What We’d Make If Survival Wasn’t a Full-Time Job
It's January 13th, and we are just a couple days away from being half way through the first month of 2026. The holidays are over, most of us have returned back to work, sending emails, working on to-do lists, all so we can earn money, and then use that money to pay bills.
I’ve never quite understood the nature of it all, the clanking, whirring capitalist engine that we’re all strapped to from birth. And I can’t help but wonder what the world might look like if the basics of being human were not something you had to earn. Housing. Food. Clean water. Power. Internet. Healthcare. Imagine what we could build, write, photograph, paint, or dream up if survival was not a full time job. What kind of species might we become if living was not gated behind invoices, follow-ups, meetings, and paychecks.
I’ve carried a small, persistent fantasy for years now. One year without the need to work. One year where money is not a background hum of anxiety, where the bills are paid, the lights stay on, and the only real obligation is to make things. A year of photoshoots and half finished ideas. A year learning to paint badly, then slightly less badly. A year of travel, unfamiliar streets, good coffee, and the quiet click of inspiration settling into place. I think, truly, I would happily work for the rest of my life if I were granted just one uninterrupted year to live and create. But alas, I too am shackled to the same system as the rest of us.
Still, while I work, I imagine. I think about the images I will make this year, the projects I will pour myself into, the collaborations that will surprise me. I wonder what my work will look like come December 2026, and that curiosity keeps me moving. Even without the luxury of being just an artist, I will keep making art anyway, out of stubbornness if nothing else.
For now, enjoy these beautiful images of Austin, from a recent ATL Shooters event, here in Atlanta. Quiet, intentional, and exactly the kind of work that reminds me why I do this at all. I am looking forward to creating more with Austin in the coming year, along with so many others.
Until next week, Happy New Year to all of us. May we keep finding ways to create, notice beauty, and add a little good to the world, carefully in between pointless meetings that could have been an email.
Cheers.
Censored by a Machine
We’re nine days into 2026, and I already want to pull the emergency brake and ask who exactly is driving this thing. I’m not enjoying the state of the world. I’m angry, properly, bone-deep angry, and it feels like every headline is just another reminder that we’re stuck in a late-stage capitalism funhouse where the mirrors are warped, the exits are fake, and someone’s charging admission.
So much of what’s wrong feels depressingly obvious. Capitalism squeezing until nothing’s left. Politics turning every problem into a blood sport. Religion still showing up uninvited, like that one guy at a party who insists on explaining the meaning of life while blocking the snack table. We’re overworked, under-rested, constantly monitored, and told this is freedom. If this is freedom, the return policy is terrible.
And now capitalism’s newest shiny toy has arrived: AI. Not helpful AI, no, no, but AI bolted onto everything whether it belongs there or not. AI in your email. AI in your phone. AI in your car. AI making decisions that used to require a human being with a brain, a conscience, and at least a little hesitation. I don’t need AI reading my emails. I don’t want Google peeking into my texts or DMs like a nosy neighbor with binoculars. I don’t want AI flying planes or deciding what’s acceptable, true, or real.
What really sends me over the edge is how AI is being used to censor things without explanation or accountability. This morning, I posted a photo of Gabriel on social media. A real photo. One I took myself. On a Sony a7III. On Playalinda Beach in Florida, in the kind of heat that makes you question why humans ever left caves. I shot it. I edited it in Lightroom, color, white balance, a little vignette. That’s it. No AI. No prompts. No digital wizardry.
The platform removed it.
Why? Because an AI system “suspected the image was AI-generated.”
Let that sink in. A machine decided my photograph looked too real, or maybe too good, and erased it. Reality failed the vibe check. An algorithm shrugged and said, “Nah,” and that was that.
And of course, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no customer service. No human to talk to. No appeal that doesn’t lead straight back to another automated response. Customer service, as a concept, has basically been euthanized. Even when it technically exists, you’re funneled through endless menus, chatbots with fake empathy, and forms that disappear into the digital void. If you ever reach a person, they’ll apologize, transfer you, or accidentally-on-purpose disconnect.
This is not the future I was promised.
I was promised flying cars, shorter workweeks, and more time to make art, take photographs, and exist without being monitored like a suspicious package. I was promised a brighter, better future, not one where creativity is flagged as fraudulent and reality needs a verification badge.
I would very much like to return this timeline. I have the receipt. I have notes. I am willing to exchange it for literally any version that includes accountability, humanity, and maybe someone, anyone, answering the phone.
