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The Terrible Photographer is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
I was in my garage last Tuesday, in my dark abyss photo cave—the one where I covered the windows with the darkest tint I could find, then backed it up with black foam core just so I could lose all sense of time. I was sweating, honestly, because I have no A/C out there, and I was shooting... beef tallow.
Not prime rib. Not a Michelin-star Gourmet prep station. Just a jar of grass-fed, organic, hand-rendered cow fat on a white background. Because apparently, civilization has advanced to the point where we've reinvented lard and given it a better branding.
I honestly have no idea what you do with this stuff. Eat it? Moisturize with it? Exercise demons? No clue. I didn't even know what it was until Robert F. Kennedy came on the scene, and like so many things, I was forced to know something I very much didn't care to know.
I’m there, moving a quarter-inch white foam core card, adjusting the highlights on the side of this jar for the fourth time—because apparently, the specular highlights on a jar of solidified animal fat are really fucking important. Like all hell would break loose if those highlights weren't symmetrical. Like my entire business would tank, my family would starve, and we'd be living under an overpass if I didn't move that foam core three-eighths of an inch so the highlight was equal distance on each side of the label.
And after I finished the eight-ounce jar and moved to the twelve-ounce variant, I kinda lost my shit a little.
I picked up my phone and saw a photographer shooting attractive women hanging out of Audi sports cars. You know, cool shit. Meanwhile, my beautiful, overpriced camera—the device capable of capturing light and soul and meaning—is pointed at cholesterol in a jar.
I used to shoot album covers. Editorial spreads. Rolling freakin' Stone. Now I'm one lighting ratio away from working at ButterWorld.
I have had my portraits hang in actual galleries where people pondered the work for more than three seconds before scrolling past! I've had my work literally on the side of buildings that required a crane and a liability waiver just to install! I've led and photographed six-figure campaigns for national brands! I've written a bloody book on photography!
And yet, here I am. In my dark-ass garage. On a Tuesday. Adjusting a softbox because the subtle shadow on this $36 jar of fat isn't quite right for the product page listing.
I'm doing the most tedious, commoditized, creatively bankrupt task available to my skillset, while everything I know I can do seems to have just vanished into a puff of macroeconomic smoke.
"Why in the hell," I actually whispered out loud to this jar of solidified cow rendering, with all the fury and existential dread of a man who just realized he's a cog in a machine that only produces unnecessary luxury goods, "Why in the hell am I photographing jars of beef fat in my garage on a Tuesday?"
And right in the middle of my little career temper tantrum—somewhere between "why am I doing this?" and "maybe I'll move to the woods"—my phone and Mac both pinged at the same time. A text.
My friend Candice. An illustrator in St. Louis. Checking in. I swear, it was like the universe sending me a push notification that said: "Snap out of it, stop being a whiny little... never mind."
So naturally, of course, I lied. Typed back: "Oh yeah, things are pretty okay here... how are you? How's business been for you?"
And she said: "Yeah um, not great. Everything is a dumpster fire out there."
And that's when I realized: We are both standing in rooms full of smoke. We are both coughing and hacking and wondering where the fire is. But I think, for some different reasons.
...
I should say this up front, to give you an update on my business how i’m doing—I'm not drowning. Back in May and June, it was a different story, but things are a different story. Things are okay. Go back and listen to those episodes if you want to here what that is like. I have to worn you though, there isn’t any sunshine or rainbows and I don’t know how to hold back.
But I digress, business isn't dead. It is strange though.
I'm getting just enough work to keep the train moving, you know? Not glamorous, not thrilling, but steady. And honestly, I'm grateful for it. I'll shoot jars of beef fat all day long if it means the bills get paid and the lights stay on.
So here's what I've been thinking about a lot.
When I ran my numbers last week, I realized I'm actually behind where I was in 2023—my first year freelancing.
Not flat. Not plateaued. Backwards.
And I can't shake the feeling that it's not just me.
Candice said she's drowning in silence.
The news says "recession," "volatility," "soft landing." Every headline sounds like a euphemism for "we have no idea what's happening."
I'm working—but it's different work. Less of the sexy, big-idea stuff. More of the "keep the lights on" stuff.
And yeah, I know part of that is marketing, positioning, timing.
But I also think there's something bigger happening. Something structural.
It's like the current shifted, and nobody told the swimmers.
The economy didn't just slow down. It split in half.
