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"Photography doesn't need more experts. It needs more people who remember what it felt like to be uncertain, to post something they weren't sure about, to be brave enough to put their vision out there despite the risk of criticism.""An unchecked ego is what Elizabeth Gilbert calls 'a hungry ghost' — forever famished, eternally howling with need and greed.""Unless explicitly asked for feedback, keep it to yourself. Your unsolicited expertise isn't helping anyone — it's just feeding your own ego.""Tearing someone down is easier than building yourself up. Pointing out flaws is easier than creating something flawless.""We don't get better by being meaner. We get better by being more human."
The Terrible Photographer is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
Episode 2: Photographers Can Be Dicks (But You Don’t Have to Be One)
The Terrible Photographer Podcast
The Darkroom - Pitch
Hey nerds, before we jump in, I want to tell you about something I made called The Darkroom.
It’s not a course. It’s not a sales funnel. It’s not filled with affiliate links or a 90-day content calendar. It’s just… something I wish someone had handed me when I was creatively lost.
It’s short. It’s honest. And it’s probably both what your heart needs to hear and what your head’s been avoiding.
That combination of an arm around the shoulder—and a slight kick in the ass.
It’s called The Darkroom because that’s where the real work happens. Where the image starts to appear.
Where clarity and discomfort live in the same space.
You’ll get it instantly when you sign up for Field Notes, which is my not-too-often newsletter for photographers and creatives who still give a damn.
No spam. No fluff. Just some real thoughts, behind-the-scenes messiness, and tools to help you keep creating work that actually matters.
The link is in the show notes. Go grab it. I think you’ll find something in it that sticks.
Okay—now, let’s get into the episode.
~2:30 — Blunt, conversational, building tension
et’s just get it out of the way: photographers can be absolute dicks.
Not all of them. But enough.
Enough to make someone question whether to post their work.
Enough to scare off beginners.
Enough to make you wonder if being good at photography requires being a smug, emotionally stunted comment-section warrior with too much time and not nearly enough self-awareness.
You know exactly who I’m talking about.
The gear snobs who treat camera choice like a personality disorder.
The unsolicited critique bros who’ve appointed themselves guardians of compositional purity.
The insecure middle-aged men who treat Instagram comments like peer-reviewed academic journals.
“Natural light is just… more honest.”
Cool. So is body odor, but we still invented showers.
“You’re not a real photographer unless you develop your own film.”
Alright, grandpa. Let me grab my butter churn and meet you in the darkroom.
“I only shoot prime lenses — zooms are for amateurs.”
Ah yes, nothing screams professional like walking backwards into traffic for compression.
“That shot would’ve been perfect if you’d just used the golden ratio.”
Sorry, I left my calculator in 2006.
In doing research for this episode, I came across this comment from a Reddit user in the Photography subreddit:
“It is 100% demoralizing… you’d be hard‑pressed to find someone that actually wants to help you and doesn’t automatically down‑vote you for not knowing the answer.”
That’s enough to make you want to burn your own camera.
Today’s episode is about those guys.
About the toxic underbelly of photography culture that somehow convinced itself that being an asshole is the same thing as having standards.
And why we absolutely have to stop becoming them
My name is Patrick Fore, this is episode 2 of The Terrible Photographer Podcast. Today’s episode is called, “Photographers Can be Dicks, and why you don’t have to be one”
[MAIN NARRATIVE]
~12:00 — Honest, reflective, building toward resolution
Photography has a gatekeeping problem that would make airport security jealous.
And I get it. Photography is technical. It’s full of rules and exceptions and strongly held opinions about everything from focal length to film stock. But somewhere along the way, this beautiful, expressive art form got hijacked by self-appointed experts whose greatest creative achievement is making other people feel small.
There’s an entire subculture of photographers whose primary joy comes from proving they’re smarter than strangers online.
They’re like the kid who didn’t get invited to parties, so he decided parties were beneath him.
Here’s the thing: they don’t make better work.
They just make more noise.
And that noise? It’s suffocating the thing that makes photography worth doing — experimentation. Risk-taking. The willingness to try something that might fail spectacularly, but could also reveal something honest. Something unexpected. Something you.
But when you’re constantly worried about some keyboard warrior dissecting your lighting setup or questioning your lens choice, you stop taking creative risks.
You start shooting for the critics instead of for yourself.
And that’s where creativity goes to die.
Let me tell you about the time I became one of these people.
A few months ago, I posted that I was looking for a digital tech in another state for an upcoming commercial shoot. Simple enough request, right? I needed someone local who could handle files, assist with lighting, maybe wrangle some cables.
The response was swift and brutal. One photographer — whose work I’d actually respected — publicly eviscerated me. Said it was a poor reflection on me as a professional. That I should already have a team established. That my lack of organization was embarrassing to witness.
The comments piled on. Suddenly, my simple request became evidence of my fundamental inadequacy as a photographer.
But here’s what that critic didn’t know:
Some of the best, most collaborative people I’ve ever worked with came from posts exactly like that — word of mouth, connections, a quick ask that led to someone amazing.
But more importantly, here’s what I realized:
His attack had nothing to do with my post. It was about his own insecurity. His need to position himself as more professional. More legitimate. More established than the guy asking for help.
And the really twisted part? I almost bought into it.
For about twenty minutes, I questioned everything.
Wondered if I was doing business wrong. If my entire approach was unprofessional.
That’s the insidious power of photographer dickishness — it doesn’t just tear others down. It makes them doubt their own instincts.
Now, let’s be honest: I’m not immune to this behavior.
I’ve made the snide comment. I’ve offered the unsolicited critique.
I’ve let my ego write checks my actual expertise couldn’t cash.