Unfortunately, there is no customer service department for reality.
And that, more than anything, might be the most dystopian part of all.
Some Nights You Don’t Sleep
I didn’t sleep well last night. It took an eternity to finally drift off, and when I did, it was the kind of sleep that’s more like a battleground, those brief, jarring interludes of unconsciousness punctuated by violent jolts, as if my body was trying to escape the weight of the world. And why shouldn’t it? Yesterday, in Minneapolis, something ugly happened, something that shook whatever fragile semblance of normalcy we’ve been clinging to. The flood of real-time lies from the federal government, each one spewing forth like a script from a dystopian film, except this is no fiction. And as it should, it hit hard, evoked a tidal wave of emotion.
For me, that emotion was anger. That old, reliable standby. Some people turn to grief or despair, others to confusion. Me? I get angry. Yesterday, it was earned. It was the kind of anger that makes your skin feel too tight, your thoughts too scattered. As I scrolled through social media, it was as though the entire world had started screaming in unison...“This isn’t supposed to happen,” “This is illegal,” “They broke the law.”
And I get it, I do. I understand why people are clinging to these words. For decades, we’ve built our lives on this unspoken agreement, fragile as hell, but there nonetheless, that there are things we don’t do, things that are wrong. It was a naïve faith that we lived in a country where basic rights mattered, where we were safe because the rules, however flawed, were at least supposed to be followed. But it turns out, we were wrong. All of us. It was all just a comforting little lie we told ourselves. A collective delusion. The cracks in the walls were always there, and some of us saw them, shouted about them, even, but yesterday… yesterday the walls finally started crumbling.
And now? The truth is out in the open. Too many people have known it for far too long, but now it’s undeniable. Yesterday wasn’t the first time the system failed us, but it was one of those moments where the sheer weight of it all makes you realize that this broken machine, this grand charade, isn’t just broken, it’s a wreck. How many times have we missed the chance to wake up to what’s been happening? How many times has the bell tolled and we all just kept on snoozing, believing the lies because, let’s be real, it was easier than facing the truth?
And yet, here we are. The list of things that should never have happened but did? It’s long, my friends. Endless. And now, we’re left to wonder, will this add to the catalog of injustices, or will something finally shift? Will there be real change? Will we take to the streets, the ballot boxes, the courtrooms? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not the optimist in the room. In fact, I’m the one who’s been sitting in the corner, sipping whiskey and muttering about how humanity always finds a way to disappoint.
But even in my cynicism, even when the weight of the world is pressing down and the rage keeps me up at night, there’s a small, stubborn ember of hope still smoldering in me. It flickers. It’s weak. But it’s still there. And that, I suppose, is what keeps us going, hope, however tattered, and anger, however messy. Anger, that primal force that demands release, that needs to be channeled somewhere before it burns us all to the ground.
The trouble is, most of us have no idea how to channel it. Where do we point this fire? Who do we scream at when the whole damn system is on fire? I wish I had answers. I wish I knew where to direct it, where to throw that punch, where to burn the lies to the ground. But the truth is, I don’t. And maybe that’s the part of the chaos we’re all living in. We can see the cracks, we can feel the heat, but damn if we don’t feel just as lost as the rest of the world.
All I know is this, anger, hope, and a whole lot of uncertainty. That’s what I’m holding on to. And if there’s one thing that’ll get us through this, it’s the same thing that’s always gotten us through: a cocktail of bitterness, stubbornness, and maybe, just maybe, the tiniest thread of redemption. Here's to hoping we find it before the night gets any darker.
Starting the Year With an Empty Camera Roll
I have a couple of end of year traditions that I have followed for a few years now. The first is simple and, frankly, necessary. I step away from work almost entirely starting Christmas Eve and do not come back until the first Monday after New Year’s. This year, that means January 5th. It is a pause I look forward to every year. A chance to slow down, reset, and remember that time does not always need to be optimized.
The second tradition is the one that tends to raise eyebrows.
Every year, I wipe my phone of almost every photo on it.
Not recklessly. Carefully. Every image is moved to a secure drive, labeled, organized, and archived. Then I start the new year with almost nothing in my camera roll. A blank slate. I keep a few photos of the animals and a few from my wedding, but beyond that, everything else goes into storage.
People usually ask why.