And I think I figured out why everyone feels like they're either sprinting or sinking—but nobody's explaining it to freelancers.
...
My name is Patrick Fore, and this is The Terrible Photographer Podcast, where we have honest conversations about creativity, identity, and discovering your voice.
Today is episode 34. I'm calling it "Economic Dumpster Fire"
I'm excited you're here—and if this is your first time, welcome.
Today we're talking about work, money, and why we all need more of it—and why we're not getting enough of it.
Let me show you what I found.
[THE SPLIT]
Now, I need to say this up front: the US economy isn't a monolith. Neither is the UK, or Europe, or anywhere else.
Different regions get hit at different times. Different sectors experience completely different realities.
Some of you are listening to this thinking, "What the hell are you talking about? Things are fine here. I'm booked through March."
And some of you are thinking, "Preach. Finally someone's saying it."
Some of you have more work than you can handle. You're turning clients away. Your problem isn't finding work—it's managing the volume. You're eating well.
And some of you are really struggling right now. Your calendar is empty. You're refreshing your email hoping for something, anything. You're barely scraping by.
Both of those experiences are real. Both are valid.
But here’s the thing—you can't fight a problem until you can see it. You need a simple image, a simple mental model, to explain why your calendar is either empty or jammed with beef tallow.
So, let's play a little imagination game shall we? Like we were kids. I want you to picture a city block, somewhere busy, but maybe a little worn down. I want you to imagine that we’re no longer photographers, that we are chefs in a restaurant. We don’t make images anymore, we make food, got it.
Stay with me, I think this explains why both my illustrator friend and I (maybe you) are drowning at the same time.
Picture three restaurants in a row. Three completely different dining experiences, different patrons, different price points, right next to each other.
...
There are three restaurants in town.
Restaurant One is the local (non-franchise) burger place. Walk-up window. Food in paper bags. Drinks in foam cups, been there for 40 years—Diet Coke, not craft cocktails. Nothing fancy, but it's good, it's fast, and it's cheap. The line is always out the door. People need to eat. This place isn't going anywhere.
Restaurant Two is the casual sit-down spot. (Again, non-franchised) Local ingredients. Quality food. Delicious, but reasonable. The kind of place where you'd take your family for a birthday dinner or meet friends for drinks on a Friday. Not cheap, but not insane. Good value for good work.
That place used to be packed every weekend. Reservations required. Buzzing bar. Waitlist at the host stand.
But if you drive by now? Empty parking lot. Half the lights are off. There's a "For Lease" sign in the window.
It didn't close because the food got worse. It closed because the people who used to eat there—the middle class with a little discretionary income, the families celebrating something special but not extravagant—they can't afford it anymore. They're at the burger window now. Or they're eating at home.
Restaurant Three is the Michelin-starred place downtown. Multi-course tasting menu. Wine pairings. Lobster tails and gin martinis. Three hundred dollars per person before tip. Gilded everything. Valet parking.
That place? Still booked solid. Reservations three months out. The people who eat there are fine. They've always been fine. A recession doesn't touch them.
...
So yeah—some of you are eating burgers and drinking Diet Coke. Some of you are eating lobster tails and drinking gin martinis.
But here's what I found when I dug into the data:
The middle restaurant isn't just slow. It's closed.
The cheap place is still functioning. The expensive place is still functioning.
But the middle place—the place where most people used to eat, the place that served the most customers, the place that actually sustained a vibrant local economy—that place is gone.
And if you're a freelancer, you're either flipping burgers at the window—commodity work, fast and cheap—or you're trying to get hired at the Michelin spot—luxury clients, high-end corporate.
Because the restaurant you used to work at? The one with reasonable prices and good creative work and clients who valued what you brought to the table?
It's closed.
And nobody told you it was closing until you showed up for your shift and the doors were locked.
That's not happening everywhere. Not all at once. But it's a pattern. And the data proves it.
Let me show you.
[THE DATA: WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED]
Let me show you the numbers. Because this isn't theoretical. This is measurable.
The Service Sector Flatlined
The US service sector—which is, by the way, the largest part of the US economy, the big engine that drives everything—basically stopped moving in September 2025. Not slowed down. Stopped.
The index they use to measure this, it's called the ISM Services Index. And it hit a number that, if you're an economist, makes you pour a very strong drink: 50.0.
Now, what the hell is 50.0?
