Risky Business is Good Business

Let’s talk about mornings. Specific ones.

The ones you cannot forget and may go something like this.

Sun’s hiding behind the horizon waiting for its big break.

It was a rough night.

You had to talk yourself into falling asleep in the first place, the pillow hard, the mattress hard, echoing your tension.

While sleeping you dipped in and out of consciousness, floating on a sea of gentle swells, feeling a bit seasick, sabotaged by the occasional runaway wave of worry.

Your brain woke up before your body and yelled across the tundra of your cells, “Wake the f’ up. We’ve got things to do.”

A superhighway of speeding chemicals between your brain and your stomach releases and your gut is quivering like a wet cat.

These are the mornings of job interviews, portfolio reviews, gallery openings, peer reviews, an audition, presentations, the day you leave your home for college the first time. Nothing like it.

Can’t live with them and you are certainly not alive if you are living without them.

I’ve never deeply appreciated these pivotal life moments. Rather, I ignored them and blazed forward.

I’ve been missing the details that want to pepper everything that I create; that want to be felt.

Remember Andrea Gibson’s Tincture from Issue Four?

The stars miss out on goosebumps, can't fathom the heat of shame.

But we can. We live in these bodies that tremble and heal and feel everything.

That’s exactly why we take risks, to feel alive, despite fear and potential loss.

Take risks. Plenty, plenty of risks.

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Let’s start with Interior Design.

It's 1927.

You're standing in your drawing room at 213 King's Road, London, a terraced house built in 1720, holding a paintbrush.

Your neighbor’s house and every other interior, including your wealthy client’s homes, looks like this:

But you're about to paint, dip, slather, lacquer, cement everything (walls, furniture, floors, even the piano) all in brilliant, luminous whites.

In April 1927, at midnight, hosting a party at her house after the opening of her husband Somerset Maugham’s play “The Constant Wife”, Syrie (“SIR-ee-uh”) unveiled “The White Room.”

I've never taken many chances when hosting parties at my house, decidedly not any that shook interior design on both sides of the Atlantic.

Wait! Did I post the wrong photo? Nope. It was a huge exception and contrast to the vernacular at that time. We may be used to seeing interiors like this in Miami, in movies, what we have designated as Hollywood Regency.

But Syrie cast the spell clear across the Atlantic in 1927, with no guarantee that it would work. How did she do it?

Syrie's decision to take a risk started 5 years before at 42. Most people her age at that time and her status were settling in to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

While her writer husband disapproved, she apprenticed at a decorating firm, learning furniture restoration and trompe l'oeil like a student half her age.

Who does that?

Who starts over completely in their forties, borrowing £400 from friends to open an interior design shop on Baker Street when your husband thinks you're making a mistake? A risk tolerant, risk-welcoming person.

The shop was a sensation. Five years later she unveiled the white room with features like:

Her Inspiration

I can’t help but notice that Syrie’s persona does not scream “rebel” to me. The Spirit of Transformation comes in all forms.

Syrie's risk, although profound, was a playful, euphoric rebellion against Victorian stuffiness.

What if the risk is so “risky” that before publishing you sought assurance from an FBI agent that the agency wouldn't pursue you, consulted with a psychologist to ensure all implications to your subjects were understood, and gave veto power to subjects over which images could be published?

High stakes.

From 1985 to 1994, Sally Mann photographed her three children - Emmett, Jessie, and Virginia - at their family's remote summer cabin in the Shenandoah Valley.

Mann chose an antique 8x10 inch view camera with older lenses, the kind of massive, unwieldy beast that requires tripods, dark cloths, and preparation.

By the late 1990s, Mann pushed even further into the past, using the collodion wet-plate process, a laborious nineteenth-century technique that's akin to slow torture when photographing kids.

You coat a glass plate with syrupy collodion, dip it in silver salts, load it into the camera, expose it, and develop it all within minutes before the collodion dries.

Typically, one mistake and you start over.

Mann embraced the accidents. She prayed to what she called the "angel of uncertainty," believing that "aesthetic luck is just the ability to exploit accidents."

She was channeling masters like Julia Margaret Cameron and Edward Weston, using their luminous, detailed black-and-white expertise to explore mortality, family dynamics, intimacy, injury, and sexuality with unflinching psychological honesty.

Compositionally, Mann's work is perfection and she uses classical techniques in service to something new.

When Mann published “Immediate Family” in 1992, she faced accusations of child pornography and obscenity charges. Her work was censored and removed from exhibitions. Her abilities as a mother and artist were publicly scrutinized and she risked being ostracized from her community.

Despite the controversy, “Immediate Family” is now considered one of the most important photographic works of the late 20th century. Mann's willingness to explore taboo subjects with artistic integrity opened new conversations about childhood, family, and the boundaries of art.

Mann chose deeply personal, potentially explosive subject matter over safe, commercially viable work.

She risked everything - career, reputation, family peace - to create art that felt essential to her.

The weirder and more specific your thing, the more devoted fan base you will build and ultimately the more you can charge for it.

Why Niche Feels Risky:

If You’re Devoted to Your Niche, You’ll Get Back in Spades

Syrie's Monopoly: Who else could deliver cement-dipped curtains and luminous lacquer techniques other than Syrie? She was the only supplier of something wealthy clients desperately wanted.

Mann's Family Portrait Mastery: Could another photographer create something like Immediate Family? Technically, yes. But would they risk everything - career, reputation, family peace - to photograph their own children with such unflinching honesty? Most likely not.

The Economics of Irreplaceable:

When you go deep into your specific weird thing, you stop competing in the general market and essentially build an economic moat.

You’re competing with nobody. It’s a calculated risk that pays.

QUICK FIX: To determine if the risk you are considering taking is the right one ask yourself these questions.

HIGH AMP FIX:

1. Body’s Intuition: Sit quietly and think about the potential risk

Notice: Does your body expand or contract?

2. Energy Audit: Meditate on the risk for 3-5 minutes

Notice: Does thinking about it drain or energize you?

3. Coincidences: As we’ve discussed in many previous issues

Notice: Follow the coincidences and pay attention

4. Purpose:

Notice: Does this risk serve your deeper creative mission? Or is it ego/money/validation?

Sally Mann has a new book coming out on Sept. 9, 2025.

Here are a few reviews:

“The much-anticipated new book by artist and New York Times bestselling author Sally Mann about the challenges and transcendent pleasures of the creative process

"Erudite, frank, and funny." --Amor Towles, bestselling author of A Gentleman in Moscow and The Lincoln Highway”

You can preorder below.

It’s bit harder to find copies of her “Immediate Family”. I have a few leads that I will post when I get them. Same goes for Syrie Maugham! 🤍

Mann’s 2016 memoir “Hold Still: A Memoir with Photographs” is available here.

This National Book Award finalist is a revealing and beautifully written memoir and family history from acclaimed photographer Sally Mann.