For me, photography is something I share constantly on my website and across social media, and most of that sharing happens through my phone. When my phone is full of old work, it is easy to lean on what has already been done. Clearing it out removes that option. If I want to share images, I have to go out and make new ones. It forces me forward. No shortcuts. No coasting.
It is a small act, but a meaningful one. My own quiet way of burning the ships.
Of course, all my past work is still there. It is backed up, safe, and accessible through the cloud. But there is something about opening my phone and seeing an empty gallery that nudges me toward creation. It feels like an invitation, and sometimes a challenge, to go make something worth adding back.
Even now, I am already wondering if there will be an ATL Shooters event this weekend, because I would love to get out and make some photos if I can.
Regardless, I hope you all had a good New Year’s Eve and that 2026 has started off well. Here’s to clean slates, new work, and moving forward with intention.
Happy New Year.
Thank You 2025
Thank you, 2025. You were a year thick with moments, the kind that sneak up on you, linger longer than expected, and leave a mark.
I started the year with no real sense of where I would end up. Somehow that turned into adventures I could not have planned, people I am genuinely grateful to know, and photographs that feel like small acts of preservation. Proof that I was here and paying attention.
To everyone who shared space with me this year, in big ways or quiet ones, thank you. You made the year richer, stranger, and better than it had any right to be.
As I look toward 2026, I have learned enough to admit I do not know what is coming, and that is not a flaw. It is part of the deal. All I can promise is to try to do a little better than last year. To keep making images that matter. To spend more time with good people. To live in a way that future me can look back on and say it was worth it.
Happy New Year. Thank you for the memories, 2025. Let us see what is next.
Welcome Home Santa
It’s Christmas Eve, and somewhere between the soft hush of falling snow and the distant clatter of a ladder against a gutter, Santa is on the clock. The man is working overtime. He’s crisscrossing time zones like they’re minor inconveniences, squeezing down chimneys that absolutely did not pass code inspection, and fueling himself on a diet approved by exactly zero nutritionists: warm cookies, cold milk, and the occasional carrot filched from a reindeer who definitely earned it.
It’s beautiful chaos. A red-suited blur of good intentions and poor sleep hygiene. He keeps going, not because it’s easy, his knees disagree, but because he knows what’s waiting on the other side of the night. He knows that when the sleigh is parked, the hat is hung, and the last ho-ho-ho finally gives way to a yawn, Christmas morning will arrive like a quiet reward. Home. Stillness. Maybe a fire crackling. Maybe a moment to put his feet up and remember why all this madness matters.
So here’s to the magic, the mess, the crumbs on the plate, and the carrots with teeth marks. Here’s to the work behind the wonder, and the calm that comes after the storm of tinsel and joy.
Merry Christmas, everyone. 🎄
Winter Solstice
Happy Winter Solstice, everyone.
I’ve always loved this time of year, the quiet hinge in the calendar where everything slows down and the world leans into itself. I’ve never been someone who fears the dark. Quite the opposite, actually. Darkness and night have always felt like home to me. That’s where my shoulders finally drop, where my breathing evens out, where the background noise in my head lowers to a tolerable hum. In the dark, I can exist without having to perform. No spotlights. No explanations. Just stillness.
A lot of people celebrate the Solstice for the promise it makes, the return of light after the longest night. That’s fair. Optimistic, even. Very on-brand for humanity. But I celebrate the Solstice because it’s dark. Because this is the night that doesn’t apologize for itself. The longest stretch of shadow, officially sanctioned by the cosmos. A reminder that darkness isn’t a problem to be solved, it’s a place you’re allowed to rest.
The world tells us, constantly and loudly, that more light is better. Be visible. Be productive. Be “on.” The Solstice gently counters with a raised eyebrow and a low voice: or… you could sit still for a minute. You could let the night be the night. You could stop trying to fix everything long enough to feel your feet on the ground and your hands wrapped around something warm.
There’s no right or wrong way to celebrate the Solstice. Light candles. Don’t. Meditate. Don’t. Make it sacred or make it simple. Just know that the darkness you’re standing in isn’t empty, it’s generous. It holds space. It gives cover. It asks very little of you.
So here’s my hope for all of you in the coming year: fewer stresses that gnaw at you in quiet moments, more happiness that shows up unannounced. More nights where you feel safe enough to exhale. And if anyone needs me, I’ll be by the fire all day, drinking hot apple cider, fully committed to the radical act of doing absolutely nothing useful, except maybe being present.