Think of it like a car's speedometer. In economics, the number 50 is the stagnation line. It's the moment the engine disengages. Anything above 50 means the economy is pushing the gas and growing. Anything below 50 means it's hitting the brakes and shrinking.
At 50.0, the engine didn't stall. It didn't speed up. It just turned off. It’s just idling. You're sitting at a stoplight, but the light is stuck on yellow and you're not going anywhere.
And historically, for this thing to feel healthy, for things to feel good, that number should be around 54.7. We weren't just a little below average; we were sitting exactly at the point where the whole thing just says, "Nah, I'm good."
The service sector, our sector, is effectively frozen.
And here's why this matters to you, the freelancer:
Photography, design, illustration, writing, consulting—we're all service providers. We live and breathe in this sector. When it flatlines, when the engine just sits there idling, we feel it first. We feel it hardest.
When a company's budget gets tight, what do they cut? They don't cut the product already on the shelf. They cut the services. The freelancers. The creatives. The line items that aren't nailed down.
That's us.
Credit Dried Up
Over in Europe, banks tightened credit standards for business loans in Q3 2025. Even though inflation is finally coming down.
They're not lending. They're holding onto capital.
Thirty-seven percent of European businesses postponed, canceled, or scaled back investment plans.
So when your client ghosts you mid-negotiation? When they say "we're really interested" and then disappear into the void?
That's not about your portfolio. That's not about your pricing. That's about their bank saying no.
Consumers Are Broke
Eighty-four percent of people with credit card debt say it's affecting their financial decisions. They're delaying major purchases. Cutting anything non-essential.
Family portraits? Personal branding shoots? Anything that feels like a luxury?
They're out.
But Here's The Crazy Part
The top 20% of households are responsible for two-thirds of all consumption in the US right now.
Two-thirds.
The wealthiest 20% are basically keeping the entire consumer economy afloat.
And they're still spending. But selectively. On specific things.
Baby Boomers are spending on experiences—travel, dining, luxury services.
Gen Z—the ones with access to family wealth—are spending on goods. Apparel, electronics, products.
So the money didn't disappear. It concentrated.
The middle collapsed. The top stayed stable. The bottom got crushed.
That's bifurcation.
[WHY WE'RE BOTH DROWNING]
Now it makes sense, right?
Candice primarily works with small businesses and middle-market brands. The exact segment that's getting crushed. They can't get credit. They're postponing projects. They're canceling everything non-essential.
She's standing outside Restaurant Two. The doors are locked. The "For Lease" sign is up. She's waiting for customers who can't afford to come back.
Me? I'm working at Restaurant One. The burger window. Fast, cheap, functional work that keeps the lights on.
Not because I suddenly got worse at what I do. Not because my work declined.
But because Restaurant Two closed. Those mid-tier clients who valued creative direction, who had reasonable budgets, who actually cared about the craft—a lot of them disappeared into that collapsed middle market.
What's left is Restaurant One work—the beef tallow shoots, the commodity e-commerce that pays bills while I pivot—or Restaurant Three work, the high-end luxury and corporate clients I'm trying to reposition toward.
We're both casualties of the same closed restaurant. Just standing on different sides of the locked door.
Where The Money Actually Is (Three Open Restaurants)
So, if the middle bistro is closed, where are the people who can still afford to eat? Where do we, the freelancers, actually go to sell our beautiful, hard-earned craft?
We don't need theory right now. We need tactics. And what I found is that the money flowed into three highly specific places.
1. The Luxury & Experience Market
This is about where the discretionary money is still flowing, but it split in two, so you have to be specific. Don't think "everyone rich." Think segmented spending.
For the Retail/Lifestyle Creatives: Baby Boomers with wealth are spending on experiences. They are traveling, dining, buying luxury services. They want high-quality documentation of that experience before they kick the bucket. So, if you shoot lifestyle, travel, fine dining, or high-end hospitality—that's your target. You're selling access and memory.
For the Commercial/Product Creatives: Younger, affluent consumers (the ones with access to generational wealth, let's be honest) are still buying goods. Apparel, high-end electronics, niche products, new brands. That’s the e-commerce gold rush. If you shoot products, look for brands targeting Gen Z or younger Millennials with serious cash.
You have to know which one you're targeting. Sell luxury travel to a 25-year-old or streetwear product shots to a 75-year-old, and you'll starve. The money is there, but the aisles are separated.