Because here’s the trap: photographers are natural problem solvers.
We see light, composition, missed opportunities — and our brains go into fix-it mode.
“If they moved that light two feet left…”
“If they’d shot this at f/2.8 instead of f/5.6…”
“If they’d waited for better light…”
It’s instinct. We can’t look at an image without mentally rebuilding it.
But here’s where it gets dangerous:
That voice in your head? It might be wrong.
And even if it’s right, it doesn’t mean you get to be a public asshole about it.
Remember the Dunning-Kruger effect from Episode 1?
The one where limited knowledge creates overconfidence?
Well, it doesn’t just make you think you’re good.
It makes you think you’re qualified to tear down everyone else.
When you’re living on Mount Stupid — what Elizabeth Gilbert calls the domain of the “hungry ghost,” always howling, never full — the view makes everyone else’s work look flawed from your imaginary high ground.
And in photography, that shows up as confident, public criticism of work that’s often leagues better than anything the critic has ever made.
I’ve watched photographers with basic portfolios rip apart award-winning images because of a “technical flaw.”
I’ve seen wedding shooters criticize others for using presets — completely unaware that editing five thousand images for five different clients might require a different approach than their perfectly-lit headshot side hustle.
The irony is thick enough to cut with a tripod leg.
But I don’t think this is really about standards.
I think it’s about fear.
Fear of irrelevance.
Fear of being left behind.
Fear of not mattering.
So instead of getting quiet and doing the work, these photographers go loud.
Because tearing someone down is easier than building yourself up.
Critique costs nothing.
But creating? Creating requires everything.
We’ve turned photography into a hierarchy of fake legitimacy.
Film vs. digital. Full-frame vs. crop sensor. Prime vs. zoom.
Natural light vs. strobes.
Manual focus vs. autofocus.
Every technical choice becomes a moral judgment.
As if the type of lens you use reveals the quality of your soul.
And the result?
A community that should be about celebrating creative voice spends most of its time arguing over whether you shot it on a Fuji or a Canon.
But here’s what I wish someone had told me earlier:
Not all feedback is created equal.
And filtering it — knowing what to take in and what to ignore — might be the most important creative skill you never learned.
Because feedback comes from wildly different places, with wildly different motives.
There’s the industry expert — someone who’s been where you want to go.
When they offer critique, it’s thoughtful. It’s specific. It’s earned. They ask questions first, because they know context matters.
Then there’s your peer — someone walking the same road.
They might see things you missed.
But they also love to armchair quarterback your process, forgetting they weren’t there when the client changed the shot list mid-scene and the model ghosted for lunch.
There’s the general audience — non-photographers whose feedback makes zero technical sense but tells you whether your image actually moved them. It might sound dumb. But it’s emotionally honest.
And finally, there’s your inner critic —
The one with full access to every failed draft, every missed frame, every what-if.
It obsesses over flaws no one else can see and conveniently forgets every compliment you’ve ever received.
Point is: once you know where feedback is coming from, you get to decide what to do with it.
An expert pointing out a lighting issue? Valuable.
A stranger on Instagram declaring your composition “off”? Just noise.
And here’s the golden rule that could fix 90% of photography’s toxicity problem:
Unless someone asks for feedback, keep it to yourself.
Admire their work? Say so.
Curious how they lit it? Ask.
But resist the urge to critique uninvited — because chances are, you’re not helping.
You’re just feeding your own ego.
Here’s the thing that gets me: the most talented photographers I know — the ones actually making a living, winning awards, creating meaningful work — they’re generous as hell.
They don’t gatekeep.
They don’t rip people apart in comment sections.
They ask better questions.
They share what they know.
They make space for others to experiment, fail, and grow.
I’ve been on sets with photographers whose day rate could fund a small country’s school system, and they’re the ones asking the assistant if they need anything, thanking the intern by name, making sure everyone feels seen.
Meanwhile, the loudest voices online are usually the ones with the weakest portfolios and the biggest insecurities.
So here’s what I’ve learned:
You don’t have to be a dick to be taken seriously.
You don’t have to win internet arguments to be a real photographer.
You don’t have to know everything about every camera system to get paid.
In fact, the opposite is true.
The photographers building lasting careers — the ones with staying power — are too busy making good work to spend their afternoons correcting strangers’ white balance choices.
[PRACTICAL WISDOM & OUTRO]
~2:30 — Constructive, forward-looking
So what do we do instead?
Support someone who’s five years behind you.
Message a photographer whose work moves you — and tell them why. Be specific. Be kind.
And when you see work that could use improvement?
Ask yourself:
Did they ask for feedback?
Do I have relevant experience?
Can I say this kindly, privately, and constructively?
If the answer to any of those is no? Scroll on.
Let people be beginners.
Let them make imperfect work.
That’s how growth happens.
And when you see someone being needlessly cruel online?
Don’t engage.
Don’t let it change your tone.
Don’t become the thing you hate.
Because photography doesn’t need more critics.
It needs more people who remember what it felt like to be uncertain.
To put something out there before it was perfect.
To be brave enough to keep going anyway.
This week’s challenge: Say something kind.
Find a photographer whose work genuinely moves you.
Tell them why.
And if you catch yourself about to type that clever critique —
Pause.
Ask: Is this helping someone grow, or am I just trying to feel superior?
You get to choose the kind of photographer you want to be.
Choose the one who lifts others up.
Choose the one who remembers: every expert was once a beginner who didn’t quit.
We don’t get better by being meaner.
We get better by being more human.
Thanks for listening. I’ll see you next week.
Until then — Stay Curious, Stay Courageous and yeah, Stay Terrible