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The Terrible Creative is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative professionals working through the parts of the creative process no gear review or business course ever covers.
Each episode is 30 to 40 minutes. Solo. Story-driven. Built around mental health, artistic identity, and what honest work costs in a career rewarding performance over truth.
This is not a photography podcast about cameras, presets, or client strategy. This is a podcast about the inner experience of being a creative professional, made for the mid-career photographer or designer who has mastered the technical side but lost the thread.
Hosted by Patrick Fore, commercial photographer, author, and former lead photographer and brand designer for Taylor Guitars. His work has appeared globally for clients like Nike, Petco, and Verizon. He built this show because none of the podcasts he found addressed the real problem.
If you are a photographer or creative professional who feels competent on the outside and quietly lost on the inside, you are a Terrible Creative. This is your podcast.
The Revolt
Saint Petersburg, 1863. The Imperial Academy of Arts rose from the banks of the Neva River like a monument to power itself—neoclassical columns stretching toward gray Russian skies, marble corridors that echoed with two centuries of artistic obedience.
Inside these halls, fourteen young men were about to commit career suicide.
These weren't struggling bohemians scraping paint from their fingernails. They were the chosen ones. The best and brightest from across the Russian Empire, hand-picked to become the next generation of officially sanctioned artists.
The Academy didn't just train painters—it manufactured them. Like a factory for acceptable beauty. It decided what art looked like, what mattered, what sold to the aristocrats whose walls needed filling.
The rules were carved deeper than stone: paint gods, not peasants. Battles from centuries past, not the poverty outside your window. Mythology, not reality. Venus rising from foam, not mothers burying children from cholera.
For years, these students had played the game with devastating precision. They could render every sinew in Hercules' arm, every fold in Athena's robes. They painted Norse gods with anatomical perfection while serfs starved in the streets below.
Their professors were legends. Their techniques were flawless. Their futures were guaranteed—if they kept painting what they were told to paint.
But Russia was changing. Peasants were being freed from serfdom. Writers like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky were exposing the raw truth of Russian life. And these artists wanted their brushes to tell that truth too.
The Academy said no. Art should elevate, not disturb. Inspire, not challenge.
And then came the breaking point…
My name is Patrick Fore. This is the Terrible Photographer podcast and today’s episode is called, The Revolt.
We'll come back to those fourteen revolutionaries in a moment. But first, let's talk about what passes for rebellion in our world.
Today, most photographers aren't dealing with marble academies or imperial decrees. But the system is still there—it's just wrapped in softer language and prettier interfaces.
We don't paint Odin anymore. We shoot "on-brand."
We don't answer to emperors.
We answer to something way more lame, we answer to the likes and the fucking algorithms.
And sometimes, the trap feels exactly like success
SEGMENT 1: THE DOPAMINE DEALERS
Let's talk about what's actually happening in your brain when you post something.
Every like is a hit of dopamine. Every save, a small chemical reward. Your brain whispers: You're doing it right. Keep going.
This isn't metaphor. It's neuroscience. The same reward pathway that responds to cocaine, gambling, and sex is lighting up every time someone double-taps your image. Variable ratio reinforcement—the most addictive conditioning schedule known to psychology.
You post ten things, get a decent response on seven, blow up on one. Your brain doesn't remember the seven. It remembers the one. And it wants that high again.
But here's what the platforms don't tell you: they're not rewarding creativity. They're rewarding compliance.
Instagram doesn't care if your photo says something true about the human condition. It cares if it stops a thumb from scrolling.
TikTok doesn't want your unique perspective. It wants your participation in whatever trend is driving engagement this week.
The algorithm isn't curating art. It's manufacturing addiction.
And here's where it gets insidious: this conditioning doesn't stay online.
You're out shooting, and suddenly you're not just seeing a moment—you're calculating its viral potential. That beautiful, quiet landscape at golden hour? Your brain instantly runs the numbers: Everyone's doing golden hour. Not unique enough.
The raw emotion at a wedding ceremony? Too real. Brides want dreamy, not documentary.
A candid street moment that tells a story? Not punchy enough for the explore page.
You start editing not for the image, but for the response you're anticipating. Color grading becomes less about mood and more about what's trending in the feeds you've studied like scripture.