2. Institutional Clients (The Boring, Stable Stuff)
This is the stuff nobody puts on their Instagram or their sexy portfolio site, but it's consistent. Think of this as the corporate cafeteria—it never closes.
This work is recession-resistant because it's not marketing; it's operations, compliance, and risk management. It doesn't stop during a downturn because it's mandatory.
When a company hires fifty new people, they need corporate headshots.
When a hospital expands, they need facility photography for accreditation.
When an insurance company processes a massive claim, they need documentation that holds up in court.
Real estate doesn't stop needing pictures.
It’s unsexy. Your art school friends will judge you for shooting industrial architecture. But it pays the rent, and it's predictable. It buys you the time to do the creative work you actually want to do later.
3. High-Growth Sectors (The AI & Health Boom)
Even when the main economy feels flat, some industries are aggressively expanding. They have budgets for creative work, and they are using it for recruiting and investor relations, because they're either essential or they're riding a massive tech wave.
Here are the heavy hitters:
Information Technology (IT): Think AI, data, software. They need clean, authoritative images for product launches and, more importantly, to attract talent.
Finance & Real Estate (FinTech): They need to look trustworthy and modern. Headshots, materials, and digital-first design.
Healthcare & Life Sciences: Hospitals, biotech, pharma. They are essential services. They need photographers and designers for patient-facing materials, recruiting, and facility shots.
These companies aren't just surviving; they are expanding their workforce. That means they need visual content from us. They have money because they are either essential (healthcare) or directly benefiting from current trends (AI, fintech). Everyone else is cutting.
[WHAT TO ACTUALLY DO TOMORROW]
Okay, so that's the diagnosis. The economy bifurcated. Restaurant Two closed. You need to pivot.
But what does that actually mean on Monday morning?
Because you can't just wake up and suddenly have a roster of IT clients or luxury brand accounts. That's not how this works.
So here's what you can do. This week. Not someday. This week.
Audit Your Current Clients: Find Your Exposure
Pull up your client list from the last 12 months. All of them.
Now, divide them into three categories—and yes, we are using the restaurant names, because it makes this simple:
The Counter (Restaurant One): Commodity/Stable work. IT, finance, healthcare, government, large institutions, e-commerce product volume. These clients are either recession-proof or benefiting from current trends. They represent a stable market.
The Bistro (Restaurant Two): Collapsing Middle. Small businesses, mid-market brands, general consumers with discretionary income (like family/seniors). These clients are hurting. They might come back eventually, but right now, this is the exposed market segment.
The Gilded Room (Restaurant Three): Affluent/Luxury. High-end residential, luxury brands, affluent consumer services, big ad agency creative budgets. These clients are still spending, but they're selective.
Look at where most of your revenue came from. If it’s heavily The Bistro, you're exposed. That's the closed restaurant. You need to aggressively pivot.
Ask Yourself Three Questions
1. Who in my current network works in Category A or C sectors?
You probably already know someone who works in IT. Someone's cousin is a CFO. Someone's friend works at a hospital system. You're not starting from zero. You're just not thinking about them as potential clients yet.
Make a list. Five names. People who either work in stable sectors or have access to affluent networks.
Text them this week. Not with a pitch. Just: "Hey, I'm doing some research on [their industry]. Can I buy you coffee and pick your brain about how companies like yours think about visual content?"
You're not selling. You're learning. But you're also planting a seed.
2. What do I currently shoot that translates to stable sectors?
You shoot portraits? Corporate headshots are portraits.
You shoot products? Every IT company has products that need to look good on their website.
You shoot lifestyle? Healthcare systems need lifestyle imagery for recruiting and patient-facing materials.
The skills transfer. You just need to reframe them.
Pick one stable sector. One. Research five companies in that sector in your area. Look at their websites. Their marketing materials. Their visual content.
Then ask: What do they need that I could provide?
Write it down. That's your starting point for repositioning.
3. What's one thing I can stop doing that's draining me for no return?
This is the hard one.
Is there a client type you keep taking on that pays poorly, demands too much, and represents a dying market segment?
The family portrait sessions that require three hours of shooting and six hours of editing for $300?
The small business logos that turn into endless revision cycles?
The "exposure" projects that never actually lead anywhere?
You don't have to quit everything cold turkey. But pick one thing. One client type. One service offering.
And decide: I'm not taking these anymore. Not because I'm entitled. But because my time is finite and the market shifted.
