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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.
Let’s pretend that you’re sick. I mean, actually sick—not just "I stayed up too late drinking whiskey and eating ice cream" sick, but "something is undeniably wrong" sick.
So you make the appointment , you go to the clinic.
You walk into a doctor’s office, climb onto that table with the crinkly white paper that sticks to the back of your legs, and say, “I’ve got a sniffle, I need a Z-Pak and a shot of B12,” the doctor doesn’t just sigh, grab the prescription pad, and send you to the pharmacy.
If they do, thats not a doctor—thats a drug dealer
A real doctor ignores your "Google research."
They know that because you spent ten minutes on a subreddit, you're now convinced you have a rare tropical parasite, when in reality, you just haven't slept in three days and you’re dehydrated.
They ask the uncomfortable questions: "Where does it hurt? Is it a sharp pain or a dull ache? Does it wake you up at 3:00 AM? When you say 'fever,' are we talking 99 degrees or 'I'm seeing visions of my ancestors' 104?"
And here’s the thing—you might be dead wrong about the antibiotics. It could be viral. It could be stress. It could be that your body is screaming at you to stop eating gas station burritos.
The doctor’s job isn't to be your assistant that responds to your requests for drugs. Their job, if they are a good doctor is to listen beneath your demand. To hear the symptoms you’re describing (to really listen), in combination with other data points like your age, overall health, etc and translate them into a proper objective diagnosis you weren't qualified to make.
Because you didn’t go to med school. Because you’re too close to the problem.
Because often patients don't know what they need. They just know what hurts.
And here is where we get into trouble: Your clients are patients. And you—whether you like the responsibility or not—are the doctor.
But in the photography world or really the professional creative world as a whole, we’ve developed a "vending machine" complex at least a lot of us have.
The client walks in, drops a Pinterest board in the slot like a crumpled five-dollar bill, and waits for us to dispense the "Boho Desert Vibe" or the "Clean Corporate Look."
And most of us? We just push the button. We deliver the Z-Pak because we’re too afraid to tell the patient that their Pinterest board is actually a symptom of a much deeper, more boring disease.
Today, we’re talking about the moment you decide if you’re a problem-solver... or just a Human Xerox machine with an expensive lens.
[THE HANDSHAKE - 1:00]
My name is Patrick Fore, and this is The Terrible Photographer—honest conversations about creativity, identity, and discovering your voice.
Today is Episode 47, holy hell guys we’ve made it to 47. I’m still here.
And today we're starting something new.
I heard from a bunch of you that you loved “The Long Middle” series and so we're back again. With a new five-part series called Heresies. It’s true friends, things are about to get a little spicy.
Over the next five weeks, I'm going to say things that might piss you off. Things that sound wrong at first. Things the industry doesn't want you to think too hard about.
Today, the first episode, were going to talk about why listening to your client is sometimes a bad idea.
Then over the next few weeks, we’re going to cover topics like:
Why Instagram might be destroying your ability to have a good idea.
Why your camera brand doesn't actually care if you're a talented photographer.
Why undercharging isn't generosity—it's self-sabotage.
And we will wrap it up, our last week with why a lot of nude photography is just lazy photographers hiding behind skin.
These aren't rants. At least I'm going to try to prevent them from becoming rants. They're not hot takes designed to get attention. Even though they might.
They're uncomfortable truths that—if you're willing to sit with them—might change how you see your work.
Today’s episode, I’m calling it, “The Proxy”
Now, if you’re a tech nerd, you know a proxy is a gateway—a server that stands in for another server to perform a task. It’s an empty vessel. It has no agency. It just does what it’s told by a higher authority.
In our world, The Proxy is the photographer who has abdicated their vision.
You’ve handed over your eyes, your taste, and your professional soul to a client who—if we’re being honest—has no idea what they’re doing. You aren't the artist in the room anymore. You’re just a human remote shutter release. You’re a placeholder for someone else’s Pinterest board.
Today we’re talking about Control. Translation. And most importantly, Courage.
Because it takes zero courage to be a proxy. It takes zero courage to say "Yes" to a bad idea just to get the check.
But it takes a hell of a lot of courage to tell a patient they’re wrong about the medicine they think they need.
