Nothing Happens on a Photoshoot
Nothing Happens on a Photoshoot
I got this message today and it stuck with me. The kind that keeps bouncing around your head long after you’ve read it, like a loose screw rattling around a subway car. So instead of letting it fester, I want to talk about it.
Let’s clear something up right out of the gate.
Nothing happens on a photoshoot. Not like that. Photoshoots aren’t sexy. They’re work. They’re lights and cables and someone asking you to stand right there no the other right. They’re too hot or too cold, with at least three extra people watching and one person about to trip over a tripod. The vibe is closer to hour ten on a film set than anything remotely romantic. So let’s kill that fantasy now. Nothing is going to happen.
And even if the opportunity magically appeared, no professional photographer I know would cross that line. Ever. That line isn’t blurry. It’s bright, obvious, and surrounded by common sense. You don’t step over it.
That said, I’ve heard real horror stories. Not internet rumors. Real people. People I know. Real experiences.
One model told me about a photographer she’d never met who wanted to shoot alone, deep in the woods. No assistants. No plan. Just trust me, which is never a sentence that should end there.
Another showed up for what she thought was a normal shoot and was suddenly asked to use adult toys on camera. No warning. No consent. Just that awful moment when you realize you’re in a situation you didn’t agree to.
Another was pressured into sex by a photographer who abused his position and her trust.
This should never happen. Not once. And while it’s true that when this kind of behavior comes to light, word spreads fast and those photographers get shut out of the community, that doesn’t undo the damage for the person who was put in harm’s way.
So here’s what actually matters.
Bring a safety buddy. Always. Any photographer who has a problem with that is not someone you should work with full stop. If you ask a photographer not to share an image, they should respect that without pushing back. If they argue, that’s your answer. If they post something and you ask for it to come down for any reason and they make a fuss, they’ve just disqualified themselves from future work with you.
Yes, bad photographers exist. Every industry has its share of them. But most photographers are good people who understand that trust is everything in this line of work, and boundaries are not optional.
Be careful. Ask questions. Ask for references. Talk to other models and clients. Ask how the experience actually felt, not just how the photos turned out.
Because at the end of the day, your safety and your comfort aren’t bonuses or perks. They’re the baseline. The bare minimum. The most important part of any photoshoot.
When there is safety, and trust, beautiful images and art can come from photoshoots. These images of Natalie were taken on just such a shoot, and I am grateful for the trust Natalie and I showed each other while working together.
Corporate Greed and the Art of Making Customers Miserable
Corporate Greed and the Art of Making Customers Miserable
For years now I have found myself locked in a quiet, grinding feud with companies that do the wrong thing simply because they can get away with it. You know the list. Netflix deciding that sharing a password is a moral failing. Adobe turning the act of canceling a subscription into an escape room. Companies proudly announcing they have “streamlined” customer service, which is corporate speak for, we fired the humans. Airlines charging for bags, seats, legroom, oxygen, and possibly, in the future, using the restroom. Doritos quietly removing chips from the bag while charging more for the privilege of disappointment. Gyms that let you sign up online in thirty seconds but demand a blood oath and an in person pilgrimage if you want to leave.
It is everywhere. It is relentless. And it feels wildly out of control.
All of it is wrapped in the same thin justification. Growth. Efficiency. Shareholder value. Every lever pulled to make or save money except the one that actually serves the people paying the bills. Somewhere along the way, customers stopped being the point and became an obstacle to be managed.
This kind of behavior has made my blood boil for years. Nothing flips the switch faster. What once felt like the occasional bad actor now feels like standard operating procedure. I could fill a book with examples. Rental companies that never complete service orders. Internet providers throttling speeds for reasons known only to the stars. Cell phone companies collapsing for hours and offering a sincere apology as compensation, which is corporate for good luck out there.