That energy needs to go toward building Category A or C relationships.
Do One Unglamorous Thing
Here's the practical reality: you might need to take on some boring, stable work to create breathing room.
Real estate photography. Corporate headshots. Insurance documentation.
It's not sexy. It won't go in your portfolio. Your art school friends will judge you.
But it's consistent. It's recession-resistant. And it buys you time to build the business you actually want.
Think of it like taking shifts at Restaurant One while you build the skills and connections to get hired at Restaurant Three. It's not the creative work you dreamed of. But it pays rent. And it keeps you in the game long enough to pivot toward something better.
You don't have to love it. You just have to do it well enough that they hire you again.
The 80/20 Split
Here's the goal for the next six months:
Eighty percent of your time and energy should go toward work that pays bills and builds stability. Category A institutional work. Category C luxury work. The boring stuff. The commodity stuff. Whatever keeps the lights on.
Twenty percent of your time goes toward the creative work that matters to you. Your portfolio projects. Your personal vision. The stuff that reminds you why you started doing this in the first place.
Right now, you might be trying to make every project be both. Every project has to pay well and be creatively fulfilling and build your portfolio and feel meaningful.
That's not realistic in a bifurcated economy.
Some work pays. Some work fulfills. Very few do both.
Separate them. Make peace with that. And protect that 20% like your creative life depends on it.
Because it does.
[THE PRODUCTIVITY LIE]
Here's the thing that's been messing with my head.
Even when I understand all this—even when I know Restaurant Two closed, that the market bifurcated, that I need to pivot—my brain still tells me:
"Just work harder. Just be more consistent. Just don't feel anything about shooting beef tallow."
Candice said it explicitly: "I want to be an unwavering mechanical thing."
I felt that in my bones.
We both want to be machines that can output regardless of context. Regardless of meaning. Regardless of whether the work feels right or the clients are even there.
But we're not machines.
The human body operates in cycles. Circadian rhythms—your energy peaks and crashes over 24 hours. Ultradian rhythms—your focus ebbs and flows every 90 to 120 minutes. Seasonal patterns—your mood and creativity shift with light and temperature.
This is biology. Not a character flaw.
But capitalism needs you to believe you're broken when you can't perform consistently. Because if you blame yourself, you won't blame the system.
You'll buy the productivity course instead of asking: "Why am I expected to perform at the same level when my entire industry just bifurcated? When Restaurant Two literally closed and nobody told me?"
Marcus Aurelius wrote: "You have power over your mind—not outside events."
I used to think that meant: control your reactions. Stay calm. Be stoic.
But I think he also meant: Stop pretending you control the outside events.
You don't control the ISM Services Index. You don't control bank lending standards. You don't control the fact that Restaurant Two closed.
You don't control whether your brain can focus today. You don't control whether the work feels meaningful. You don't control your nervous system's response to shooting beef tallow while questioning your life choices.
What you do control:
Whether you're honest about the struggle.
Whether you adapt your strategy based on actual market conditions, not the market you wish existed.
Whether you give yourself the grace to be human.
[THE SHADOW QUESTION]
Here's what I keep asking myself:
What am I actually ashamed of?
Am I ashamed of shooting beef tallow? Not really. It's just a product. The work itself is fine.
What I'm ashamed of is what I think it means. That I peaked. That I'm going backwards. That the market decided I'm not worth what I used to be.
But the data says something different.
The market didn't decide I'm not valuable. The market bifurcated. The clients I used to serve don't exist in the same form. Restaurant Two closed. That middle segment collapsed.
That's not a judgment on my work. That's structural economics.
The strategic question isn't "How do I get back to where I was?"
The question is: "Where are the people who can still afford to eat? And am I willing to cook for them?"
...
Michelangelo didn't choose the Sistine Chapel. The Pope commissioned it. Told him what to paint. Where to paint it. How to paint it.
Michelangelo wanted to be a sculptor. He thought painting was beneath him.
But he showed up. Lay on his back for four years. Painted what he was told to paint.
And made something that outlasted the Pope. Outlasted himself. Outlasted the shame.
Not because it was exactly what he wanted to be doing.
But because he understood something crucial: The client with money gets to commission the work.
In the Renaissance, that was the Church.
Today, it's IT companies, healthcare systems, financial firms, and affluent consumers.
The question isn't whether you like that.