If this is your first episode, welcome—feel free to jump around with episodes. They're in no particular order. Though if you're here for the series, buckle up. We're just getting started.
As always, you can email me anytime. Questions, thoughts, hate mail—I respond to everything. Email's in the show notes.
So. With all that being said, let’s get into it.
[THE MEANDERING - EXPLORATION]
So here's how it usually goes.
You get the inquiry. Wedding, branding shoot, family session—doesn't matter. You're excited. You need the work. You send the questionnaire maybe. Or an email asking what they are thinking.
And they send back a Pinterest board.
Fifty images. All ring light. All the same angle. All pastel overlays and lens flares that make everyone look like they're being raptured in a JCPenney catalog.
And they write: "This is exactly what we want."
And you—because you're early in your career, or because you're desperate for the booking, or because you've convinced yourself that "the customer is always right"—you say:
"Great. I can do that."
And maybe you can. Technically, you can execute it. You've got the softbox. You've got the presets. You can replicate what they showed you.
But here's the million dollar question.
The most fundamental question.
And the question a lot of photographers, forget or are too afraid to ask.
Is that actually what they need?
Let me tell you about Peyton.
Totally made up name. Real situation. Real Client.
Peyton books me for a brand shoot. She's launching a wellness coaching business. Meditation. Breathwork. Helping women reconnect with their bodies after trauma.
Heavy stuff. Important work you know.
During the discovery call, she tells me that she’s put together some stuff that she likes that she’s seen other places
So she sends me a Google Drive folder with a combination of iPhone screen shots and thumbnails from Pinterest.
And it's... corporate. Stock photo energy. Attractive woman in white linen sitting cross-legged on a beach at sunrise. Hands in prayer position. Soft focus. The kind of image you'd see in a Headspace ad or a Goop email.
Generic. Polished. Safe.
And in the email, she writes: "I love this vibe. Clean, calm, aspirational."
Now, here's where most photographers—especially early-career photographers—make the decision that kills the work.
They say: "Got it. I'll bring the reflector and some white fabric. We'll shoot on the beach."
Because that's what she asked for.
But me, because I don’t like doing what I’m told, I didn't do that.
I called her. I wanted to ask some questions.
So I asked: "Tell me about the women you're trying to reach."
And she paused.
And then she said: "Women who've been through hell. Women who don't trust their bodies anymore. Women who are exhausted by the pressure to be calm and put-together all the time."
I said: "So... not models who do sunrise yoga on a beach."
She laughed. "No. Definitely not."
I said: "Then why are we shooting that?"
And there was this silence.
And then: "Because... I don't know. That's what I see other coaches doing. I thought that's what people expect."
And this is the moment.
This is where you decide if you're a translator or a technician.
Peyton didn't need a beach and a sunset. She needed honesty.
But here's the thing—she also needed professional honesty.
Not just shitty, unpolished, "authentic" imagery that looks like an iPhone snap from her living room.
She needed images that were human and elevated. Approachable and commercial-grade.
Images that looked like the women she was trying to help—messy hair, real light, bodies that don't apologize for existing—but composed well enough to hold their own on the hero section of a website.
Not stock photography. But not amateur hour, either.
This is where taste comes in.
And I don't mean taste in the subjective, "I like blue better than red" sense.
I mean taste as a technical skill. The ability to know what works visually. What reads as professional without reading as fake. What feels human without feeling sloppy.
Because anyone can shoot raw and unpolished. That's easy. Point the camera, press the button, call it authentic.
And anyone can replicate stock photography. Just copy the Pinterest board. Wide apuature. Soft focus. Done.
But threading the needle between those two extremes? That's the job.
That's what we're supposed to be good at.
And if you're thinking: "Okay, but how do I develop that? How do I know what works?"
Here's the terrible advice nobody wants to hear:
Stop consuming images like they're content.
Go to a museum. Find a painting. Any painting. Doesn't matter which one.
And stand there. For twenty minutes.
No phone. No audio guide. No reading the placard.
Just... look.
Notice where your eye goes first. Notice what holds your attention. Notice when you get bored and what pulls you back in.
Notice the light. The composition. The negative space. The way the painter used color to guide you through the frame.
And then—this is the part that matters—ask yourself: Why did they make that choice?
Why is the subject off-center? Why is the background dark? Why does this feel tense and that one feel calm?
Because that's how you build a visual vocabulary.
Not by scrolling. Not by copying. By observing.
By training your brain to see the structure underneath the image.
Or here's another one:
Take a walk. No camera.
Just look at light.
Notice how it hits a building at 4 PM versus 8 AM. Notice how shadow shapes change throughout the day. Notice how overcast light flattens everything and how direct sun creates drama.
Don't take a picture. Just see it.
Because most photographers spend so much time making images that they forget how to see them.
And if you can't see it, you can't create it.
This isn't romantic. It's practical.
You can't develop taste by accident. You can't shortcut it by buying a preset pack or copying someone's lighting setup.
You build it by studying. By looking. By asking why over and over until the answers start to become instinct.
And yes—that takes time. It's slower than watching a YouTube tutorial. It's less immediately gratifying than posting a photo and getting likes.
But it's the only way to develop the thing that separates you from every other photographer with a camera and a website.
The ability to know what works. Not guess. Not hope. Know.
And here's the other part that matters:
My job wasn't just to think about what Peyton wanted.
It was to think about who she was trying to reach.
The woman scrolling her website at 2 AM, googling "trauma-informed breathwork," trying to figure out if this person gets it. If she's safe. If this is real or just another Instagram wellness guru selling empowerment through affiliate links.
That's the person I was shooting for.
Not Peyton. Not her Pinterest board. The end-user.
The person on the other side of the screen.
Now—weddings, family sessions, newborns—that's different.
Those clients are hiring you for your taste specifically.
They saw your work. They connected with your visual DNA. They want what you see, not what they think they want.
They're hiring you to make them look the way you make people look.
And yes, that's true for some brand clients too—clients who seek you out because of your specific style.
But for a lot of commercial work? You're not being hired only for your aesthetic. You're being hired to solve a problem.
To make their audience feel something. To make their product look desirable. To make their brand look trustworthy.
And if the solution to that problem is different than what they thought they needed? That's where your expertise matters.
Peyton didn't have the language for what she needed. She didn't have the visual vocabulary. So she defaulted to what she'd seen before—the safe, polished, aspirational version of wellness.
Because that's what she thought "professional" looked like.
My job wasn't to give her what she asked for.
My job was to translate what she was actually trying to say into something that worked visually.
Something that felt real enough to connect with her audience but looked good enough to be taken seriously.
Because clients (most of them anyway) don't hire us to give them what they want.
They hire us to give them something beautiful. Something effective. Something that solves the problem they didn't know how to articulate.
If I had just said "Sure, I can shoot that," I would have given her exactly what she asked for.
And it would have been completely wrong.
[PIVOT - THE WRONG TURN - ~15:00]
I used to think this was about clients not knowing what they want.
That they're amateurs. That they don't understand light or composition or storytelling. That my job was to educate them or—if I'm being honest—quietly ignore them and do it my way.
But that's not it.
The issue isn't that clients don't know what they want.
It's that they don't know how to ask for it.
They're handing you symptoms. And you're supposed to be diagnosing the problem.
When Peyton sent me that Google Drive folder, she wasn't saying "Make me look like this."
She was saying: "I don't know how to visually communicate what I do. Help me."
And when the wedding client says "I want and airy portraits like this photographer on Instagram," they're not actually saying they want ring light.
They're saying: "I want to feel seen. I want to feel beautiful. I don't want to look like every other wedding I've scrolled past."
But they don't have the language for that.
So they give you a reference.
And here's the trap:
If you treat that reference as a prescription, you're not a creative. You're a copier.
—--------------
Now.
I need to address the elephant in the room.
Bad clients.
Because I can sit here and tell you "Ask better questions, guide the client, trust your expertise"—and that works most of the time.
But sometimes?
The client doesn't want a translator.
They want a human photocopier.
And you need to learn how to spot that before you're rigging fishing line in your garage at 2 AM, questioning every decision that led you to this moment.
Early in my freelance career, I had a client—let's call him Mark.
Mark made high-end custom tennis racquets.
This was during one of those months where the work had dried up and my bank account was making threatening noises.
So when this guy found me on Google and said he needed product photography, I didn't ask enough questions.
He said he had "very specific ideas" about what he wanted.
And I thought: Cool. I'm good at talking people out of bad ideas.
Narrator voice: He was not good at talking Mark out of bad ideas.
First red flag: Mark wanted to meet in person. At his office in Carlsbad.
For a $1,500 job.
Forty minutes away.
Now—I should have known. Product shots don't require an in-person meeting. You send reference images. We hop on a call. Done.
But I was broke. And $1,500 sounded like oxygen.
So I drove to Carlsbad.
The second I walked into his office, I knew I'd made a mistake.
He had my contract printed out. Covered in red pen. Like a high school English teacher grading a paper written by someone who didn't read the book.
Now—my contract is standard. Boring. The legal equivalent of beige.
But Mark was very concerned about image ownership. And he wanted me to sign an NDA.
For tennis racquets.
Which—fine. NDAs are normal. Clients always overestimate how much I care about their product.
Spoiler: I do not dream about your tennis racquets, Mark.
We sorted the paperwork.
Then he took me to the conference room.
And there—spread across the table like evidence at a crime scene—were photos.
iPhone photos.
That Mark had taken himself and printed out on 8.5x11 paper.
Of three tennis racquets.
From the weirdest angles I have ever seen.
I'm talking: holding the racquet at a 47-degree tilt. Shooting from below. Up close. With the iPhone's wide-angle lens distorting everything like a funhouse mirror.
These images made the racquets look like alien artifacts.
And Mark says—completely serious—"I want you to recreate these. Exactly."
I'm standing there. Staring at these photos.
Thinking: What fresh hell is this?
And then.
THEN.
He says—casually, like it's helpful information:
"Now, if you notice... some of these, the front part of the racquet is a little fuzzy."
Fuzzy.
Not out of focus. Not soft.
Fuzzy.
And I swear to God, something inside me died.
But on the outside, I smiled. Nodded. Said: "Uh huh. Yeah. For sure."
Because I'd already driven 40 minutes. I'd already signed the NDA. I'd already mentally spent that $1,500 on rent.
So I said yes.
And drove home with three tennis racquets in my passenger seat, wondering how I was going to explain this to my future therapist.
Here's what followed:
One week of turning my garage into a nightmare.
Fishing line. Everywhere. Rigged from every shelf, hook, and available surface.
I'm talking full A Beautiful Mind energy. Except instead of solving equations, I'm trying to suspend a tennis racquet at a 47-degree angle so it matches Mark's iPhone photo.
And because Mark wanted transparent PNGs, I had to shoot the racquets against bright orange fabric so I could key them out in post.
My garage looked like a deranged puppeteer's workshop.
Orange everywhere. Fishing line glinting in the studio lights. Three racquets dangling at mathematically improbable angles.
If someone had walked in, I would have had no explanation that didn't sound like a cry for help.
I spent 40 to 50 hours on that project.
Let me do the math for you:
$1,500 divided by 50 hours equals $30 an hour.
Before taxes. Before gear costs. Before the emotional damage of recreating the phrase "a little fuzzy."
A Costco cashier makes more than that.
With benefits.
And they don't have to rig fishing line.
So here's what I learned:
Some clients don't want your expertise.
They don't want your taste. They don't want you to solve a problem they didn't know they had.
They want you to be a proxy.
A piece of equipment. A human scanner that says "Yes" and executes their vision exactly as described, even when that vision is objectively insane.
And that's fine.
That's a real job. Product photographers shoot to spec all the time. Event photographers cover what they're told to cover.
Nothing wrong with it.
But you need to know—going in—if that's the job you're signing up for.
Because if it's not, and you take it anyway because you're desperate?
You're going to spend a week in your garage, suspended racquets swaying gently in the LED lights, wondering if this is what your professors meant by "follow your passion."
The red flags were all there.
"Very specific ideas."
In-person meeting for a $1,500 job.
Contract covered in red pen.
NDA for sporting goods.
iPhone reference photos that violated the laws of perspective.
But I ignored them.
Because I needed the money. Because I thought I could manage it. Because turning down work felt like failure.
And I learned—the hard way—that not all work is good work.
Some clients want a creative partner. Someone who will listen, translate, and solve problems they didn't know existed.
Those are your people.
Other clients want a technician. Someone who will recreate their iPhone photos at weird angles and call defocus "fuzzy."
And if that's not the role you want to play?
Walk away.
Even if you need the $1,500.
Especially if you need the $1,500.
Because the cost of saying yes to the wrong client isn't just time and money.
It's the slow, quiet erosion of why you started doing this in the first place.
And no amount of fishing line can fix that.
But here's the other side of this.
The side nobody wants to talk about.
Some photographers want to be proxies.
Not because the client is demanding it.
Because they haven't done the work to be anything else.
I see this constantly.
A photographer gets an inquiry. The client says: "We need branding photos. What do you think we should do?"
And the photographer panics.
Because they don't have an answer.
They haven't developed a visual voice. They haven't built a point of view. They haven't spent the hours studying light, studying composition, studying what makes an image work versus what makes an image just... exist.
So they deflect.
"Well, what are you looking for?"
"Do you have any reference images?"
"What's your vision?"
And look—asking questions is good. You should ask questions.
But if every question you're asking is a way to avoid having an opinion?
You're not collaborating. You're outsourcing the creative work to someone who doesn't have the skills to do it.
You're making the client solve the problem you were hired to solve.
This isn't about confidence.
It's not about experience.
It's about whether or not you've done the work.
The work of developing taste. The work of studying why certain images succeed and others fail. The work of building a visual vocabulary so that when someone says "I want something that feels authentic but polished," you don't just nod and hope for the best—you know exactly what that means and how to execute it.
Because here's the truth:
If you don't have a vision, you can't translate someone else's vision.
If you don't understand what makes an image work, you can't guide a client toward what will work for them.
You're just... there. Pressing the button. Hoping it turns out okay.
And that's not photography.
That's being an expensive tripod.
I get it.
Developing a vision is hard. It's uncomfortable. It requires you to have opinions. To make choices. To risk being wrong.
It's way easier to let the client tell you what to do.
To say "Sure, ring light and pastels, I can do that."
To treat every shoot like a multiple-choice test where the client provides the answers and you just fill in the bubbles.
But that's not the job.
The job—the actual job—is to solve problems visually.
To take a vague, inarticulate feeling the client has and turn it into something concrete. Something beautiful. Something that works.
And you can't do that if you're waiting for them to tell you how.
So if you're early in your career and you're struggling with this?
Good.
That means you're aware of it.
Now do the work.
Study photographers whose work you admire. Not to copy them—to understand why their images work.
Shoot personal projects. Not for Instagram. Not for clients. For you. To figure out what you actually see when you look through a camera.
Make bad work. Make a lot of bad work. Because that's how you learn what good work looks like.
Build a point of view. Develop taste. Get curious about why one angle works and another doesn't. Why one lighting setup feels clinical and another feels intimate.
Because if you don't?
You're not a photographer.
You're just someone with a camera, waiting for instructions.
And the market is already full of those.
There's this quote—I'm paraphrasing—from Steve Jobs.
He said: "People don't know what they want until you show it to them."
And I used to think that was arrogant. Like, Who are you to tell people what they want?
But I don't think that's what he meant.
I think he meant: People know what they feel. They know what they need. But they don't always know how to articulate it.
Your job—as the person with the expertise, the training, the vision—is to listen beneath the words.
To ask: What are you actually trying to say here?
And then to translate that into something they couldn't have imagined on their own.
Let me give you the other side of this.
Because I don't want you to walk away thinking "Cool, I should just ignore my clients and do whatever I want."
That's not what I'm saying.
There are absolutely times when the client knows exactly what they need, and your job is to execute it cleanly and professionally.
Commercial work. Corporate headshots. Product photography. Event coverage.
Sometimes you're hired to be a technician. And that's fine. That's a skill. That's a service. And sometimes thats easy work. As long as you don’t need to shoot tennis racquets in fishing line hell.
But even in those contexts, you still have a responsibility to ask questions.
To say: "Here's what you asked for. But can I show you an alternative approach that might work better for your audience?"
Because even when you're executing someone else's vision, you're still bringing your expertise to the table.
You're still the one who knows what works.
Here's what I've learned after fifteen years of doing this:
The clients who respect you the most are the ones you pushed back on.
Not in a combative way. Not in an "I know better than you" way.
But in a "Let me make sure I understand what you're actually trying to accomplish here" way.
The clients who just want you to do what they say? They're looking for a pair of hands. And they'll replace you the second they find cheaper hands.
But the clients who hire you because they trust your judgment? Those are the ones who come back. Those are the ones who refer you. Those are the ones who pay you what you're worth.
Because they're not hiring a camera. They're hiring a problem-solver.
[THE RESOLUTION - ABSOLUTION]
So let's go back to Peyton.
We didn't shoot on the beach.
We shot in a nice rented living room. Natural light. Gorgeous nightural Southern California morning light.
Instead of professional models, we used her real clients and friends. Real humans. We laughed, we shared mimmosas and listened to Leon Bridges.
I asked the talent and the client to sit on the floor. To close their eyes. To breathe like it was real session. I even put a little haze in the air to give the warm light something to it.
And the images—we’re amazing, I loved them. They felt like a real moment, but elevated.
They were beautiful, but honest.
And when she saw them, she cried.
Not because they were perfect. But because they were her people, because it was a real moment with beautiful light.
And more importantly, they looked like the women she was trying to reach.
She used those images for two years. Built her entire brand around them. Booked out her practice.
During the shoot, she kept saying, “I'm so glad you didn't just give me what I asked for." - this was so much better.
THIS IS THE JOB FRIENDS.
Look, your job, our job as creatives isn't to take orders. It's to solve problems. I don’t care if you’re a commercial photographer, wedding photographer, graphic designer or video DP. This is the job.
And sometimes—most of the time—the problem isn't what the client thinks it is.
They think they need ring light. What they actually need is to feel understood.
They think they need to look like everyone else. What they actually need is to look like themselves.
They think they need you to execute their vision. What they actually need is for you to help them find their vision.
But you can't do that if you're just saying "Yes" to everything.
You have to ask questions. You have to listen. You have to be willing to say:
"I hear what you're asking for. But let me show you what I think you actually need."
And yes—there's risk in that.
The client might push back. They might say "No, I really do want the ring light."
And at that point, you have a choice.
You can execute what they're asking for and collect the check.
Or you can walk away and find clients who trust you enough to let you do your job.
Both are valid. Both are professional.
But only one of them lets you grow as an artist.
I want us to sit with that doctor analogy for a second.
Because the best doctors don’t just treat the cough; they find the infection. They don't just hand out Z-Paks; they save lives by looking at what’s underneath the symptom.
And as a photographer, your job isn't to capture what the client asks for. It’s to capture what they’re trying to say.
You are not a vending machine. You’re not a Human Xerox machine. You’re not a $5,000 sensor on a pair of legs.
You are a translator.
You’re the person who takes the messy, inarticulate weight that a client is carrying—the fear, the ambition, the "I just want to be seen"—and you turn it into something visceral. Something with gravity. Something they couldn't have articulated on their own, but the second they see the back of your camera, they recognize it instantly.
That requires more than gear. It requires the courage to be the only person in the room with an actual opinion.
But mostly, it requires Trust.
Trust in your eye. Trust in your gut. Trust that the reason they booked you—even if they don't know it yet—is because you see the world with a clarity they lack.
The client who hands you a Pinterest board of someone else's life doesn't actually want that person's life. They want the feeling that work gave them. They want the spark. They want the echo.
Your job isn't to copy the image; it's to recreate the spark in a way that belongs to them.
Not to the algorithm. Not to the industry standard. Not to the "safe" choice.
To them.
The only way to do that is to stop being a proxy for a vision that isn't yours. It's time to start being the professional they actually hired you to be.
[THE LIGHT LEAK - PERMISSION SLIP]
So here is your permission. It's a heavy one, so hold onto it:
The next time a client slides a mood board across the table and says, "I want exactly this," don’t nod. Don't say "Got it."
Stop the conveyor belt.
Look at them and ask: "What is it about this that you’re actually drawn to?" And then? Listen. Really fucking listen.
Because in that silence, they’re going to tell you the problem you were actually hired to solve. And I promise you, it has nothing to do with the lighting or the presets.
It’s the diagnosis. And you’re the only one in the room with the cure.
[MUSIC SWELLS]
Stay curious. Stay courageous. And as always—stay terrible.