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.
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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A Quiet Trail Away from History
Ethical Hiking in Georgia
Yesterday, my wife and I went for a hike here in Georgia—a last-minute decision sparked sometime around 1:30 in the afternoon, the kind of plan that comes together more on instinct than intention. But even spontaneity has its roadblocks. Most of the trails near our place wind through Kennesaw Mountain, a site heavy with Civil War history—Confederate cannons still poised as if waiting, statues carved in reverence, and museums that feel like they’re trying too hard to remember the wrong side of things.
Neither of us felt comfortable walking through that sort of curated nostalgia. So we kept searching, scrolling through park listings and trail maps until we found a quiet spot not too far away—no monuments, no ghosts, just trees and trail.
We threw on our boots and headed out. The hike was gorgeous—sunlight filtered through the canopy in ribbons, the air smelled like warm earth and green things. As usual, I brought my Sony a7iii, convincing myself I might use it. I didn’t. It hung off my shoulder like a very expensive mistake, while my Galaxy S23 did all the real work, snapping quick photos and short videos along the way. I really ought to stop bringing the Sony on these kinds of hikes—it’s just extra weight I carry out of habit.
Still, it was a good day. One of those slow, quiet adventures that sneaks up on you and stays a while.
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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Artistic Integrity: Making Choices That Serve the Work
Artistic Integrity: Making Choices That Serve the Work
When I was in high school, I attended a local community play. I don’t remember much about the story, but I do remember two things:
1. The cast was made up entirely of underage high school students.
2. There was a scene where two female actors sat on a park bench, having a conversation while smoking stage cigarettes.
At the time, the choice to have them smoke felt strange—out of place. The actors were clearly inexperienced with smoking, and it added nothing to the dialogue or the overall performance. It wasn’t a pivotal moment in the story, nor did it serve any artistic purpose. So why include it? Why did the director make that choice?
Later, it came to light that the director had a disturbing attraction to underage girls and a fetish for women smoking. In hindsight, his choice made perfect, unsettling sense—it wasn’t about the art. It was about his own desires, disguised as a creative decision.
That experience has stayed with me. As a photographer and artist, I often reflect on that moment in the audience—the feeling that something was off, even before I understood why. It serves as a constant reminder to question my own creative choices. Am I making this decision because it enhances the art? Or is it serving something personal, something unrelated to the work itself? If I find that it's the latter, more often than not, I remove it—because I remember.
I sometimes see artwork on social media that makes me wonder about the motivations behind its creation. But to be clear, I don’t believe it’s inherently wrong for artists to make personal choices in their work. Art is often deeply personal. Some of the most profound pieces in history were born from an artist’s private emotions, desires, and experiences.
Art is also subjective—what speaks to one person may not resonate with another. But I do believe that as artists, we should always take a moment to examine our intentions. Are we making choices that truly serve the piece, or are they fulfilling something else? Learning to distinguish between personal impulses and artistic integrity is an ongoing process, but it’s one worth pursuing.
Because in the end, great art isn’t just about what we want to create—it’s about what we choose to share with the world
I Decided Not To Be A Hermit - Atlanta Shooters Event
I Decided Not To Be A Hermit - Atlanta Shooters Event
Since moving to Atlanta, I’ve been, well… a bit of a hermit. I’ve never been particularly great at making friends, and truth be told, I enjoy my solitude. There’s something deeply comforting about being at home, surrounded by my books, a fresh cup of coffee, and the warm, familiar presence of my pets. My most comfortable chairs are perfectly arranged in various corners of my house, each strategically placed for reading, thinking, or simply existing without the pressure of social interaction. And, most importantly, at home, I don’t have to wear pants—an underrated luxury.
But as nice as that sounds, there’s an undeniable downside to self-imposed isolation: loneliness. After spending the better part of a year holed up in my own little world, I had to admit that my social life was practically nonexistent. I wasn’t just lacking friends—I was actively avoiding situations where I could make them. And while I love my books, coffee, and pets, they aren’t exactly great at engaging in meaningful conversation.
So, when 2025 rolled around, I made a decision. This year, I would step outside my comfort zone and push myself to be more social. Specifically, I set a goal to attend at least twelve photography events—one per month. If nothing else, it would force me to interact with other people, and, with any luck, I might even make a friend or two along the way.
Fast forward to January 25th. I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, as one does, when I saw that Atlanta Shooters was hosting a model and photographer meetup in downtown Atlanta. The only problem? It was starting in less than an hour. Normally, this would be the perfect excuse to pass it up—I wasn’t mentally prepared, I hadn’t planned ahead, and I wasn’t even sure if I was in the mood for socializing. But something in me hesitated. Before I could talk myself out of it, I messaged Tony, the organizer, to see if there was still room for one more photographer. To my surprise, he responded almost immediately with a simple “Yeah, come on down!”
Now I had a new problem. Not only did I have to get dressed immediately—a challenge in itself—but I also had to gather all my camera gear, which was currently scattered in various states of disarray around my house. Batteries? Who knew if I had any charged. Lenses? Probably still in my backpack from my last shoot (whenever that was). Memory cards? Hopefully not still sitting in my laptop.
What followed was a frantic, last-minute scramble to throw everything into my camera bag, hoping I wasn’t forgetting something crucial. Miraculously, I managed to get my act together and rush out the door in time for the 30-minute drive into the city.
I arrived on time—something of a small miracle in itself—and found a solid turnout of both photographers and models. The energy was great. People were chatting, setting up shots, and exchanging ideas. After a brief moment of awkward hesitation (should I introduce myself first? Wait for someone to talk to me?), I took a deep breath and did what I came there to do—I started shooting.
What followed was an unexpectedly fantastic evening. I met some incredibly talented photographers, learned a few new tricks, and had the chance to work with some amazing models. More importantly, I actually enjoyed myself. It turns out that even someone as socially resistant as me can have a good time in the right setting.
And you know what? I’m glad I went. Because at the end of the day, as much as I love being a hermit, there’s something to be said for stepping outside, engaging with the world, and creating something new.
Oh, and the photos? Well, just take a look for yourself.
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