We've turned into casino gamblers, pulling the slot machine lever of social media, hoping for the jackpot of viral validation. But the real tragedy isn't that we're addicted to the platform.
It's that the platform has rewired how we see. Even when we're alone with our camera, there's a phantom audience in our heads, judging every creative choice through the lens of social media metrics.
The house always wins. And the house doesn't give a shit about your art.
SEGMENT 2: THE GREAT TASTE HEIST
Here's how it happens:
You start with instincts. A point of view. A way of seeing that's uniquely yours.
Then you open the app.
Suddenly, you're not looking at the world anymore. You're looking at how other people looked at the world. And how other people responded to how other people looked at the world.
You start shooting like you're auditioning for a job you didn't apply for.
What would they like? Is this trendy enough? Should I make it more contrasty? More film-like? More whatever-the-explore-page-is-serving-today?
It's creative outsourcing. You've delegated your taste to strangers who wouldn't know your artistic vision if it bit them on their perfectly curated aesthetic.
Imagine Miles Davis, 1959. Studio lights low, tape rolling.
He’s about to record Kind of Blue — one of the most iconic jazz records of all time.
And just before he lifts the horn to his lips, he pulls out his phone.
“Hang on. Let me scroll real quick. Gotta see what the other trumpet guys are posting. What’s popping right now — modal scales or hot takes on bebop? Should we toss in a TikTok break? We should do some fake outtakes for Instagram”
Kind of Blue never gets made.
We get Kind of Lame instead.
But that's what we do. Every day. We scroll ourselves stupid, then wonder why our work feels hollow.
And here's the deeper cut: this isn't just about losing your voice. It's about losing your ability to hear your voice in the first place.
Your creative instincts are like a muscle. Use them, they get stronger. Ignore them, they atrophy.
You spend enough time copying, mimicking, chasing trends—and soon that quiet voice that used to whisper strange, wonderful ideas goes silent. Trained out. Flattened by repetition.
You become a content printer. Not a photographer.
But some photographers never even develop that muscle. They didn't lose their voice—they never found it.
They entered photography through the side door of presets and influencer tutorials. They learned to replicate before they learned to create. Born into a prison cell of carbon copies, they've never seen a blue sky or touched grass.
They're still in the cover band. Five years in, ten years in—doesn't matter. They're playing other people's songs with technical perfection, wondering why it feels hollow.
These are the photographers who ask, "What's your style?" because they genuinely don't understand that style isn't something you choose from a menu. It's something that emerges when you stop trying to be anyone else.
They're stuck in the copy machine, making increasingly perfect reproductions of someone else's vision. The tragedy isn't that they're bad at photography—they're often technically brilliant. The tragedy is they've never been alone with their own perspective long enough to discover what it looks like.
They think creativity is a preset. That vision is a filter. That art is an algorithm you can reverse-engineer.
But you can't copy your way to authenticity. You can't tutorial your way to a point of view. You can't Instagram your way to an artistic voice.
The only way out is through. Through the discomfort of not knowing what you're doing. Through the embarrassment of making something that doesn't look like anything you've seen before. Through the terrifying freedom of having no template to follow.
Quick break from the ranting to tell you about two things I’m genuinely excited about.
First — Field Notes.
This is my weekly dispatch. Think of it like a creative postcard — a recap of the episode, a few extra thoughts I didn’t fit in, maybe a weird link, a quote, or a reminder that you’re not losing your mind — the world is just broken.
It drops every Thursday morning, straight into your inbox.
It’s short. It’s honest. And it’s one of the few emails you’ll actually look forward to opening.
You can sign up at terriblephotographer.com — link’s in the show notes.
And second — we’re now on Substack.
If you don’t know Substack, it’s basically a platform for newsletters and essays, but with a twist: it’s built for community.
You can like, comment, share your own thoughts — it’s not just me shouting into the void. It’s a place to keep the conversation going.
Because honestly?
I’m not trying to build a fanbase.
I want to build a circle — a weird, honest, creative rebellion where more voices get involved.
So if you ever feel like talking back, or adding your take, or even just reading what others have to say — head over to theterriblephotographer.substack.com/
Or just check the show notes. (Someone told me they like to listen to this podcast while mowing their lawn. I don’t want them to run over their foot or the neighbors cat or something)
Anyway, SubStack - check it out.
