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.
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.
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
ATL Shooters - October Event
ATL Shooters - October Event
Over the weekend, I went to another ATL Shooters event, one of those little creative storms that make living in Atlanta worth it. For anyone new around here, the ATL Shooters Club is run by a guy named Tony, who, once a month, somehow rallies a small army of photographers and models to meet up, take photos, and make art. He picks the spot, we all show up with cameras and caffeine, and for a few hours the city becomes our playground.
It’s honestly become one of my favorite things about being here. But what keeps surprising me, in that strange, humbling way, is when other photographers tell me they look up to my work. That I’m someone they’ve followed for years, or that I’ve inspired them to shoot more. I never quite know what to say to that, because deep down, I still feel like the kid I was 13 years ago, wandering around Olympia, Washington with a camera I barely understood, taking pictures of anything that would stay still long enough.
Back then, I used to buy cheap roses from the grocery store just so I’d have something to photograph. I’d ask friends if I could take portraits for practice — most said no, a few said “hell no.” But I kept shooting anyway.
The one moment that sticks with me most was this photoshoot in an abandoned building near Puget Sound. I had a few friends with me, no clue what I was doing, and zero understanding of editing. I knew what I wanted my photos to feel like... moody, cinematic, alive, but I didn’t know how to get there yet. My creativity was bigger than my skill.
So I did what seemed smart at the time: I asked for help. I posted some of the photos in a photography Facebook group, said I knew they weren’t great, and asked if anyone had advice or tutorials I could check out.
Big mistake.
They tore me apart. Dozens of photographers told me I was awful, talentless, that I should sell my camera and give up. Some were cruel just for the sport of it. The comments got so bad the group’s admin actually stepped in and told everyone off, but by then, I’d already logged out, feeling about two inches tall. I still remember that feeling, the sting of being told I wasn’t good enough.
And maybe that’s what lit the fire. I worked hard for years after that. Not out of anger, but determination. I wanted to prove, mostly to myself, that I could make art worth looking at. Thirteen years later, I like to think I’ve done that. But every time someone compliments my work, it still pulls me back to that moment, the kid who just wanted to learn, to be part of something creative, and got laughed out of the room.
That’s why I love the ATL Shooters so much. It’s the kind of place I wish I’d had back then, a space where photographers of all levels come together, share tips, teach each other things, and just create. No gatekeeping, no judgment. Just art, curiosity, and a little bit of chaos.
I didn’t have that community 13 years ago. But I have it now. And that makes every long night of trial, error, and stubbornness worth it. Because now, I get to help build what I once needed, a creative family chasing light together through the wild streets of Atlanta.
Lisa Frankenstein - The Bride of Lisa Frank
Lisa Frankenstein - The Bride of Lisa Frank
Long before I ever touched a camera, I was just another night owl lost in the endless scroll of Tumblr. I’d spend what felt like lifetimes drifting through a sea of moody portraits, cosmic color palettes, and quiet emotion, wishing I could create something that lived up to what I saw there. I sometimes wonder how many miles my thumb traveled in pursuit of inspiration.
Now, years later, I stand behind the lens as a photographer, my work a living collage of all those nights. I can still feel the echo of Tumblr’s influence in my images, the colors, the texture, the quiet ache for beauty. It’s a craving that never really fades, this urge to bring the imagined into being.
Luckily, I’m married to someone who shares that creative pulse. Leslie, a Special Effects Makeup Artist, often dreams in a different direction than I do, but every so often, we both catch the same spark. That happened when she came to me with an idea: The Bride of Frankenstein, but with the color palette of Lisa Frank.
I saw it immediately. dolphins' in rainbow hues, gothic drama dipped in 80s nostalgia. Lisa Frank, the queen of technicolor notebooks and childhood joy, had never stepped into the shadowy world of Halloween… until now. The idea felt both absurd and perfect.
We’d played with the Bride before, once twisting the concept into something new, but this was different. This time, it was about contrast: horror meeting harmony, darkness bathed in color. So, we gathered at Casa Scott. Kat, our model, brought her radiant energy and creative soul. Mac, our stylist, arrived armed with combs, hair picks, and enough hairspray to stop time. Leslie conjured her magic with colors that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. And me... I stood ready to catch the spark when it hit.
Did we capture it? The impossible blend of gothic and glitter, of lightning and laughter? I’ll let you be the judge.
But I like to think that somewhere, deep in the archives of Tumblr, a ghost of my younger self is scrolling through the feed, pausing on this one, and smiling.
What I Am Continuing to Give Energy To
What I Am Continuing to Give Energy To
At the beginning of this year, I had a list of goals, things I wanted to learn, build, or become. Some of those goals I’ve done well with. Others… not so much. Occasionally, I like to stop, take inventory, and ask myself where my energy is actually going, and whether that’s where I want it to go.
