You know, something I’ve learned over the years—something that becomes clearer the more time I spend with a camera in hand—is that photography is just as much about relationships as it is about light, shadow, and subject matter. Not just relationships with the people in front of the lens, but with the communities we enter, the land we stand on, and the cultures we interact with.
And one word that keeps coming up, quietly but persistently, is permission.
At some point, every photographer—whether they’re serious, part-time, or just starting out—is going to face the question: Should I ask?
Now, in a legal sense—especially in the United States—the rules are fairly straightforward. If you’re in a public place, you can usually photograph what you can see. That might mean a field, a storefront, someone walking on a sidewalk, even private property if it’s visible from a public vantage point.
But laws don’t tell the whole story. They rarely do. Because while you may have the right to take the picture, that doesn’t always mean it’s right to take it.
And here’s where things start to get interesting—because permission in photography is rarely just about legal boundaries. It often has more to do with trust, respect, and culture. Let me tell you about a place that makes this point very clear: Amish Country in Central Ohio.
On the surface, Amish Country is a photographer’s dream. Rolling hills, open skies, barns, buggies, handcrafted fences, slow moments in motion. And naturally, people want to photograph it all. But when you arrive, it doesn’t take long to sense that you need to tread lightly—especially when it comes to photographing the Amish themselves.
You see, in the Amish worldview, photography can be seen as self-focused—something that elevates the individual above the community. In many Amish homes, you won’t find portraits. Not because they don’t care about family, but because they care so deeply about humility. For some, photos are even viewed as graven images—something their beliefs explicitly warn against.
This means that even though you could stand on a public street and legally photograph an Amish person walking by, doing so might violate something much more meaningful than law—it might violate a personal or spiritual boundary that you don’t fully understand unless you ask.
Some Amish folks may be open to photos taken from behind or with their faces obscured. Others may ask that no photos be taken at all. And then there are some who might confront you, ask you to delete the image, or even destroy the film—because to them, it’s not just an image. It’s a statement. It’s a disruption of something sacred.
And that brings me to a bigger point. Permission is cultural.
What’s normal in one part of the country—or even one part of a county—might not fly in another. In Holmes County, Ohio, you learn that fast. But it’s true everywhere.
You might be in a rural town where a camera aimed at a barn makes someone think you’re scouting the place for something other than photography. Or maybe you’re just trying to capture the soft light over a field of cattle, and someone assumes you’re an activist looking to stir up trouble. People react based on what they’ve experienced, and not everyone has had positive experiences with a camera.
So it’s not just about who you’re photographing. It’s about where you are, how you approach it, and why you’re there in the first place.
Now, this doesn’t mean we have to avoid photography in sensitive areas or communities. But it does mean we need to listen first, understand second, and shoot third.
Sometimes, just introducing yourself makes all the difference. A quick, honest explanation—“I love the way the light falls across your field” or “Your storefront caught my eye and I’d love to make a photo”—can soften even the most skeptical onlooker. When people know you’re not there to exploit them or misrepresent them, they’re often more open than you’d expect.
And if they say no? That’s okay, too. Because one of the most respectful things a photographer can do is put the camera down when someone asks. That builds a kind of credibility. A quiet, unspoken bond that might earn you a future yes, or at the very least, a smile and a wave the next time you’re nearby.
But more than anything, it lets you leave the scene knowing you did the ethical thing. You didn’t just take a picture—you asked to tell a story. And that’s a subtle but powerful difference.
There’s also something unexpected that can happen when you do get permission. People open up. They offer context. They might show you something you wouldn’t have seen otherwise—a handmade item, a hidden corner of their property, a story behind the thing you wanted to photograph. You go from being a stranger with a lens to being part of the moment.
And that, in my view, is what photography at its best should always aim for. Not just documentation. Not just image-making. But connection.
So the next time you’re out—whether you’re walking the streets of a new city or exploring a remote countryside—carry more than just your camera. Carry awareness. Carry humility. Carry the courage to ask.
And remember, the photograph you don’t take might be just as important as the one you do.
Thanks for joining me today.
I’ll be back soon with more reflections from behind the lens. Until then, stay curious, stay kind, and as always—go and enjoy the beauty of God’s creation through your lens.