Alright — back to the episode.
SEGMENT 3: THE CAMOUFLAGE ECONOMY
Somewhere along the way, invisibility became a business strategy.
Be on-trend. Be safe. Be technically perfect. Above all else—be approved of.
It's professional camouflage. The goal isn't to stand out; it's to fit in so well you become indispensable.
You've seen these portfolios. The wedding galleries where every couple looks like they stepped out of the same magazine. The landscape collections that could be playing cards—technically perfect, completely interchangeable. The street photography that's more concerned with urban cool than human truth.
It's the visual equivalent of elevator music.
But here's what blows my mind: we've convinced ourselves this is smart. That blending in is the path to success.
The photographers whose work actually matters? The ones you remember five years later? Their images make you a little uncomfortable. They interrupt the feed. They weren't made for the feed.
They were made because someone had something to say and couldn't keep quiet about it.
SEGMENT 4: THE SAINT PETERSBURG SOLUTION
Remember those fourteen artists I mentioned? The ones who walked away from everything?
Here's what actually happened that day in 1863.
The Academy announced its annual competition—the golden ticket to career success. Gold medal, scholarship to Rome, guaranteed patronage from the royal court. Everything a Russian artist could dream of.
The assigned subject was painted on a plaque in the main hall: "Odin's Feast in Valhalla."
Norse mythology. Again. While outside the Academy's marble walls, Russia was convulsing with change—serfs gaining freedom, writers exposing brutal truths, society questioning everything it had believed for centuries.
These fourteen artists looked at that plaque. They looked at each other.
And they did something unthinkable.
They walked out.
Not quietly. Not politely. They gathered their brushes, their paints, their half-finished canvases, and they left. In front of their professors. In front of their peers. In front of everyone who mattered in Russian art.
The Academy was furious. These weren't just students—they were investments. The future of Russian artistic prestige. And they had just committed professional suicide.
The consequences were immediate and brutal. No more free tuition. No more guaranteed commissions. No more safety net of institutional support. Some of their families disowned them—sons of merchants and minor nobility who had sacrificed everything to get their children into the Academy.
They were blacklisted from official exhibitions. Mocked in the press. Called traitors to Russian culture.
But they didn't care.
They called themselves the Peredvizhniki—the Wanderers. They would take their art directly to the people, traveling from town to town with mobile exhibitions. They painted peasant life, urban poverty, the raw truth of what Russia actually looked like.
Their work was gritty, uncomfortable, real. It made people angry. It made them think. It couldn't be ignored.
Within a decade, they had transformed Russian art forever. The Academy eventually had to change its entire approach just to stay relevant.
These artists risked everything—careers, families, financial security—to paint what they saw instead of what they were told to see.
They gave a middle finger to the most powerful art institution in the Russian Empire.
We can't even risk a few likes.
We are cowards with cameras. Sheep with shares. Lemmings with likes.
We have more creative freedom than any generation in history, and we use it to make the same safe, sanitized content as everyone else.
So what do you do when you realize you've been painting Odin your whole career?
So what do you do when you realize you've been painting Odin your whole career?
First: Notice the moment of compromise. The exact second when you change an edit because of how it might "perform." When you skip the weird shot. When you're afraid to post the work that actually moves you.
That's the moment you're in the academy, bowing to the emperor.
Second: Make something just for you. Don't post it. Don't share it. Don't even show your closest friends. Let it exist in the space between your vision and your camera. Let it breathe without needing approval.
Third: Remember what you're actually building. Not an audience. A body of work.
THE CHALLENGE
Maybe while you were listening to this episode, a specific photo came to mind.
Maybe it’s been sitting in your archive for months… or years. An image you felt something for when you took it, but it just never made it out into the world. It didn’t fit the grid. It didn’t feel “on brand.” It was too quiet. Too off. Too real.
I’ve got plenty of those. Shots that still hit me in the gut, but I held them back because they didn’t check the right boxes.
Here’s the thing: those are often the ones that matter the most.
I’m not telling you to post it. I’m not giving you homework. Just… maybe look at it again.
And maybe—if it still says something to you—you let it live. Not for likes. Not for approval. Just because it’s yours.