Blending Special Effects and Photography
People tell my wife and me, fairly often, that we make a great team. They say it with confidence, like it’s an observable fact, and honestly, they’re not wrong.
She comes at things as a Special Effects Makeup Artist, with patience (sometimes), precision, and an ability to transform a human canvas into something entirely new. I approach the world as a photographer, always chasing light, texture, and moments that feel just slightly out of reach. When we work together, those two worlds overlap in a way that feels natural, balanced, and quietly exciting.
Over the years, we’ve collaborated on a wide range of creative projects. Choosing a favorite would be nearly impossible, not because they’re all equal, but because each one represents a different chapter, different ideas, different risks, different memories. They mark where we were creatively and personally at the time.
One project that still stands out took place shortly before we left Orlando, just before Christmas. We collaborated with two wonderful models on a body paint shoot that came together beautifully. It was the kind of session where everything clicked: the planning, the trust, the energy in the room. Those are rare, and when they happen, you feel it immediately.
This morning, while sitting with a cup of coffee, I revisited that shoot and decided to re-edit two images of Gabrielle. I like doing that from time to time. As my skills evolve year after year, it’s interesting, and honestly grounding, to return to older work and see how my approach has changed. The images stay the same, but the way I see them doesn’t.
I’m a big fan of both of these photographs, especially after giving them a fresh look. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Summoning Krampus
Summoning Krampus
I am not exactly sure when this became a tradition. It was never planned or announced. A few years ago, my wife, Leslie, and I decided to do a Christmas themed photoshoot. Just one. Something fun and different. Somewhere along the way, without either of us really noticing, it turned into an annual ritual. Every year since, we have come up with a new idea or theme, something we want to create together before the season slips away.
This year, I felt drawn in a darker direction. Less glossy Christmas fantasy and more old world legend. One night, while sitting on the couch watching NCIS, I turned to Leslie and asked if we could talk about this year’s Christmas shoot. Then I asked how she would feel about doing a Krampus themed photoshoot.
She was immediately on board, with one condition. She wanted to include some classic pin up poses with Krampus.
Oh no, I said. Not that.
Which of course meant that was exactly what we were going to do.
From there, the planning began. We needed a model who could handle heavy prosthetic makeup, pull off a dark and ominous presence, and still have enough personality to lean into something playful. Finding the right person was not easy. Scheduling quickly became the biggest challenge, but eventually everything lined up. Our friend, model, and collaborator Will agreed to join us on a cold Thursday night after finishing a full workday.
That alone deserves recognition. Most people do not leave a long shift at work eager to drive forty five minutes, sit through an hour of prosthetic application, and then stand outside in the cold for a photoshoot. But Will did, and he did it with patience and enthusiasm. We could not have asked for a better person to bring this idea to life.
Leslie handled the costume and makeup from start to finish. My contribution was buying a Santa suit the day of the shoot. She did everything else. Designing, painting, airbrushing, distressing fabric, sculpting and applying prosthetics. I know how talented she is, but these themed projects always remind me just how much skill and artistry she brings to the table. The amount of work that goes into these looks is enormous, and it always shows in the final images.
Originally, I wanted to photograph Krampus in front of a large fire pit, using the flames to create dramatic silhouettes. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts and more lighter fluid than I care to admit, the fire never really cooperated. All I managed was a weak smolder. So we pivoted. Instead, I made a simple torch using a stick, some fabric, and lighter fluid, and suddenly we had the atmosphere we needed.
The photos turned out better than I expected. Many of my shoots rely heavily on post processing, but projects like this are different. They demand more attention to framing, lighting, and timing in the moment. When everything comes together on set, there is less fixing and more refining afterward.
While I still have a few pin up edits left to finish, the darker Krampus images came out exactly as I had hoped. They feel grounded, eerie, and just a little playful.
I am really proud of this one.
Enjoy.
Adam Scott - Photographer - Atlanta GA
The Choices I Wouldn’t Change
I wish I could tell you I’m one of those emotionally evolved adults who can glance at the past, extract a tidy life lesson, wipe his hands on his jeans, and stroll confidently into the future like a well-adjusted human being. But, I'm not that guy. I live in my head. I pace there. I replay old conversations like a director’s cut no one asked for. I rewrite entire chapters of my life in the shower, convinced that if I’d just said one different thing, chosen one different road, been a little braver, smarter, less of an idiot, everything would’ve turned out cleaner, shinier, more cinematic.