The question is whether you're willing to adapt.
[WHY THIS STILL MATTERS]
Here's the thing I keep coming back to.
Last Tuesday, when I was in my garage shooting beef tallow, adjusting that softbox for the fourth time, I had this moment where I thought: What am I doing? Is this what it was all for?
And for a second, I genuinely didn't know the answer.
But then I finished the shoot. And I edited the images. And you know what? They looked good. Really good, actually. The light was clean. The composition was tight. The label popped without looking overworked.
Nobody's going to see those images and think about the work that went into them. Nobody's going to frame them or put them in a gallery.
But someone's going to see them on a website and think: "Oh, that looks legit. I trust this brand."
And that company is going to sell more beef tallow. And they're going to stay in business. And they're going to hire me again.
That's the work.
Not every project is the Sistine Chapel. Most of them are just... work. Craft. Showing up. Solving problems with light and composition and years of accumulated knowledge.
And I think somewhere along the way, we got sold this idea that if the work isn't deeply meaningful, it's not worth doing.
That unless every project is a creative breakthrough, we're wasting our lives.
But that's bullshit.
You know what's meaningful? Being a person who shows up. Who does the work in front of them with integrity. Who doesn't phone it in just because the client isn't prestigious or the project isn't portfolio-worthy.
That's meaningful.
...
My daughter Lucy is seven. She draws constantly. Mostly the same thing over and over—princesses, castles, cats with weird proportions.
And sometimes she gets frustrated. She'll say: "Dad, this one isn't good enough."
And I always ask her: "Did you try your best?"
"Yeah."
"Then it's good enough."
Not because the drawing is objectively great. But because she showed up. She made the thing. She practiced the craft.
That's what matters.
...
I think about my brother Charlie a lot. The chef. He died in 2013, and I still think about him probably every day.
Charlie spent years working in kitchens that nobody remembers. Cooking food for people who probably couldn't tell you what they ate the next morning. Prep work. Line cooking. The grind.
But he showed up. Every day. Even when it was hard. Even when it wasn't glamorous. Even when he was working at Restaurant One instead of Restaurant Three.
And the people who worked with him remember. They remember that he gave a shit. That he didn't cut corners. That he brought his full intelligence to every dish, even when nobody was watching.
That's legacy.
Not the accolades. Not the recognition. But the way you show up when it doesn't matter to anyone but you.
...
The economy bifurcated. Restaurant Two closed. Your career might not look like what you thought it would.
But here's what I know:
The world still needs people who can see light. Who understand composition. Who can take a jar of beef tallow and make it look like something worth buying.
The world still needs people who can translate an idea into a visual. Who can make a CEO look trustworthy. Who can make a product look desirable. Who can capture a moment that matters.
That skill doesn't disappear just because the market shifted. It doesn't become worthless just because you're not shooting the projects you dreamed of.
It just means you have to find the people who still need it. And you have to be willing to show up, even when it's hard. Even when it's not glamorous. Even when you're working at Restaurant One while building toward Restaurant Three.
Because craft matters. Integrity matters. Showing up matters.
And yeah, you need to be strategic. You need to pivot. You need to adapt to the market as it actually exists, not as you wish it existed.
But don't let the strategy make you cynical. Don't let the pivot make you forget why you started doing this.
You became a photographer because you saw something the rest of us couldn't see. Because you understood light in a way that felt almost like magic. Because making images felt like the most honest thing you could do with your time.
That didn't change.
The market changed. The economy changed. The clients changed.
But you're still the person who sees light.
And that's worth fighting for.
...
Candice and I are still drowning. Different water. Same fire.
But we texted each other. We told the truth. We admitted it's hard.
And then we got back to work.
Because that's what you do. You acknowledge the reality. You adapt the strategy. You tell yourself the truth about how hard it is.
And then you show up anyway.
Not because you're naive. Not because you think positive thoughts will manifest abundance.
But because the work is worth doing. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard.
The garbage fire is real. The economic data is real. The struggle is real.
But so is your craft. So is your integrity. So is the fact that you're still here, still making things, still showing up.
And in a world that's increasingly automated, algorithmic, and artificial, that matters more than you think.
...
This is The Terrible Photographer Podcast. I'm Patrick Fore.
The fire's still burning. But so are we.
And maybe that's the whole point.
I'll see you next Tuesday.
Stay curious, stay courageous, and yeah, stay terrible.