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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.
MOVEMENT 1: THE ARRIVAL
So I just want to say before I get started, you might hear some weird shit in the background. Our house is near a church and they are performing this outdoor christmas concert right at the time I was going to record. And the area where I record insn’t sound proofed, so that is why you might hear some little drummer boy or a neighbor dog barking or a single engine airplane in the background. I’ll try to take it out, but I just wanted to say that from the jump.
Okay, now that I got that out of the way.
So, I have a theory about why photographers, and filmmakers, and creatives in general, wear so much black.
You know the uniform. The black shirt. The black pants. The black Vans shoes. The black cap, even in July.
If you ask us why, we'll give you the prepared answer: "It's professional. It's unobtrusive. It's about not distracting from the subject."
And sure. That's part of it.
Black is also just... cool. It always has been. It's the uniform of rock stars. Johnny Cash. The Ramones. Every guitarist who ever stepped on stage at CBGB. We grew up wanting to look like that. Dangerous. Artistic. Untouchable.
So yeah, part of wearing black is fashion. It's aesthetic. It's the industry uniform because it looks good and it signals that you're part of the tribe.
But I think there's something else happening.
Because if we're being honest, we're not dressing like rock stars.
We're dressing like stagehands.
[PAUSE]
There's a very specific tradition in 17th-century Japanese Kabuki theater regarding the stagehands. They are called Kurogo. The word literally means "black clothes."
Now, in Western theater, the stagehands hide in the wings. They wait for the blackout to move the furniture. But in Kabuki, the Kurogo are on stage during the actual performance. They are running around in broad daylight. They move props. They help actors change complicated costumes mid-scene. They hold up scenery. They are right there, in the middle of the action, sometimes inches away from the protagonist.
But there is a social contract—an unspoken agreement—between the stage and the audience. Because the Kurogo is dressed head-to-toe in black, they represent "nothingness." They are treated as invisible. Even though you can see them, you agree to look through them. They are not part of the story. They are just the mechanics that allow the story to happen.
[PAUSE]
I think we wear black because we want to be the Kurogo.
We want to be in the room. We want to be close to the magic. We want to stand next to the bride, or the rock star, or the CEO. We want to be part of the production. But we are terrified of being the production.
We want to observe, but we are terrified of being observed.
We think we're dressing like Johnny Cash. But really, we're dressing like the guy who moves Johnny Cash's amplifier.
[BEAT]
We want to be the "Fly on the wall." But have you ever thought about that phrase? A fly on the wall is small. It is insignificant. And above all, it is safe from judgment. Nobody critiques the performance of a fly.
There's a quote by the fashion designer Yohji Yamamoto I think about constantly. He built his entire career on the color black. He said: "Black is modest and arrogant at the same time. But above all, black says this: 'I don't bother you. Don't bother me.'"
That is the uniform of the modern creative. I am here. I am working. I am important. But please, do not look at me.
[BEAT]
Last week, in Part 1 of this series, we talked about The Island. We talked about what it feels like to be invisible when you want your work to be seen.
Today, in Part 2 of The Long Middle, I want to talk about how we actively choose invisibility. How we dress for it. How we hide behind our roles.
[MUSIC SWELLS BRIEFLY, THEN SETTLES]
MOVEMENT 1.5: THE HANDSHAKE
My name is Patrick Fore, and this is The Terrible Photographer—where we have honest conversations about creativity, identity, and discovering your voice.
Today is Episode 41. This is Part 2 of "The Long Middle."
I'm calling it "The Costume."
Three words: Armor. Performance. Invisibility.
If this is your first episode—welcome. Feel free to jump around. These are in no particular order. And as always, you can email me anytime. Questions, thoughts, existential dread—I respond to everything. Email's in the show notes.
[PAUSE - 3 SECONDS]
MOVEMENT 2: THE MEANDERING
I'm a member of the APA—the American Photographic Artists.
Every year, I pay my dues. Every year, I tell myself I'm going to get more involved. Every year, I tell myself this is the year I'm going to find my people.
And every year, I barely do anything with it.
Not because I don't respect the organization. And not because I don't want community.
It's because I'm terrified.
[BEAT]
Every once in a while, they host these mixers. You know the kind. A bar or a gallery. Low music. Cocktails. A room full of photographers standing in small circles talking about photography, clients, and whatever the acceptable version of ambition is that week.
I've been to three since I joined.
The first time, I recognized one person. I latched onto them like a life raft. I talked to that one human being for the entire night. I did not let go. We both survived. Barely.
The second time is more honest.
I put it on my calendar. I got dressed. I drove to the location. I walked up to the venue. I walked inside.
I could hear the low hum of conversation. The clinking of glasses. Laughter. The room was full but not packed. Small groups of three or four people clustered around high-top tables.
I got the paper name sticker with my name on it. Peeled off the back. Stuck it to my chest.
And then I stood there.
Staring at my phone. Scrolling Instagram. Fake texting someone. Doing whatever I needed to do so I didn't look like a person who didn't know where to stand.
[PAUSE]
And then I saw it.
There was a group of four people standing near the bar. They were laughing. One of them had just finished telling a story. The energy was open. Welcoming. There was space in the circle for one more person.
I could walk over. I could say, "Hey, mind if I join you?" I could introduce myself. I could ask what they were working on.
It would take five seconds.
Five seconds of courage, and I'd be in the conversation.
[BEAT]
And I stood there. Phone in my hand. Name tag on my chest.
And I felt it.
That wave of fear that starts in your stomach and moves up into your chest and makes your throat tight.
What if I walk over and they look at me like I'm interrupting? What if I say something boring? What if they ask me what I do and I can't make it sound impressive enough? What if I'm not funny? What if I'm not interesting? What if they tolerate me for thirty seconds and then find an excuse to move on to someone else?
What if I risk being seen, and they decide I'm not worth seeing?
[PAUSE - 3 SECONDS]
I put my phone in my pocket.
I turned around.
And I walked out.
[BEAT]
I remember getting back on my motorcycle and sitting there in the parking lot for a minute.
And I thought, "Well, I gave it a try."
I rode down to the beach. I watched the sunset. I drank a warm Diet Coke I had in my backpack.
And honestly? That was a much better way to spend an evening.
[BEAT]
I remember getting back on my motorcycle and sitting there in the parking lot for a minute.
And I thought, "Well, I gave it a try."
I rode down to the beach. I watched the sunset. I drank a warm Diet Coke I had in my backpack.
And honestly? That was a much better way to spend an evening.
[BEAT]
Now, here's the weird part.
I'm not actually bad with people. I can be genuinely extroverted—like, the life of a party—depending on the day. There are spaces where I thrive, where I feel sharp and funny and completely at ease.
I'm great at dinner parties with friends. Well, I've gotten a ton better over the years anyway. I know how to talk to people without sounding like a malfunctioning robot. When I know they want me there. When the invitation itself is the contract.
I'm great on set. I run productions with 17 crew members, clients breathing down my neck, and I don't blink. I can direct strangers. I can make small talk with a CEO while adjusting their collar for a shot. I can even make them laugh, which is a minor miracle considering I'm usually thinking about f-stops.
Hell, put me on stage in front of a thousand people? Give me a microphone? I'm in my element. I can work a room before and after a talk. I can schmooze. I can charm. I can do the whole thing.
But put me in a room with a hundred other photographers where I'm just... an attendee? Where my name isn't on a call sheet or a speaking schedule? Where I don't have a job to do?
I'm out the door in two minutes. With a warm Diet Coke. Alone. On a beach. Questioning my life choices.
[PAUSE]
And I've been trying to figure out the pattern. When do I thrive? When do I crumble?
Now, I need to say this up front: I'm pretty confident a lot of this has to do with my neurodivergence. My brain isn't neurotypical. A lot of spaces that would be easy for other people are hard for me. Ambiguous social situations where I don't know the rules? Where I have to read subtle cues and navigate unspoken hierarchies? That's exhausting for my brain in a way it might not be for yours.
But I don't think I'm alone in this. I think a lot of us—neurodivergent or not—struggle in spaces where we don't have a clear role. Where we're just... ourselves.
Sometimes I show up and realize I brought the wrong version of myself entirely.
So here's what I've figured out.
The difference isn't the number of people. It's not about being introverted or extroverted.
It's about established roles. About contracts.
[BEAT]
On stage with a microphone, there's a relationship established. I speak, you listen. I'm the expert, you're the audience. We both understand our roles. There's a hierarchy, and I'm at the top of it for this specific moment.
I don't have to prove I belong there. The microphone proves it. The stage proves it. The fact that someone invited me to speak proves it.
On set with a camera, same thing. My name is on the call sheet. I'm the photographer, you're the subject. I direct, you perform. The roles are clear. The contract is established.
I don't have to perform to prove that I belong there. I know that they know I belong there.
The stage gives me distance. The set gives me distance. The call sheet gives me distance.
That distance isn't cold. It's clarifying.
It tells everyone in the room: This is who I am. This is what I do. This is why I'm here.
And that clarity—that established contract—lets me relax. It lets me be confident. It lets me do my job without constantly second-guessing whether I have the right to be in the room.
[BEAT]
Now, I need to be honest about something.
That confidence I have on set? That didn't come from just having a role. It didn't come from just having my name on a call sheet.
It came from doing it. Over and over. For fifteen years.
I know how to run a set because I've run hundreds of them. I know how to direct a CEO because I've directed dozens of them. I know how to handle a nervous subject, a difficult client, a technical disaster, a lighting emergency.
I know my shit.
And knowing my shit—having that competence, that mastery—that's what actually creates the confidence.
Early in my career? Even with the camera, even with my name on the call sheet, even with the established role? I was terrified. I was faking it. I was convinced someone was going to realize I didn't belong there.
But I kept showing up. I kept doing the work. And eventually, the confidence became real.
[PAUSE]
But at the mixer? At the networking event?
There's no contract. There's no hierarchy. There's no established role.
We're all equals. We're all just photographers standing in a room with name tags.
And now I have to prove—in real time, through conversation, through charm, through credentials—that I'm worth talking to. That I deserve to be in this room. That I'm interesting enough, successful enough, legitimate enough.
I have to earn my place. Over and over. With every person I talk to.
And I haven't practiced being "just Patrick" enough to know how to do it well.
I've practiced being "The Photographer" for fifteen years. I've practiced being "The Speaker" for a decade. I've run those scripts so many times I could do them in my sleep.
But "Patrick, the person"? "Patrick, the equal"? "Patrick, the guy with no job title, no portfolio, no permission slip"?
I don't have fifteen years of reps with that guy. I don't know that script. I haven't earned confidence in that role yet.
So I leave.
I get my name tag. I stand there for two minutes, pretending to check my email. And I leave.
Because it feels safer to be alone on a beach drinking a warm Diet Coke than to spend an entire evening trying to prove I deserve to be in a room.
Or worse—being seen as myself and realizing I'm exactly as boring as I suspected.
[BEAT]
And here's the thing: I know I'm not the only one doing this.
I've been to trade shows. WPPI in Las Vegas. NAB in L.A. I've walked those convention center floors. And it's the same thing, just at scale.
Ten thousand photographers. All dressed in black. All wearing cameras like armor. All performing the role of "Successful Creative."
It's like ComicCon for people who are too cool to admit they're at ComicCon.
The conversations are the same everywhere.
"Who do you shoot for?"
"What's your average day rate?"
"Are you on the Sony system or still shooting Canon?"
It's not conversation. It's interrogation. It's a performance of success. Everyone is trying to establish their rank in the hierarchy within the first thirty seconds. It's like speed dating, but instead of looking for love, you're looking for proof that you're not a failure.
And everyone—every single person—is wearing the uniform.
We're all Kurogo. We're all stagehands. We're all dressed as "nothing" while desperately trying to be "someone."
[PAUSE]
There's this thing I see at those events that breaks my heart a little.
The way talented photographers—people who make work that genuinely moves me—circle the Canon booth or the Sony booth like it's a shrine. Laughing too hard at the sales rep's jokes. Treating a marketing manager like a celebrity. Acting like proximity to a logo might confer meaning onto their lives.
I get it. Trust me, I get it. The Long Middle is lonely. It is quiet. Validation feels like oxygen. And when you're drowning, you don't care where the oxygen comes from. Even if it's coming from a guy in a polo shirt whose job is literally to make you feel special so you'll buy more gear.
We think if the brand picks us, then we matter. We think if we get "Ambassador" status, it's like a knighthood. It's proof that we aren't crazy for pursuing this career. It's proof that we're legitimate.
But we're looking for community, and we're settling for a mailing list. We're looking for a seat at the table, and we're settling for a lanyard with our Instagram handle on it.
[BEAT]
And I'm not standing above this, by the way.
I've shot campaigns for Nike, Taylor Guitars, whatever—and I still feel like a fraud at networking events. I still don't know where to put my hands when I don't have a camera. I still leave after two minutes to sit alone on a beach.
The résumé doesn't fix the anxiety. The client list doesn't fix the loneliness. The gear doesn't make you feel legitimate.
Because the costume isn't about what you wear or what you carry.
The costume is the role itself. The title. The position.
I'm only confident when there's a contract that tells me—and tells everyone else—that I belong.
Without that contract? I'm just some guy. Some anxious, distracted guy who doesn't know where to put his hands and has questionable taste in warm beverages.
And some guy isn't enough.
[BEAT]
The costume is the performance itself.
It's the avatar you present. The curated version of yourself that you think people will respect.
And that avatar? That professional persona?