This is a summary, or perhaps a quiet confession, of what I’ve decided is still worth giving energy to.
Socializing
When my wife and I moved to Georgia in 2023, I unintentionally became a hermit. I rarely left the house, and when I did, it was usually to wander around alone — the quiet explorer type, armed with a camera and far too many thoughts. I missed my friends in Florida, and, truthfully, wasn’t ready to start over socially.
But as 2025 began, I decided that needed to change. “Be social,” I told myself, which sounded simple until I had to, you know, do it.
So, I started attending the monthly ATL Shooters events, organized by a fellow photographer named Tony. He picks locations, brings together photographers and models, and somehow makes the whole thing feel like both a creative playground and a social gathering. I’ve met incredible people there, seen inspiring work, and I think — I think — I’ve even made a few friends.
As 2025 winds down and 2026 prepares for her grand entrance, I plan to keep showing up. Keep talking. Keep practicing the strange art of human connection. It’s worth the effort, awkward small talk and all.
Organizing Themed Photo Shoots
For the last several years, I’ve loved organizing themed photoshoots, little cinematic experiments that bring my imagination to life. This year has been no exception.
Through ATL Shooters, I met some wonderful models and hosted a “Bond Girl” photoshoot with MacKenzie, Heather, Morgan, and Hunter. A while later, Heather and I finally made it to Shoal Creek Falls for that waterfall shoot we’d been planning. This month, I have shoots scheduled with Sammi, Maeve, and Gabrielle down in Florida, and in November, I’ll be part of an LGBTQ+ swimwear catalogue rebrand, which still feels a little surreal to say.
There are a dozen more concepts swirling in the back of my mind... a laundromat shoot, something Christmassy, a maternity concept, a dark femme fatale series, and more. I have no plans to stop dreaming them up. If anything, the list just keeps getting longer.
Continuing to Learn Art
One of my goals for 2025 was to study art more deliberately, to dive into art history and teach myself to draw. It sounded romantic in theory. In practice, art history books have the unique power to put me to sleep faster than melatonin. I’ll read a few pages, realize I’ve absorbed nothing, go back, try again, and drift off somewhere around page two.
So, I’ve decided to meet my brain where it lives, in chaos, and explore art history through YouTube channels instead. Maybe that’ll stick better.
As for drawing, progress is slow but real. I have no natural talent, but I’m stubborn, and there’s something grounding about learning a skill that refuses to come easily.
Lately, I’ve also fallen in love with art/junk journaling, the deliciously messy act of gluing scraps and smearing paint across a page until it looks like emotional archaeology. It’s cathartic, unplanned, and I have no intention of stopping. If anything, I suspect my journal pages are only going to get more unhinged as time goes on, and I’m perfectly fine with that.
I Will Continue Going to Therapy
Let’s be honest: I am, like most humans, a bit of a work in progress, cracked in interesting places. Some of that damage is my doing, some of it isn’t, and some of it is just life being life.
This year I found a new therapist. She’s excellent, brilliant, kind, and slightly sadistic in the best way possible. She’s helping me dig into things I’ve buried so deep they probably have fossils by now.
I believe therapy matters. Life is hard, and being human is harder. None of us make it through without scars, and having a place to unpack them safely feels necessary. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a point called “healed.” I’m not even sure that’s the goal. But I am committed to the process, one difficult conversation at a time.
Using My Phone Less
At the start of the year, I made a noble (and wildly optimistic) g
oal to limit my phone use to one hour per day. Naturally, I failed spectacularly.
But the experiment wasn’t a total loss. In fact, some good things came out of it.
First, I started using Spotify less because I finally bought a modded iPod — newbattery, SD card storage, the whole nostalgic package. I’d missed that feeling of listening to music without algorithms lurking nearby, taking notes. Just me, my iPod, and the soundtrack of my day.
Second, I’ve stopped scrolling during shows or movies. For years I’d multitask entertainment, barely absorbing either thing. Now, I try to actually watch what I’m watching, and it turns out, stories are more enjoyable when you’re present for them.
So yes, I’m still on my phone more than an hour a day, but less than I used to be, and that feels like progress worth celebrating.
So What Will the Future Bring?
No idea. I stopped trying to predict the future years ago, she’s too unpredictable, too fond of plot twists.
But I do know this: I plan to keep doing these things. To keep showing up for art, for people, for healing, for myself. To keep finding the things that give energy back instead of draining it away.
The rest will reveal itself in time. It always does.
Spirit Halloween on 35mm Film
Spirit Halloween on 35mm Film
I took my old Olympus mju ii point-and-shoot 35mm, into a Spirit Halloween store. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. Just some fun shots of skeletons, masks, and the chaotic aisles of seasonal weirdness. But film has a way of catching ghosts you don’t see until later.
