuinely uncertain.

Consider a series of photographs capturing a building fire. Eight striking images of firefighters bringing a blaze under control might be visually compelling — but they don’t tell a story. The photo that truly stands out, the one that makes those final frames feel like a genuine reward, is the one most photographers might overlook: exhausted firefighters, soaked and resting, with the blaze still raging behind them. That moment of apparent failure is what gives the resolution its significance. Without it, the victory lacks its depth.

This principle goes well beyond dramatic events. A wedding, a colleague’s farewell, a school year, a family reunion — any story about people and time benefits from the same honesty. An engaging visual story doesn’t just highlight successes; it also shows what was overcome to reach them. That’s what makes a viewer feel something rather than just see something. Whether the story is dramatic or everyday, the principle still applies.

What Stories to Tell – Uncharted Visual Territory vs. What You Have Around You

There is a tendency in our craft to pursue uncharted visual territory — to believe that impact exists somewhere out there, waiting to be uncovered if only we travel far enough or find the right subject. However, scope doesn’t define meaning. A small patch of ground, approached with genuine curiosity and dedication, can hold as much narrative richness as a cross-continental journey. This could be called the 360 approach — examining a subject from every possible angle, through changing light, challenging weather, and the slow passage of seasons.

Whether you’re documenting a rodeo or watching the light shift across your backyard over a year, the core feeling comes from the same place: the act of return. Again and again, with fresh eyes and an open mind. It is that commitment — not the subject itself — that gives a work its depth.

Cameras as Meaning Makers

This year, I have approached visual storytelling as a practice to genuinely explore — not just to continue. In doing so, I’ve made a quiet discovery: I already do this. I gather a series of images rather than single frames. I revisit subjects over months and seasons. I regularly create slideshows and photobooks, selecting and sequencing images into narratives I want to share with others. What I hadn’t always done was hold onto the difficult frames — the ones where things weren’t working — but I now see how those images can be exactly what a story needs to breathe.

What strikes me most, looking back, is where the meaning has truly existed. It is not found in the pursuit of the masterpiece, but in the act of returning – to the subject, to the work, to the people the story involves. While the technically perfect shot can hold narrative or meaning, it is more often found in a series of photos. Meaning is held in the collaborative experience of watching or viewing a finished narrative together and recognizing something genuine within it. That shared moment of recognition — what might be called collaborative wonderment — may be the closest thing to the third element that I can point to.

Visual storytelling has become something I enjoy, and I imagine many of you are already involved in it too, maybe without even calling it that. I’d love to hear — what visual stories are you creating with your camera, and where are you finding the meaning within them?

Quotes to Inspire/Consider

“Photography for me is not looking, it’s feeling. If you can’t feel what you’re looking at, then you’re never going to get others to feel anything when they look at your pictures (Don McCullin).”

“Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still (Dorothea Lange).”

“Photography is a small voice, at best, but sometimes one photograph, or a group of them, can lure our sense of awareness (W. Eugene Smith).”

“If a photographer cares about the people before the lens and is compassionate, much is given. It is the photographer, not the camera, that is the instrument (Eve Arnold).”

“A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed (Ansel Adams).”

Listening to – Hollow Coves’ ‘Pictures,’ Roo Panes’ ‘A Message to Myself,’ Harry Chapin’s ‘W-O-L-D’,’ Van Morrison’s ‘Behind the Ritual,’ Bob Dylan’s ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie,’ and with the passing of Motorhead’s guitarist Phil Campbell, Motorhead’s version of Bowie’s ‘Heroes.’