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Why Sustainable Photography Rates Matter

Introduction

Some stories are hard to tell — not because they're sad, but because they reveal uncomfortable truths. This is one of them.

A kind offer with good intentions

I had a friend — a founder of a local social enterprise — who amazed me with her emotional intelligence, generosity, and tireless work for the underprivileged. Though we hadn't met often, she treated me like a younger brother. I admired her greatly.

She, in turn, appreciated the quality of my photography and the sincerity I brought into my work. She took the time to read my thoughts and writings, and understood I was struggling to keep things afloat as a creative in Singapore. She wanted to support me, a local talent, by offering me photography jobs through her organisation.

It sounded ideal — doing meaningful work while getting paid (or at least compensated in some way). But there was a catch: I wouldn't be paid what I deserved, and deep down, I knew it.

An awkward middle ground

Here's where it got complicated. This was a popular social project, and my friend had a wide network. She could probably get free photography services from others — people who were either kind-hearted or hoping to gain exposure. But she still reached out to me, which I appreciated.

She'd been using her personal savings to keep the project running for years. I had no idea about her financial situation, but I suspected she had some backup from previous roles. Still, when she asked for a quote, I froze. I didn't want to overcharge and hurt her efforts — but I also couldn't keep underselling myself just to ‘be nice'. My gear, time, energy, and livelihood were on the line.

I tried to be honest. I told her the collaboration had to be sustainable for both of us. Not just for her company — but for me too, as the creator doing the work.

The Two Shoots

The catalogue shoot

Foreseeing trouble

From my experience, I could already sense challenges looming even before the first catalogue shoot began. I explained the limitations clearly: the budget was tight, so I'd have to keep things very simple — no advanced editing, minimal gear, nothing fancy.

She was agreeable, or at least seemed to be. I wasn't sure how much she understood the technical aspects, but she trusted me.

I went in with the mindset that this might end up being free labour in the name of charity — though I believed she'd try to compensate me in some form.

The physical toll

The job required me to build a makeshift studio on-site. That meant lugging a white backdrop, stands, multiple lights, modifiers, and more — enough equipment to fill a car boot. The white backdrop itself was large and heavy, and I needed extra lights just to illuminate it evenly and reduce creases.

I didn't have an assistant. Couldn't afford one. Besides, it's tough to find someone who knows exactly how you pack and handle your gear. Every photographer has their own system.

Planning what to bring was a mental exercise — I could bring more, but never less. Every piece of equipment mattered, but I also had to be able to set it up alone.

I used a trolley instead of my usual hand truck. It was frustrating, awkward, and took time to load and secure. I had to grab a taxi, which added to the cost. I felt guilty for making the driver wait as I struggled with the gear.

Setup and shoot

I reached more than an hour early to set everything up. My back was already aching — I've had an old injury that flares up when I carry too much. It took over an hour to get the setup right.

The shoot started. The first session was handled by an art director who had a perfectionist streak — which I appreciated. It matched my style and work ethic. But the session dragged on... and on. Far longer than expected.

For the second round, my friend took over as the director. It moved faster — good for my stamina, not so great for consistency and quality.

Unexpected damages

Throughout the day, small but meaningful things went wrong. Tiny clips went missing. Tapes got used up. Then came the painful part — my white backdrop cloth (about six by three metres) got stained. A child dropped a piece of oily chicken onto it and, in trying to pick it up, made the stain worse.

That backdrop wasn't cheap. And worse, it was essential to my work.

The aftermath

I was at the location for over seven hours. By the time I packed up and got home, I was dead tired. Not tired like 'I need a nap', but the kind of exhaustion that leaves you useless for the rest of the day. My body took days to recover, like after an intense gym session.

Later, my friend shared how much she planned to pay me. I realised she'd expected the entire thing — setup, shoot, teardown — to be done in three hours. The rate she gave me was well below my usual. It didn't even cover transport, effort, or wear and tear on my gear.

When I calculated everything, I earned about a third of what I would've made for a similar job - at that point of time.

The Modelling Portfolio Shoot

The Rate

A few weeks later, the second job came in. This time, it was a modelling portfolio shoot for my friend's company. She was upfront about the budget: she'd pay me the same hourly rate as before — four hours this time. But again, the prep work, setup, and teardown weren't factored in. For a professional photographer, that's half the job left unpaid.

I saw it coming. Still, I took it on. I treated it like charity work again, hoping — perhaps foolishly — that my friend would slowly start to grasp the full scope of what goes into a professional photoshoot.

Catalogue vs. Modelling Portfolio

Now here's the key difference.

The catalogue shoot was all about showcasing the clothing — skin and expressions weren't the focus. That meant minimal retouching.

But a modelling portfolio? That's a whole different ball game. Skin quality, facial clarity, posture, expression — all of it needed to shine. Advanced editing becomes essential, not optional.