The Wanderers didn’t walk out of that marble fortress to grow their audience.
They walked out because they had something honest to say.
CLOSING
Let's recap what we've covered today:
Social media platforms have weaponized your brain's reward system, turning creativity into a dopamine slot machine. Every like conditions you to create not for truth, but for compliance.
This conditioning doesn't stay online—it follows you into the field, into your editing room, into every creative decision. You're never really alone with your vision anymore. There's always a phantom audience judging your choices through the lens of social metrics.
We've outsourced our taste to strangers who don't know us, don't understand our vision, and frankly, don't care about our artistic growth. We're reverse-engineering our creativity to fit algorithms designed to manufacture engagement, not art.
The photography world has convinced itself that blending in is smart business. That safety equals success. But the photographers who actually matter—whether they're capturing raw human moments at weddings, finding new ways to see familiar landscapes, or documenting street life with honest eyes—their images interrupt the feed because they weren't made for it.
Meanwhile, 160 years ago, fourteen Russian artists risked everything—careers, families, social standing—to paint what they saw instead of what they were told to see. They gave up guaranteed success to pursue authentic expression.
We won't even risk a few likes.
The question isn't whether people will approve of your work. The question is whether you can look at what you've made and recognize yourself in it.
Or whether you've become so good at playing the game that you've forgotten who you were before you learned the rules.
The academy is always hiring. The algorithm is always hungry.
But your vision—the weird, uncomfortable, undeniably you perspective that made you pick up a camera in the first place—that's worth protecting.
So last week, I mentioned I was done giving weekly “challenges.”
Not because they were bad — but because I’m not your creative director.
You don’t need another assignment. You need a little oxygen.
So I’m replacing them with something new:
I call them Light Leaks.
(Yes. It’s cheesy. But it fits — perfectly flawed.)
Here’s the deal:
Light Leaks aren’t homework.
They’re more like interruptions.
A question. A nudge. A quiet reminder of what your instincts sound like, before the algorithm edits them out.
Sometimes they’ll lead to new work.
Sometimes they’ll just get you thinking.
Sometimes they’ll sting — and that’s probably the one you needed.
I’ll drop a new one here every week.
You’ll also get it in Field Notes — my weekly email, free from filters and For You pages.
You can sign up at terriblephotographer.com.
One note, once a week, from me to you. That’s it.
This Week’s Light Leak: The One That Haunts You
This week, I want you to go hunting.
Not scrolling. Not casually browsing.
Hunting.
Look for a photograph that punches you in the creative soul.
The kind of image that makes you pause — maybe even ache a little.
It doesn’t need to fit your niche, your brand, or your genre.
In fact, it probably won’t.
It might be a strange portrait, or a blurry street scene, or a painfully still landscape.
It might be a photo you took years ago and buried.
Or someone else’s image that hits something deep in you — something you don’t fully understand yet.
Here’s the rule:
It doesn’t need to impress your clients.
Or your photographer friends.
Or your partner. Or your parents.
This one is just for you.
When you find it, don’t just save it.
Keep it.
Print it out.
Tape it somewhere private.
Or drop it into a fresh note on your phone.
Wherever it lives, it should be easy to return to.
Then I want you to describe it — with words.
Yes. Words.
What’s in the frame?
How does it make you feel — and why?
What’s working — the light, the color, the messiness, the honesty?
And then?
Let it sit.
Don’t rush to recreate it.
Don’t analyze it to death.
Just let it haunt you.
Let it whisper. Let it nudge.
Because this might be the image pulling you into a new season of your work.
Something raw. Or weird. Or terrifyingly real.
Something true.
And when the self-doubt creeps in — because it will — and you catch yourself thinking:
“I could never do that because…”
“If I did something like that, it would hurt my brand…”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin…”
Recognize it for what it is: bullshit.
Fear disguised as logic.
It’s not helping you.
So ignore it.
And listen to the image instead.
Let it lead you somewhere.
Not now.
Not yet.
Just… soon.
Again, if you this sent to your inbox every week?
You can sign up for Field Notes at terriblephotographer.com.
No fluff. No spam. Just one small disruption a week — from me to you.
Stay curious, stay courageous, and yeah, stay terrible.