And the real problem with all of this is not just that it happens. It is what you are supposed to do when it does. How do you metabolize that surge of anger when something so obviously wrong is happening right in front of you. Wrong in a way that a third grader could see and understand. You cannot complain because there is no one to complain to. There is no lever to pull, no adult to call into the room. And often you cannot even walk away, because there is no real alternative. The market has consolidated itself into a shrug.
Something like this happened to me today. I called the company, calmly at first, hoping logic might still have a seat at the table. I was told, politely and firmly, that there was nothing to be done. This was the policy. I would need to accept it and move on. I was furious. Not volcanic, not theatrical, just that deep simmering rage that sits in your chest and makes everything feel slightly unreal.
But what could I do. The person on the other end of the line did not invent the policy. They did not write the rules. Their job, their rent, their groceries depend on enforcing something they probably hate as much as I do. So I thanked them. I hung up. And I sat there with the anger and the frustration like an uninvited guest at the table, waiting for it to lose interest and leave on its own.
I do not have answers to any of this. Products and services are getting weaker while becoming more expensive. The companies behind them feel increasingly distant, increasingly abstract, increasingly unconcerned with the people they rely on to exist. Everything costs more and delivers less, and we are told to be grateful for the convenience.
So what do we do with that. How do we cope with a system that feels designed to extract rather than serve. Because if someone has figured out how to live sanely inside all of this without slowly losing their mind, I would genuinely love to hear it.
Boundaries on Social Media
Boundaries on Social Media
A photographer disappointed me recently. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, no slow motion betrayal or rain soaked monologue. Just a small, sharp moment on Threads. They posted something. I responded thoughtfully. They did not enjoy my response and promptly suggested, with all the grace of a slammed kitchen door, that I go fuck off.
I won’t name them. I won’t subtweet them. Truth be told, they are talented, genuinely so, and they have contributed a great deal to the photography community on Threads. But I unfollowed them. Quietly. Intentionally. And to understand why, we have to step backward a few chapters.
I did not grow up in a particularly safe environment. Many of the people I spent the most time with were deeply toxic, professionally defensive, emotionally volatile. Their favorite move was aggression masquerading as confidence. Disagree with them and they would lunge, forcing you into a courtroom you never asked to enter. Suddenly you were on trial, required to present exhibits, footnotes, sworn testimony, all to justify the audacity of having a different perspective.
It made me feel unhinged. Truly. I spent years trying to prove myself, trying to explain, trying to be understood by people who had no interest in understanding. Looking back now, that part breaks my heart a little. Not because I failed, but because it was never about truth or growth or dialogue. It was about control. About making their discomfort my responsibility.
So when I replied to this photographer on Threads and they responded by going straight for the throat, something in me just went quiet. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even shocked. I was sad. Sad because I’ve done too much work, read too many books, sat through too many therapy sessions to make space for that energy anymore.
If you want to attack me for having a different opinion, that’s your prerogative. Truly. The internet is a gladiator arena dressed up as a community bulletin board. But I am no longer interested in proving my point of view, nor dismantling yours piece by piece like an undergraduate philosophy assignment at two in the morning. I don’t need to win. I don’t need to be right. I just need peace.
So I hit unfollow. Softly. Regretfully. And I wished them well, genuinely.
What this whole experience reminded me of, though, is something worth writing down in the margins of our digital lives: the people we follow online are not our friends. Even if we’ve followed them since day one. Even if we’ve exchanged comments, encouragement, inside jokes. One disagreement was all it took for the mask to slip, for familiarity to dissolve into hostility.
And that’s okay. It’s just information.
The real lesson here isn’t about photographers or Threads or disagreements. It’s about attention. About choosing where your energy goes. Spend more time with your actual friendships. The ones where disagreement doesn’t feel like a threat. The ones where conversation isn’t a combat sport. There is no moral obligation to argue with strangers on the internet, no prize for endurance, no diploma for suffering fools.
Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is close the app, unfollow gently, and go back to the people who know your voice without a comment box.
