There's this moment that happens sometimes when I'm out shooting in Japan. The light hits just right, my breath quiets, and suddenly I'm not thinking about composition rules or what people might like on Instagram. I'm just... there. Present. Seeing.

That's when the best photographs happen.

Last month, I was listening to Rick Rubin talk about his creative process, and something clicked. Here's a guy who's produced everyone from Johnny Cash to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and his philosophy on creativity mirrors something I've been learning through Japanese aesthetics for years.

Today, I want to share five lessons from Rubin that completely changed how I approach photography—and maybe how you create anything.

Lesson 1: Look Inward, Not Outward

Rubin says something profound: "I don't look at the outside very much. I look inward and try to focus on what do I feel, what am I seeing."

Here's what that looks like in practice.

I used to obsess over what was trending—golden hour portraits, moody presets, whatever was getting likes. I'd see a landscape and immediately think: 'Would this do well?' That question killed more creative moments than bad weather ever did.

Now, when I'm in Kamakura or even just the parks here in Buffalo, I ask different questions: What draws my eye? What feeling is this place giving me? What would I photograph if no one ever saw it?

There's a Japanese concept called jibun rashisa—being true to your authentic self. In photography, this means your unique perspective is your greatest asset. The way YOU see that maple leaf, that snow-covered path, that moment of light—that's irreplaceable.

Your exercise: Next time you shoot, before you lift the camera, close your eyes. Take three breaths. Ask yourself: "What am I actually drawn to here?" Not what should make a good photo. What genuinely moves you.

That's your compass.

Lesson 2: Wabi-Sabi—Imperfection Is Where the Soul Lives

Rubin talks about how "the imperfections are what makes us human, what makes us what we are."

This is wabi-sabi at its core—the Japanese aesthetic philosophy that finds beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness.

When I first got serious about photography, every image had to be technically flawless. Tack sharp, perfectly exposed, symmetrically composed. I'd delete anything that didn't meet these standards.

But then I started studying wabi-sabi more deeply. Those tea bowls with their irregular glazes and asymmetrical forms. Those gardens with moss-covered stones and weathered wood. That philosophy that celebrates the cracked, the faded, the incomplete—not despite these qualities, but because of them.

This photograph—there's motion blur in the falling leaves, the exposure is uneven, there's a bare branch cutting through the frame in an 'awkward' way. By conventional standards, it's imperfect.

But there's something alive here. Something that captures the transient nature of that moment—the mujō, the impermanence that wabi-sabi embraces.

Rubin would say that's because it's genuine. It's not trying to be anything other than what it is.

In my book The Quiet Lens, I spend an entire chapter exploring how wabi-sabi can transform your photography. Because once you understand that a weathered fence tells a deeper story than a pristine one, that soft focus can convey feeling more powerfully than clinical sharpness, that the rust and decay and passage of time ARE the beauty—your whole approach shifts.

The Japanese don't chase perfection the way we do in the West. They have kansei—completion or fulfillment—which is about something being wholly itself, cracks and all.

Your practice: This week, photograph something weathered, worn, or decaying. A rusted gate. Peeling paint. Fallen leaves. Don't fix it in editing. Let the impermanence speak. This is exactly the kind of practice I teach in my course Master the Quiet Lens—learning to see the extraordinary in what others overlook.

Lesson 3: Push the Boundaries or Stay Home

Here's where Rubin gets interesting. He says: "I want it because it's louder, quieter, softer, harder—it's pushing some boundary."

In photography, the middle of the road is comfortable. Standard compositions. Safe colors. Expected moments.

But look at these two approaches to photographing the same autumn scene. This one—pretty, balanced, exactly what you'd expect. This one—pushed the shadows, embraced the harsh light, got uncomfortably close to emphasize texture over scene.

Which one makes you lean in?

I learned this shooting in Hokkaido last winter. The "good" photos were fine. But the ones where I shot directly into the sun, where I let the snow blow out to pure white, where I broke rules I'd spent years following—those are the ones that captured what that frozen landscape actually felt like.

There's a Japanese term, shinki ippan—'divine technique, everyday essence.' It's about bringing extraordinary skill to ordinary moments. But here's the thing: you can't develop extraordinary skill by playing it safe.

Your challenge: Pick one rule you always follow. This week, deliberately break it. Shoot in "bad" light. Blow out the highlights on purpose. Get "too close." See what happens when you push past comfortable.

Lesson 4: You're Not Creating for the Algorithm

This one's tough. Rubin says: "If I like it, that doesn't mean anything... As an artist, if you like it, that's all of the value."

Let me tell you about the photo that taught me this.

I spent three hours hiking before dawn to capture this moment—first light filtering through fog in a quiet grove. Subtle. Contemplative. A study in ma—negative space and silence. I loved this image. Loved it.

Posted it thinking it would resonate.

Seventeen likes.

Meanwhile, a vibrant sunset shot I barely thought about from the same morning—bright orange and pink, high contrast, the kind of thing Instagram's algorithm loves—got hundreds of likes and comments.

And here's the thing: Instagram will always promote the bright and happy. The saturated sunsets. The vibrant colors. The instantly gratifying. That's what the algorithm is designed to push.

But the deep work? The contemplative image that asks you to sit with it? The photograph that whispers instead of shouts? That gets buried.

Old me would have internalized this. Would have thought: "Guess people want sunsets. Better give them more sunsets."

But Rubin's right—other people liking your work is completely outside your control. It tells you nothing about the value of what you created. The metrics don't matter. The algorithm doesn't matter.

In Zen practice, there's this idea of mushotoku—'without gaining mind.' You do the practice not for results, but because the practice itself is the point.

Same with creative work. You make the photograph because making it is the offering. Because getting up at 4 AM to catch that light, because seeing that moment of quiet beauty—that's the devotion.

If you're always chasing what Instagram promotes, you'll end up making the same photo everyone else makes. Bright. Happy. Surface-level. There's nothing wrong with those images, but if that's not what speaks to your soul, why are you making them?

Your mindset shift: Before you share your next image, sit with it first. Really look at it. Ask: "Do I love this?" Not "Will this perform well?" If you love it, that's success. Everything after that is just noise.

The deep work matters, even when—especially when—it doesn't get the likes.

Lesson 5: Follow the Thread, Even When It Doesn't Make Sense

Rubin talks about "the obsessive nature of being really into something... once you start down a thread, you just keep pulling forever if you're interested."

This is about going deep instead of wide.

I could chase every photography trend. Every new preset pack. Every technique that's hot right now.

Instead, I've spent years pulling on one thread: how do I capture the feeling of ma—that Japanese concept of negative space, of the interval between things? How do you photograph silence? How do you show the space between breaths?

Some days this feels ridiculous. Why am I spending hours trying to capture emptiness?

But Rubin would say—and Japanese philosophy would agree—that this obsession, this deep dive into one question, is where real artistic development happens.

There's a Japanese saying: Ishi no ue ni mo san nen—'Even on a rock, sit for three years.' It means mastery requires patience and sustained focus.

Look at how my understanding of negative space has evolved over just these past two years. This isn't about getting good faster. It's about getting genuinely deep.

Your commitment: Pick one concept, one question, one thread in your photography. Commit to exploring it for the next six months. Not bouncing around. Just pulling that thread. See where it leads.

Bringing It Together

Here's what Rick Rubin and Japanese philosophy both understand: creativity isn't about the outcome. It's about the devotion.

Look inward, not at what others want. Embrace wabi-sabi—find beauty in the imperfect and impermanent. Push boundaries that make you uncomfortable. Create for yourself first—maybe only—and don't let the algorithm dictate your vision. And when you find something that fascinates you, pull that thread obsessively.

In Zen, they talk about shoshin—beginner's mind. Always fresh, always curious, never assuming you've arrived.

That's the creative life. Not climbing to some summit where you finally 'make it.' Just walking the path because the path itself is the point.

Next time you're out with your camera, try this: forget everything you think you know about what makes a good photograph. Just... see. Feel. Follow what draws you, even if—especially if—it doesn't make sense.

That's where your real work begins.

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If you want to go deeper into this approach to photography through Japanese aesthetics like wabi-sabi and ma, I explore these concepts extensively in my book The Quiet Lens. And if you want hands-on guidance in practicing this contemplative approach, my course Master the Quiet Lens walks you through exercises exactly like the ones I mentioned today.