I’m very good at regret. Olympic-level, really.
But last night, while thinking about what to write, I tried something different. Instead of cataloging my mistakes like a Mormon Bishop tallying someones sins, I made a list of choices I wouldn’t change. Not even if you offered me a shiny red “undo” button and a lifetime supply of coffee. Decisions that, despite the mess, the collateral damage, and the occasional emotional hangover, made my life richer, stranger, and undeniably mine.
So here they are. No apologies. No footnotes. Just the good stuff.
Attending Northwest School of the Arts
When my family and I lived in North Carolina, I had the privilege of attending Northwest School of the Arts for high school. I was a troubled kid, restless, angry, desperate to belong to something without fully understanding what that something was. I didn’t squeeze every drop out of that experience the way I could have. I know that now. But NWSA cracked something open in me anyway.
It taught me compassion. It taught me taste. It taught me that creativity wasn’t just allowed, it was oxygen. More importantly, it showed me a world where people didn’t bend the knee to systems, churches, institutions, or neatly laminated expectations. People were loud, weird, unapologetic, and gloriously themselves. Some of the best people I’ve ever known came from that place, and a few of them are still in my life today. Being exposed to that kind of freedom as a teenager mattered more than I realized at the time. It gave me a reference point. A north star. A glimpse of the kind of life I’d spend years trying to build.
Choosing to serve a mission for the Mormon Church
Yeah. I know. Take a moment. Let it wash over you.
This one surprises people, but it’s true. Serving a mission exposed me to corners of the church I didn’t know existed. It planted questions in my mind, small at first, then loud, unruly, impossible-to-ignore questions. Ironically, without my mission, I might never have left the church at all. The experience didn’t reinforce my faith; it dismantled it, piece by piece.
It showed me the machinery behind the curtain. It showed me the cost. And eventually, it showed me the exit. Leaving was painful, but it was also necessary. The mission guaranteed that one day I’d be free of that toxic environment, and for that, I’m grateful. Sometimes the thing that saves you is the thing that breaks you open first.
Adopting Cordelia
By any rational metric, I had no business adopting a dog when I did. I was going through a divorce, broke, emotionally wrecked, and teetering on the edge of losing everything. But I was lonely. And there was a Craigslist ad that said she was free to the first male who wanted her, and she agreed.
I got in my car and drove. I stopped twice along the way, seriously considering turning around, because responsibility was the last thing I needed. But I kept going.
When I arrived, the foster parents opened the door and Cordelia came barreling out, wearing a full-toothed, tail-wagging grin. Two other men had already been there before me. She wanted nothing to do with them. She chose me. And that was that.
For years, it was just the two of us. There were times when I had to choose between feeding myself or feeding her, and I never hesitated. It was always her. We climbed mountains, explored national parks, slept on beaches, crossed state lines, and built a life that was better simply because she was in it. The day she died remains one of the hardest moments of my life. I miss her every single day. I suspect I always will. And I will forever be grateful that, somehow, in the middle of my unraveling, she chose me.
Taking up photography
I didn’t start photography for noble reasons. I started it in a desperate attempt to save a failing marriage. That didn’t work. The marriage ended anyway. But photography stayed.
It grew slowly, quietly—day by day, year by year—until it became something I couldn’t imagine my life without. It gave me a way to see the world differently, to frame chaos, to create meaning where none was obvious. It opened doors, introduced me to people, and gave me experiences I never would have had otherwise. It became a language. A lifeline. A way forward.
Marrying Leslie
After my divorce, I swore off marriage entirely. Hard no. I dated a little, but I was deeply, philosophically opposed to the institution. I once broke up with someone because I had a nightmare about being forced to marry her—and honestly, once you have that dream, the relationship is over. No recovery.
Then I met Leslie. And everything changed.
She was easy to talk to. I liked having her around. For the first time—maybe the first time ever—I felt safe in a relationship. I didn’t have to perform. I didn’t have to hide. I didn’t have to be anything other than myself. And somehow, that was enough.
We’ve been married for six years now. Each year, that sense of safety deepens. It’s quieter than passion, less dramatic than chaos, and infinitely more valuable. Marrying her is a choice I would make again and again, without hesitation.
So no, I’m not done wrestling with the past. I probably never will be. But this list? This list is proof that not everything I touched turned to ash. Some choices—against all odds—turned into joy. And that’s worth remembering.