The Hidden Cost of a Photographic Print

Glacier d’Argentière, Chamonix-Mont-Blanc

In an age where smartphone cameras churn out thousands of images daily and the word “photography” evokes a sense of effortless ubiquity, the reality of crafting a single, high-quality photograph as a work of art is often misunderstood. The assumption that photography is inexpensive or simple belies the meticulous labor, costly materials, and sheer time investment required to produce something extraordinary. Far from a casual snap, a photograph can represent a painstaking journey—one that, for many artists like myself, operates at a financial loss despite its perceived “reasonableness.”

Consider the raw economics of the craft. A single roll of film can cost anywhere from $12 to $20 CAD, and depending on the camera, it yields only 4 to 12 shots. Compare that to the infinite clicks of a digital device, and the scarcity of each frame becomes apparent. Every shutter press is a calculated risk, with a success rate for a truly compelling composition hovering around 10%. Unlike a painter, who can manipulate their canvas like a human Photoshop, a photographer is tethered to reality—bound by light, timing, and the unpredictable whims of the world. The composition must be perfected in the moment, not conjured after the fact.

For my ongoing series of mountain images, I dedicated weeks to the effort for a single image, a process that began long before even the first shutter click. Scouting the area was essential to framing the scene just right—a task far more demanding than a painter’s freedom to adjust a landscape’s composition at will. In the mountains, breathtaking vistas surround you, but translating their beauty and majesty into a two-dimensional piece of art requires patience, skill, and an exacting point of view that can take immense time and effort to locate. For one single composition, I returned to the same location six times. Each trip involved hiking up 2,000 meters of vertical on touring skis with 20 kilograms of photo equipment on my back—cameras, lenses, tripod, and film. Setting up the camera was its own ordeal: removing the film back and attaching a glass plate so dim it demanded a dark cloth to block out all light just to see the image, all while working in subfreezing temperatures. The first five times, I waited hours in the cold only for the sky to cloud up or the sunset to vanish, switching off like the flick of a light bulb. On the sixth visit, however, everything fell into place, and I was rewarded with an intense Venus Belt—a fleeting, ethereal glow just before darkness sets in, a moment many of my images aim to preserve. With my prize image secured, I began the sketchy descent back to the valley in total darkness, navigating crevasses and ice with the 20-kilogram pack severely hindering my ability to ski. The small headlamp cast a narrow beam, creating a nausea-inducing tunnel vision effect that drastically slowed my pace as I carefully picked my way downhill through treacherous terrain, a challenging end to the day that stretched close to midnight. Weeks later back in the studio, I developed all the films myself praying for all the hard had paid off, a hands-on process requiring precision and patience. To ensure the highest quality, I typically opt to scan my negatives on a $75,000 drum scanner, with each scan costing $125 to transform fragile negatives into digital files that capture every nuance of texture and tone.

The Freedom Convoy Exhibit

The printing process is equally exacting. I modified an Epson printer, stripping out its standard color cartridges and installing ten shades of pure carbon inks—hand-produced in Vermont at a premium price. These archival inks ensure longevity and depth, but they come with a catch: the printer’s head clogs every other day, forcing me to flush ounces of this costly ink just to keep it operational. The prints themselves are then framed by hand, with small works encased behind anti-reflective museum glass—often more expensive than the frame itself—and larger pieces cold-mounted onto aluminum plaques for stability and resistance to yellowing. These choices elevate the final product but balloon the material costs far beyond what many might imagine.

When you tally it up, the expense of materials alone often surpasses that of an equivalent painting, and I haven’t even addressed travel costs, lodging, marketing, and the exorbitant gallery commissions on sold artwork. Film, scanning, ink, and framing form a financial burden that eclipses the modest profit—if any—I might recoup. In fact, I’m often in the red, subsidizing my passion with the hope that viewers will see the value in the result. Yet, the true cost of a photograph isn’t just monetary; it’s temporal. The hours spent scouting locations, waiting for the perfect light, and refining every detail in post-production are intangible but immense. Photography demands a discipline of selectivity and an acceptance of limitation that digital natives might find alien.

People take photography for granted, assuming its accessibility diminishes its worth. But a high-quality photograph isn’t ubiquitous—it’s a rarity born from effort and expertise. The next time you admire a framed print, consider the unseen labor behind it: the weeks on the road, the painstaking development, the exorbitant scans, and the artisanal inks. It’s not just a picture; it’s a bargain masquerading as art, a testament to the unseen costs that elevate a fleeting moment into something eternal.