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.
Things I Miss That No Longer Exist.
Over the weekend, I stumbled across an online post that felt like a recovered artifact from a more honest internet. It contained several long lost lists created and posted by Anthony Bourdain, resurrected with the help of the Internet Archive and the kind of digital archaeology usually reserved for forgotten blogs and MySpace pages. A few devoted fans did their best to piece these lists back together, and in true Bourdain fashion, they were gloriously unfiltered. Favorite hotels. Favorite go to meals. Favorite porn. No hedging. No irony quotes. Just truth, served straight up.
The man was, as always, unapologetically honest. And maybe that is exactly why so many of us were drawn to him, and still are. There was no performance. No carefully managed persona. No mask. He simply was who he was and lived accordingly. Loudly. Imperfectly. Curiously. In a world obsessed with polishing its edges, Bourdain showed up chipped and smoking and completely uninterested in pretending otherwise.
Reading those lists got under my skin in the best possible way. They were intimate without trying to be profound. Personal without being precious. They made me realize how rarely we inventory the things that actually shaped us, the small cultural artifacts and experiences that quietly defined who we became. So I decided to follow Anthony’s example and start making a few lists of my own.
Not lists of achievements. Not lists designed to impress. Just honest ones.
Things I Miss That No Longer Exist.
Halloween
Yes, Halloween technically still exists, but not in the way it used to. Growing up, Halloween was an event. The whole neighborhood was involved. Houses were decorated. Porches glowed. People sat outside with bowls of candy and actually talked to each other. I remember pulling the pillowcase off my bed, putting on a costume that barely survived the night, and going door to door with hundreds of other kids, the streets buzzing with excitement and sugar fueled chaos. I would come home with an absurd amount of candy and feel like I had conquered something.
As I got older, Halloween evolved. I loved hiding out in front of my house, wearing a mask, waiting patiently for unsuspecting kids and adults to pass by so I could scare the absolute life out of them. It was mischievous and theatrical and deeply satisfying. Halloween was an aesthetic unto itself. A mood. A season.
While many of us still try to keep Halloween alive each year, something fundamental has changed. It has been over ten years since anyone knocked on my door on Halloween night looking for candy. Trick or treating barely happens anymore. It has been replaced by small local trunk or treat events in parking lots, or sometimes nothing at all. Safer, maybe. But undeniably quieter. Something wild and communal slipped away without much of a goodbye.
No Cell Phones
I will be the first to admit that I love technology. Phones today are impressive little slabs of sorcery. But there was something undeniably special about being unreachable. Going to the store, the mall, or the movies and simply disappearing for a while. No notifications. No pings. No expectation of immediate response.
There are people alive today who never knew a world like that existed. But I remember it vividly. I remember being kicked out of the house during the summer and not being allowed back inside until the street lights came on. I remember going places and having no choice but to pay attention and be present because scrolling was not an option and social media did not exist. You were where you were. Mentally and physically.
Some days I miss that deeply. And as technology becomes more persistent and invasive, I find myself deliberately consuming less of it. Putting my phone away. Letting it sit untouched. Pretending, even if only for a few minutes, that no one can reach me. It feels almost rebellious now. Like slipping out the back door without telling anyone.
Paper Tickets
I used to collect tickets. Movie tickets. Concert tickets. Anything that proved I had been somewhere and experienced something. I kept them in my wallet and loved pulling out a thick stack when I was bored, flipping through them like a personal highlight reel. Each ticket carried a memory. A night out. A song played live. A movie that hit harder than expected.
Eventually the stack got too big, so I moved them into a small box. I still have it. Most of the tickets are faded now. Some are barely legible, the ink slowly surrendering to time. But in today’s world of QR codes and digital wallets, I miss paper tickets. I miss having something physical to hold onto. Proof that I was there. That it happened.
I will probably continue making lists in the coming days and weeks. There are plenty more rattling around in my head, waiting their turn. But for now, this feels like a good start. Honest. A little nostalgic. Slightly chaotic. Just the way Bourdain would probably approve of, if he were leaning against a wall nearby, cigarette in hand, quietly judging us all.
Growing My Little Corner of the Internet
As 2025 starts packing its bags and edging toward the exit, I decided it was time to look over my website’s yearly stats. Since 2020, I’ve been steadily shaping this little corner of the internet with blog posts, photos, updates, and whatever sparks of creativity refuse to stay quiet. I never aimed for viral fame or digital glory. My only real goal was simple: steady, reliable growth. People finding my site, returning to it, and hopefully getting something meaningful out of it.
The tricky part is that running this place is a true one person operation. I keep the site running. I manage the plugins. I make sure nothing explodes in the background. I write every blog post and as simple as that sounds, trying to be consistently creative is like wrestling a cloud. I also choose, edit, and upload every single photo you see. I work hard to keep the content fresh so nothing feels stale or forgotten.
It’s a lot of work year after year, and I’m grateful beyond words that you visit my small patch of cyberspace. As social media becomes increasingly repetitive and loud, and as AI starts reshaping the landscape in ways no one fully understands, I’ve been shifting more of my energy here. My website. My home base. The one place where everything I create can live without getting swallowed by an algorithm.
And here’s the good news. For five years now, I’ve hit my goal of year over year growth. Five years of building, adjusting, learning, and showing up. And that growth happened because of you. Every click. Every visit. Every moment you spend here makes a difference.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for investing your time in me and in the work I share. You’re appreciated, and you’re loved.
A Website Survival Story
I first started building websites with WordPress many many many years ago. There’s something about the way it works, its logic, its quirks, that just clicked for me. So naturally, I built my own site. Over the years, I’ve helped a few other folks build theirs too. This site itself has worn many hats, explored different topics, and even gone through a few identity crises. Fun fact: I started it before social media was really a thing and used it mostly to repost memes. Yes, I am officially that old.
Building websites is fun, but it’s not always smooth sailing. Plugins can be tricky. Sometimes they play nice, sometimes they absolutely don’t. Recently, I installed a plugin called Imagify, and well, let’s just say my site had a rough few days. Photos were showing up cut off, distorted, and galleries refused to behave. For a photographer, a broken website is basically a crisis.
Trying to get help was another adventure. In this era of email only support, Imagify replied about once every 24 hours, and their advice wasn’t exactly life changing. So I spent the better part of a week patching things up myself. Some galleries had to be completely reworked, some photos had to be removed, and certain displays were abandoned entirely. It wasn’t perfect, but the site is back up and running for now.
Every December, I do a major review and overhaul of the site. That will be the time to dig deeper into what went wrong, maybe fix lingering issues, and perhaps even give the site another facelift. I’d love to hear your suggestions, anything that could make this corner of the internet a better place.
Thanks for stopping by, and here’s to photos that behave and websites that cooperate.