You can network with it. You can do business with it. You can build a career with it.
But you can't build community with it.
Because avatars don't have friends. They have followers.
And followers don't call you when you're having a bad day. They don't understand why you're stuck. They don't witness the work.
They just double-tap and keep scrolling.
[MUSIC SHIFTS - DARKER, MORE REFLECTIVE]
MOVEMENT 3: THE PIVOT
So here's what I've realized.
Last week, I talked about Sarah—the wedding photographer in the UK who feels invisible despite her success. I talked about how lonely it is to operate at a level where nobody can see what you're actually doing.
But this week, I have to admit something harder.
Part of the reason we can't find witnesses for our work... is because we won't let anyone see us.
We're presenting an avatar. A curated version. A professional persona.
And you can't bond with an avatar.
I thought the costume was protecting me from judgment.
I thought if I dressed like a stagehand, if I hid behind my role, if I performed "Successful Photographer" at trade shows and networking events, I'd be safe.
Safe from criticism. Safe from rejection. Safe from being seen as uncertain or struggling or less-than.
But the costume isn't protecting me from judgment.
It's protecting me from connection.
The armor that keeps people out is the same armor that keeps me alone.
I can't find my people at the APA mixer because I leave before I even give them a chance to see me.
That night, standing in that bar with the name tag on my chest—that five-second moment where I turned around instead of walking forward—that was the costume.
Not the black shirt. Not the name tag.
The choice to hide.
I didn't fail because I couldn't do it. I failed because I chose not to.
I chose the beach over the risk. I chose safety over connection. I chose being alone over being seen.
And I'm so terrified of being seen without a role that I'd rather be alone on a beach than risk two minutes of vulnerability.
[BEAT]
And here's the uncomfortable truth: The people at those mixers? The photographers at WPPI? They're doing the same thing.
They're wearing the same costume. They're hiding behind the same roles. They're performing the same script.
We're all either hiding behind our titles or fleeing entirely.
Some of us perform success at the Canon booth. Some of us scroll Instagram by the door for two minutes and leave.
Either way, we're not really there.
Either way, nobody sees us.
We're all waiting for someone else to take off the mask first.
[MUSIC SHIFTS - SOFTER, MORE HOPEFUL]
MOVEMENT 4: THE RESOLUTION
So how do we fix this?
Last week, I said we need witnesses. This week I'm telling you something harder.
To get a witness, you have to testify.
You have to tell the truth.
The only way to find the pub table—the Third Space, the place where everybody knows your name—is to stop auditioning for it.
Stop trying to impress your peers. Stop pretending you're further along than you are. Stop performing success.
Just show up as yourself.
[BEAT]
Here's the challenge for this week. It's small. But it's uncomfortable.
The next time another creative asks, "How's it going?" Whether it's at a mixer, or in a DM, or on a Zoom call—
Don't give them the Costume answer.
Don't say "Busy." Don't say "Good." Don't say "Crushing it."
Tell them one true thing.
"Honestly? I'm stuck on this edit and I hate it."
"I'm feeling a little burned out."
"I'm excited about this project, but I'm terrified I'm not good enough to pull it off."
Drop the shield for ten seconds.
Sometimes it won't land. Sometimes they will look at you weird. Sometimes it'll be awkward as hell.
Do it anyway.
Because somewhere in that room—somewhere in that sea of black t-shirts—is another Kurogo, another stagehand, who is exhausted from performing nothingness.
They are desperate for someone to break the spell. They are desperate for permission to take off the mask.
But they can't see you if you're dressed as nothing.
And they definitely can't see you if you've already left the building.
[PAUSE]
MOVEMENT 5: THE RESTORATION
I want to leave you with this.
The pub table exists. The Third Space is real. The people who can witness your work—who can see you in the work, not just the output—they're out there.
But you can't find them while you're hiding.
You have to take off the costume first.
You have to risk being seen as yourself—messy, uncertain, human—and trust that the right people will see that and say, "Yeah. Me too."
[BEAT]
We've optimized our lives for safety. We've dressed for safety. We've bought gear for safety. We've adopted roles and titles and professional personas for safety.
And then we act surprised when our lives feel empty.
It's time to change clothes.
[PAUSE]
Next week, in Part 3 of The Long Middle, we're going to talk about The Enemy.
Because if the Costume hides us, Envy divides us.
We're going to talk about that sick feeling in your stomach when someone else gets the opportunity you wanted. We're going to talk about Scarcity. And we're going to talk about how that mindset is the final bar in the cage that keeps us isolated.
Until then...
Stay curious. Stay courageous. And yeah—stay terrible.