When I got the scans back, the photos were nothing like what I thought I’d captured. They came out gritty, raw, almost dirty in a way that feels too perfect for Halloween. A cheap mask looks like something cursed. A plastic skeleton feels like it’s waiting for the lights to go out so it can move. Even the props, mass-produced and over-the-top—carry this dingy, haunted vibe you’d never expect in the bright chaos of a store.
And that’s what I love about it.
Film always surprises me. It doesn’t care about perfection or control, it leans into the flaws, the blur, the shadows, the dirt in the frame. That’s where the magic happens. In a world that polishes everything smooth, there’s something thrilling about images that feel a little unhinged, a little haunted. Spirit Halloween is chaotic enough on its own, but through the lens of 35mm film, it becomes something else entirely: a lo-fi fever dream where the plastic monsters feel just a bit too real.
That’s why I keep coming back to film. It makes even the fake look real, and sometimes, realer than I bargained for.
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Shooting DragonCon on 35mm Film
Shooting DragonCon on 35mm Film
This past weekend I was back at DragonCon in Atlanta, GA—my eighth time wandering through the whirlwind of costumes, creativity, and caffeine. Usually, I come armed with my Sony a7iii, photographing cosplay with the clarity and precision of digital perfection. But this year, I decided to do something different.
I left the pro camera at home.
Instead, I carried only my Olympus mju ii, a 35mm point-and-shoot that feels more like a time capsule than a tool.
Why? Because I wanted to see DragonCon differently.
Film doesn’t care about perfection. It doesn’t smooth over the cracks or polish the chaos. It gives you grain, blur, light leaks—accidents that somehow feel more alive than flawless digital files. Shooting DragonCon this way reminded me why I fell in love with photography in the first place.
It felt real. It felt raw.
And in a world overflowing with filters, AI-generated “art,” and endless fakery, that matters to me. I want to create work that can’t be faked—images that carry fingerprints, flaws, and honesty.
The experiment worked. These images? They aren’t just technically strong. They have soul.
So here’s to the imperfect, the unpolished, the beautifully real. Sometimes, leaving the fancy gear behind is the only way to remember why we pick up a camera at all.
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License to Shoot
License to Shoot: A Bond Girl Photoshoot
I’ve been under the spell of James Bond since childhood—specifically, since my father, in what I now recognize as a pivotal act of cultural initiation, sat me down to watch The Living Daylights. Timothy Dalton, sharp as a dagger and smoldering with restraint, was my first Bond—and you never quite forget your first. While the world collectively genuflects before Sean Connery, I remain part of the apostate sect who believe Dalton brought something darker, something truer to the literary Bond: a man caught between duty and self-destruction.
From there, I spiraled gloriously. I’ve seen every Bond film more times than I care to count (or admit), not just as a fan but as a student—examining lighting, color theory, composition, costume design. I studied them the way one might study ancient texts, or deconstruct a fever dream. The Bond universe became, for me, a mythos of aesthetics and archetypes—elegant violence in a tailored suit.
A few years ago, my longtime friend, model, and enduring muse Maeve approached me with a gleam in her eye and a question on her lips: “What if I played a Bond Girl?” Not just any Bond Girl—Xenia Onatopp, that high-camp avatar of lethal sensuality. Of course, I said yes before she’d finished the sentence. That shoot was a glorious collision of style and subtext: velvet shadows, wicked smiles, power and performance stitched into every frame. It awakened something in me—a hunger to do more with this theme, to build something larger out of the world I’d loved for so long.
Fast forward to the present. I decided it was time to return to the world of spies, stilettos, and shadows. I reached out to several new models—Heather, Mackensie, Morgan, and Hunter—all artists in their own right, each with their own edge, grace, and mystery. We met in downtown Atlanta, our city of glass and grit, and transformed it into a living soundstage. Rooftops became rendezvous points. Alleyways whispered secrets. Laughter echoed off brick and concrete as we channeled elegance and espionage beneath the Southern sun.
Every photograph was a collaboration, a dance of glances and lighting, attitude and atmosphere. While editing, I leaned into a film noir palette: deep blacks, sharp contrasts, the quiet menace of chiaroscuro. And for the first time in my career, I brought out my Canon AE-1 and loaded it with black and white film. There’s something sacred about shooting analog—it slows you down, makes you breathe, forces intention into every frame. It felt right. It felt Bond.
The results? Nothing short of electric. These weren’t just photos; they were stories mid-sentence—freeze-frames of intrigue, moments charged with glamour and danger. I looked through the final images and saw not just Bond Girls, but icons in their own right. Women who didn’t need rescuing. Women who were the storm.
I can’t wait to work with these remarkable models again. There’s more in this world to explore—more themes, more tension, more romance dressed in danger. And in the spirit of Bond himself, I’ll keep chasing the next beautiful shot, the next story told in shadow and silver.
After all, what is photography but espionage with light?
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