For me and other passionate photographers, these "lucky snapshot" comments are pretty offensive. "Lucky snapshots" are taken by people whose photographic experience is limited to what they shoot on disposable cameras while they're on holiday once a year.

It dismisses the time and effort some of us put in to produce something that transcends "lucky snapshots". It has zero to do with how much money we've spent on equipment and everything to do with how we value our work and how tightly it's woven into the fabric of our lives.

I like to think that I make my own luck, and that my perseverance, passion and effort determine the success of my images. I shoot an average of 2500 images per month. Am I lucky that I got a great sunrise shot when the clouds were just so? Well, yeah, but I was responsible for *making* that luck when I set the alarm for 4:30 am, crawled into my longjohns, and showed up at that spot every single morning for two weeks straight in the hope of capturing that single "lucky shot." I make that luck by lugging my camera with me wherever I go, and by habitually keeping a fresh card (or film) in it and my batteries charged so that it's primed and ready when the next "lucky shot" presents itself. I don't just happen to be there when the sun peeks over the horizon --- I know the exact minute that dawn will break and the sun will rise because I am rarely more than an arm's length from my Tidelog.

One of Ansel Adams' most famous images, "Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico" is a brilliant example of making your own luck. Sure, he was in the right place at the right time, but it was far from "some lucky snapshot that came out just right" -- behind it were many years of experience and intimate familiarity with his equipment.

Story goes that he had been driving all day across New Mexico, was very tired, and was passing this spot just as the moon was rising and the setting sun was casting a glow on the graveyard. He pulls off to the side of the road, gravel spinning and crunching, leaps out of his pickup, pulls out his equipment, and sets up. Doesn't have time to pull out the light meter and take readings, so he makes his best guess, shoots, and starts loading the second plate --- but in that moment, he loses the light, and has to hope like heck the single shot he took came out. Which of course, it did, in spectacular fashion.

Another famous photographer, Galen Rowell, produced a body of work notable for images that showcased the sun or moon in the just the right place, with trees casting shadows that happen to leave the subject framed in extraordinary lighting. At first glance, you might think, wow, he's lucky -- the sun was rising at just the right angle between the branches of this amazing tree, or the clouds were aglow in a phenomenal display of light ... but in fact, the bulk of his images were shots that he scouted over the course of many years, and he often returned annually to specific spots in an attempt to capture magic. Rowell's meticulous planning and location scouting was nearly as important as his innate talent in capturing these images --- his lucky shots were planned and executed over the span of many years.

This may sound like it bolsters the argument that these men are talented while the rest of us are just lucky when we get the occasional nice shot, but I submit that any of us who is dedicated to the art, takes chances, puts in the time and effort to learn more, and exhibits the passion of a Rowell or an Adams is one whose portfolio does not simply consist of "lucky snapshots" worthy of giveaways.

Perhaps this is true of the casual hobbyist who takes nothing but snapshots (the kind who takes a day trip to Yosemite, going from one designated view spot to another, snapping off a couple of Kodak moments before getting back in the Shuttle for the next vista point), but it's hardly true of many of the dedicated photographers I know.

I've always felt singularly responsible for my own fate. To me, luck is an illusion propagated by those who lack the ambition to create their own good fortune, who seek to attribute their failures to bad luck and rivals' successes to good luck.

I prefer to be proactive, to get out there and shoot and be ready, eyes open, when good luck smiles my way. You can be certain that I won't be sitting in the Barcolounger, fingers clenched around the remote control, waiting for the Publisher's Clearing House van to pull into my driveway. If Ed and Dick ever do show up, I won't be home --- I'll be on a hilltop watching the sun descend into the ocean, shutter clicking a gentle cadence until I'm consumed by the night.

* Here were the original posts to which the above was a response: