I was recently asked if I had any regrets in life. I thought to myself: Where do I begin? I mean, I do, but I try to focus on what’s ahead and not necessarily what lives in the past. However, I have had career regrets that I will share to help you avoid having the same “wish-I-hadn’t-done-that” feeling. 

Here’s something about photography I wish I had known sooner: photography is wonderful on its own, but when you add other artistic disciplines, it can become so much more. I spent the first 25 years of my career focused entirely on photography. Making pictures was my entire life. I had few hobbies and all my friends were also involved in photography. Although intense focus is required to succeed, I was limited in my range. I would have added nothing to a conversation had you asked me about design, illustration, writing, poetry, or contemporary art.

In 2010, I stepped away from full-time photography and began working part-time for Blurb. Through my Blurb-related duties and travels, I met a diverse range of creative professionals. Many kinds of creative people make books with Blurb. Suddenly, I jumped from all things photography to all things artistic, and I watched as newfound friends moved from one genre to another, collaborating and co-producing works of all kinds.

I watched poets join with photographers, artists work with writers, and street artists work with filmmakers to preserve their fleeting works. I witnessed the power of creative cross-pollination. Not only did the artists feed off one another, but their teamwork produced a higher quality of work together than if they had worked alone. One discipline complemented the other.

In addition, the artists shared their audiences. Instead of one person attempting to connect with their (same old) audience, they were able to provide exposure to their co-collaborators and vice versa. One audience became two or three or more. Watching these cross-promotional adventures made me rethink my own work and prompted me to begin cross-pollination. I reached out to partner with fellow photographers, began working with designers, and even created a separate creative community called AG23, which merged two brands, held events in multiple cities, and printed a magazine.

One of the most meaningful cross-disciplinary collaborations I’ve done is the book I did with my mother. My mother was a tough woman who spent much of her time in the alpha-male world of ranching and farming. But she also had a soft side which manifested through poetry. She was content to write her poems and share them only sparingly with a few friends here and there. She never felt the need to do more with the work. Several years ago, I asked her for her best twenty-five poems. 

“That’s impossible,” she said.
“No,” I replied. “That’s called editing.”

I badgered her for months. Finally, she delivered her poems, and I casually told her I’d have a look. Behind the scenes, I had secretly began to build a book, combining her poems with my photographs. This experience was intensely satisfying because it made me look at my work in new ways and gave me a newfound appreciation of how my mother viewed the world.

A few weeks later, the book Inertia became real after I uploaded the file and hit print. I received the first copy, made a few corrections and design changes, and then uploaded a second version. Once I had the finished book, I quietly placed it on my mother’s coffee table and then sat back and waited.

I watched from across the room as my mother spotted the book. She never looked at me or asked where the book came from, but suddenly her face went from impartial to bewildered.

“Wait, these are MY poems,” she said.
“Yes, they are,” I replied.
“But I don’t understand,” she said. “This is a REAL book and these are MY poems.” 

To say she was pleased doesn’t come close to describing what this book meant to her. The book gave her validation in a way she had never experienced before.

One of my next collaborations was with the artist Michael Napper. Michael is a friend and someone I have admired for decades. Michael can paint, draw, sketch, photograph, and build. I am in awe of his creative abilities. Because we are friends, I thought I had the chance to propose an idea without asking him first. So, I designed half of an 8×10-inch Blurb trade book. I created the cover and the title and added imagery to roughly half of the internal pages. And then I invited him to coffee.

As we sat together, I slowly slid the book across the table. 

“What’s that?” he asked.
“Take a look,” I said. 

The title was What Michael Thinks and the foreword was written to him. The images inside each had some tangential relationship to Michael; the general message was “I’ve done half of this book, now it’s time for you to do the rest.” He smiled and started laughing. We parted ways and I heard nothing for several months. 

Then, one day, a box appeared with the finished collaboration inside. Michael, using photographs, charcoal drawings, paintings, sketches, and more had turned the book into an art piece. An edition-of-one and totally unique.

When I started my career in the late 1980s, you could easily consider the practice of photography on its own as the main conversation. Today, we live in a different world. A world inundated with photography and visuals in general. When the world changes, we adapt. Photography now is often more powerful when it plays a smaller role as part of a larger conversation. Adding elements or cross-pollinating your work can allow you to showcase your efforts in a way that transcends your immediate circles, audience, or industry and brings a wider world into a perspective of what you deem important and worthy of attention.

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Dan Milnor is a professional photographer, author, and Blurb’s creative ambassador. His photography and bookmaking advice help creators of every kind realize their creative potential. Ready to turn your photography into a photo book? Join us at Blurb.