In this installment of the Mailbag Series, someone asked a question that got me thinking: "How do you recognize good taste when everyone seems to be creating?" It’s a topic that’s especially relevant in today’s creative landscape, where nearly everyone is trying to produce something visual online. Let’s break down what really defines good taste and how we can recognize it amidst all the noise.
It’s a question that doesn’t have a single answer, especially in an age where creativity is everywhere. Almost everyone has the tools to produce something visually, but does that mean we all have good taste? Probably not. But maybe the more interesting question isn’t “what is good taste?” but rather, how do we recognize it in a world overflowing with creation?
Taste, in many ways, is subjective. What one person finds meaningful might not resonate with someone else. But there’s something to be said about the work that sticks with us—the projects or images that feel more deliberate, more intentional. They often come from a place that isn’t chasing trends or algorithms, but from a deeper understanding of craft and purpose.
In today’s creative landscape, tools and accessibility have leveled the playing field. Anyone can download an app, use a filter, or follow a template to create something that looks OK on the surface. But when you strip away the technology, what’s left? This is where good taste differentiates itself from technical proficiency or trendy aesthetics.
Consider the difference between creating something that simply "looks good" and creating something that evokes a deeper response. A photograph taken with all the right settings, perfectly composed and lit, may still lack that elusive quality that makes it linger in the mind. Taste often lies in the details you can’t fully explain—the subtle choices, the restraint, the things you leave out.
In this era of instant content creation, taste becomes harder to spot because we are bombarded with content that might look visually polished but often lacks any kind of depth. Much of it has been enhanced by technology— automation, filters, presets, and editing tools that give it a certain artificial feel. Think about how many highly edited images of "influencers" or aesthetically pleasing setups are uploaded to social media in a single day. Multiply that over days, months, and years. What happens when we see this over and over again? It creates a sense of normalization, where certain types of visuals flood our feeds, but don’t offer much beyond surface appeal.
We see photos and other visuals that are “technically correct” in the traditional sense, but they often feel manufactured or impersonal. What separates good taste from technical skill is the intention behind the work. When the focus is purely on appearance, the substance can easily be lost.
Think about the last time you saw a sponsored post on social media. How quickly did you scroll past it? We’ve trained ourselves to spot ads almost instantly, even when they’re dressed up to look unpolished or casual—trying to blend in with organic content. It’s not just the "Sponsored" label that gives it away. It’s the subtle cues, the tone, the feeling that it’s engineered for engagement. These posts may mimic authenticity, but they often lack the depth to hold your attention. This is the kind of work that’s made for quick consumption—it grabs you for a moment, but leaves no lasting impression.
And be honest—how many of the images that bombarded your phone screen this week can you even remember? Probably not many. That’s because most of them are designed to be scrolled past and forgotten.
In contrast, pieces that resonate deeply usually invite you to spend more time with them, revealing layers that weren’t immediately obvious. That’s where good taste begins to shine—when the work doesn’t just demand attention, but earns it.
Another factor is that good taste isn’t something you can automate. Apps and tools can guide choices—whether it’s in photography, music, or even interior design—but they can’t teach instinct. They might suggest that certain combinations work because they follow design principles or color theory, but taste involves going beyond formulas. It’s about knowing when to break those rules or when to introduce an element of surprise. It’s about understanding that sometimes, what’s “correct” doesn’t always feel or look right.
Taste is often about the restraint and subtlety that go into making something look effortless, even when you know there’s been careful thought behind every choice. It’s why two people can use the same tools, capture the same subject, and come away with work that feels completely different. One piece feels derivative, while the other has a quiet confidence.
With so much content driven by algorithms and instant feedback, taste becomes the slow burn. It’s the work that doesn’t shout for attention but leaves a lasting impression. It doesn’t rely on gimmicks or trends to feel relevant; instead, it taps into something more universal, something that resonates because it feels considered and timeless.
So, how does good taste develop? While it can be personal, there’s often a baseline—a level of quality, intention, and thoughtfulness that separates good taste from superficial appeal. It’s not just about what grabs your attention, but about recognizing the skill and subtlety that make a piece of work resonate on a deeper level. For creators, taste is built by being intentional with every decision, understanding why you’re doing something, and not just how. For those who appreciate, it’s about noticing what elevates the work beyond the ordinary and asking, Why does this stand out?
For example, consider the works of Andrei Tarkovsky, a filmmaker known for his deliberate pacing and reflective mood. His films are notoriously slow and difficult to watch, but there’s something about the way he constructs each frame that keeps drawing viewers in. Tarkovsky’s taste lies in his ability to trust stillness, silence, and long, uninterrupted takes—he allows the viewer to dwell in each moment, creating a meditative experience that is far removed from the fast-paced, attention-grabbing styles common today.
His films aren’t about providing instant gratification; they demand patience and engagement. This slower approach might challenge viewers, but it’s precisely that challenge—and the depth of feeling it uncovers—that speaks to a deeper sense of taste. His work shows that good taste can be about trusting simplicity and time, not about overloading the senses. Tarkovsky’s films demonstrate that taste is often found in the subtleties, in the choice to let a moment breathe.
Similarly, Salvador Dalí’s "Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubus)" (1954) reflects a complex balance of symbolism and personal exploration. By blending surrealism with religious iconography, Dalí uses a geometric structure called a hypercube to represent the crucifixion. Interestingly, Dalí returned to Catholicism later in life, after years of atheism, and that shift is evident in his work. The painting doesn’t just push boundaries visually; it explores deeper ideas about faith, sacrifice, and transcendence, using the hypercube to elevate the familiar religious subject into something that invites contemplation on multiple levels. Dalí’s taste comes through in the way he layers complexity, innovation, and personal evolution into his work.
However, this kind of taste—rooted in thoughtfulness and depth—is often lacking in many contemporary imitations. In photography today, for instance, you’ll find creators who attempt to mimic the aesthetic of complex symbolism, using visual elements that seem profound but lack any real meaning behind them. Whether it’s through overused ideas, patterns or dramatic lighting, the result often feels hollow, as though the form is present but the substance is missing. What separates someone like Dalí from today’s imitators is the depth of understanding and intention behind the work—he wasn’t simply using a hypercube because it looked interesting, but because it aligned with his exploration of faith and higher dimensions. Much of what we see today, by contrast, adopts similar symbols without fully engaging with the why.
Both Tarkovsky and Dalí show that good taste isn’t just about making something visually compelling—it’s about the thought, restraint, and intention behind it. Their works challenge viewers and draw them into a deeper engagement with the subject matter, rather than simply grabbing attention with surface-level appeal. That’s the difference between creating something that lasts and something that’s easily forgotten.
Maybe taste isn’t something you chase or perfect. It’s the quiet confidence in knowing when enough is said, when to let something breathe. What we remember, what lingers, isn’t the loud or the obvious—it’s the work that leaves space for us to think, to feel, to return to. In a sea of endless creation, the real challenge might be knowing when to stop, when to trust that the depth is already there, waiting for those willing to pause and look a little closer.
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