In normal circumstances, I'd charge separately for this post-production work — per image, no less. But in this shoot, I wasn't being paid for advanced editing. At all.

Stated Requirements

The brief sounded deceptively simple:

On paper, that's manageable. In reality, it was an assembly line of back-to-back subjects, most needing to be guided and made comfortable. Fast.

My Goals

I knew I'd be underpaid again. No surprises there.

But I agreed to do it — partly because I believed in the project's goals, and partly because I wanted to use this as a teaching opportunity. If nothing else, maybe it'd help my friend understand the time, skill, and labour a professional shoot demands — not just during the shoot, but long after everyone else has gone home.

Solving Problems Beforehand

To keep things practical, I scouted the location beforehand and found a decent brick wall — perfect for a textured, natural-looking background. I advised her to use that instead of bringing the cloth backdrop again, which always risked creases and stains.

Initially, she still wanted the backdrop system, but I talked her out of it. Less gear meant I could bring better light modifiers instead, which would elevate the final look without increasing my burden. I still had to grab a cab, but at least setup would be smoother.

In the end, the brick wall worked wonders. She loved it. A small win.

Intensive Work

The shoot itself was a grind. Fast-paced, non-stop, high-volume — I called it mass production.

It was unlike my usual sessions where I get time to connect with subjects and refine the poses and lighting shot by shot. Here, I had to churn out usable images quickly, with no time to linger.

For the first time, my 600-watt strobe's battery gave up on me. That's how intense it was. From arrival to packing up, I was there for another six-hour marathon.

Amount of Post-Production Work

When it came to editing... well, there were nearly 150 selected images.

Around 40 of them required advanced skin retouching — including group shots, middle-aged women, teens with acne, and even a few kids with visible scars. I told my friend I'd be doing a “sloppy” job — not because I wanted to, but because I had to cut corners to survive.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to deliver subpar work. Even when I tried to rush, I found myself defaulting to quality. It's just not in me to put my name on work that I'm not proud of.

And so, what should've taken a few days... took another full week of post-production.

The Loss

By the end of it, I'd been paid roughly 20% of my usual rate (an old, low rate).

That's not a typo.

All that time, energy, and expertise... for a fraction of what it should've been. And no, there was no bonus, no tip, no mention of future paid gigs.

Just gratitude — genuine, perhaps — but gratitude doesn't pay bills or repair worn-out gear.

The Bigger Picture

Looking back, I'm honestly glad I took on both shoots. Despite being severely underpaid, they gave me valuable insights — not just into my workflow, but into how others perceive photography as a service.

When you're in the thick of a creative profession, it's easy to forget that what's obvious to us — lighting setups, post-processing hours, file management, energy spent on set — isn't always obvious to others. These shoots reminded me of that. They pushed me to communicate my value more clearly and educate others gently, rather than assume they understand.

It was also a reminder that doing "favours" or "friend rates" can be a slippery slope. If not handled with clarity, it can blur the lines between goodwill and exploitation, even when the other party doesn't mean any harm.

Lessons Learnt

There were a few key takeaways from this whole experience:

Education is necessary — not just for clients, but even for friends. Many people genuinely don't understand what goes into professional photography. It's our job to bridge that gap without becoming bitter or defensive.

Boundaries are vital. Offering help is great, but it shouldn't come at the cost of your own well-being or business viability. It's okay to say no. It's okay to walk away from something that doesn't serve you.

Speeding up work isn't always possible. I tried. I did. I thought I could deliver "rougher" edits or simplify my workflow. But in the end, I still found myself caring about the results deeply. That's part of who I am as a photographer. Cutting corners just isn't me.

Passion without sustainability burns out. That one hit hard. Loving photography doesn't mean I should martyr myself for it.

Gratitude Amidst the Chaos

Despite the struggles, I'm grateful. These jobs reminded me why I chose this path. Even in the chaos — the long hours, the aching back, the endless retouching — there was still pride in what I created. The smiles, the final images, the subtle satisfaction when someone saw their photo and lit up... it reminded me of the purpose behind all the pixels.

The feedback was positive, and I know I delivered more than what I was paid for. I upheld my standard. That matters to me.

Final Thoughts: Making It Sustainable

Still, good intentions and artistic pride don't pay the bills.

As photographers, we must build systems that support our creativity without draining us. We need to structure our services and pricing in a way that allows us to continue doing what we love — not just today, but years down the road.

Undercharging, overgiving and consistently working for exposure or goodwill alone? That's not sustainable. It leads to burnout, resentment, and eventually, giving up on the craft altogether.

So while I'm thankful for the journey and the lessons, I've learnt this:

To keep creating meaningfully, we must also protect our craft. And that starts with valuing our work — clearly, confidently, and consistently.



You may be interested in:
- Professional photographers' rates in Singapore
- Photography editing time explained
- Why can't professional photographers take up cheap jobs
- Quality and quantity of photographs - Contributing factors
- Surcharges for photography services



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