Living Normally While Everything Is On Fire
I am going to be honest in a way that feels slightly rude to the morning. I do not want to be writing this. I do not want to be making something neat or meaningful or digestible. I woke up anxious, the kind of anxious that sits on your chest like a bad houseguest who refuses to leave and keeps asking unsettling questions.
Anxiety and I go way back. We were introduced early, practically childhood friends. When I was small, five or six, my nervous system decided that feelings were not enough and demanded a visual aid. I pulled my hair out. Not metaphorically. Literally. Enough of it that my parents eventually had to shave my head to hide the bald spots. That is not a poetic exaggeration. That is the level of fear my body carried before it had the language to explain itself.
I am telling you this so you understand that anxiety is not a new character in my story. It is not an unexpected twist. It is a recurring theme. I know its habits. I know how it knocks. Most days I treat it with a kind of tired compassion, like an old dog that growls at shadows because it once had good reason to. I earned this anxiety. I lived through things that taught me the world could turn sharp without warning. Some of those things were my fault. Many were not. My anxiety has always been fear doing its best impression of protection, whispering that pain can come back if you are not careful.
But lately something has shifted. The fear has picked up an edge. I am not angry at my anxiety. I am angry on its behalf.
Look around. The world is loud and unhinged and deeply unserious in the most dangerous way. Governments stumble through crises with all the grace of a drunk uncle at a wedding. People vanish. People die. Officials smile into cameras and tell us not to believe our own eyes even when there is video, even when there is proof, even when the truth is sitting right there asking to be acknowledged. It is fascinating in the way a burning building is fascinating. You cannot look away, and you know you should be running.
And still, we are expected to carry on. Pay the rent. Show up. Smile politely in meetings. Because if we do not, the consequences are immediate and brutal. Miss a payment and you are out. Miss enough and you are invisible. We all know how society treats people once they fall through the cracks. We are told to be grateful for the opportunity to work in offices that do not make us more productive, but do make spreadsheets happy and property values stable. We are told this is normal. We are told this is freedom.
It feels less like freedom and more like a very polished cage. Produce. Earn. Generate value. Not for yourself, but for the entity with a logo and a mission statement. Fail to comply and the floor disappears. Everyone knows this. We joke about it because joking is cheaper than revolt.
So yes, in the middle of all these operatic global disasters, I find myself deeply stressed about my job. The one that pays for cameras and plane tickets and long hours chasing light. The one that also feeds my family and keeps the heat on. The one that, if it vanished, would take a lot of safety with it. I am angry that survival is conditional. I am angry that work is mandatory even when the world feels like it is actively malfunctioning.
I am angry that housing is not a right. That food is not guaranteed. That warmth and electricity are treated like luxury add ons instead of basic human needs. I am angry that speech is filtered and throttled and sold back to us through platforms, institutions, algorithms, executives, and politicians who insist they are protecting us while tightening the rules. I am angry that we pretend this is normal and call it adulthood.
And here I am, writing posts on Patreon and my blog, wondering what any of this is for. A handful of people. A small corner of the internet where I share photographs and try to build something that feels like community. Some days it feels tender and important. Today it feels absurd. Like setting the table while the house is on fire.
It is hard not to conclude that we are not as free as we are told. That rights exist mostly on paper and disappear quickly when they become inconvenient. That we answer to governments, corporations, and belief systems that care very little about the actual beating heart of a human being.
I am sorry if this week feels heavy. It is heavy for me too. My anxiety is loud today. It is pacing the room, tapping on the windows, asking me what I plan to do about any of this.
And yet, despite everything, I remember the photographs. I remember standing in front of mountains that did not care about quarterly earnings. Sunsets that arrived without permission. Beaches, streets, faces, moments that existed whether anyone monetized them or not. A beautiful world, stubbornly beautiful, even under all this noise.
I hold on to that. I hold on to the hope that maybe within my lifetime we figure out a better way to live. A way that values people more than profit. A way that lets us rest without guilt. A way that does not require fear as an entry fee. Until then, I keep making images. Not because it fixes everything, but because it reminds me that something worth saving still exists.
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. 🎄
