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The Terrible Creative is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
Rochester, New York. 1888.
The air smells like acetic acid and coal smoke. Chemicals and ambition burning side by side.
And inside a factory, George Eastman is holding a small black box that weighs about two pounds.
It's seasoned wood, cherry or mahogany, wrapped in leather. A few pieces of metal hardware.
Simple. Portable. Light enough to carry to a family outing at the beach or on a honeymoon in southern France.
This is The Kodak camera.
There's no viewfinder.
You don't look through it.
You point it in the general direction of something and hope.
And that's the feature.
Eastman's slogan is brilliant copywriting, almost sounds like the team at Apple wrote it.
"You press the button. We do the rest."
No chemistry to learn.
No framing to master.
No understanding of light required.
Just press.
Mail it back.
Wait for the pictures to come home.
The camera costs twenty-five dollars. About eight hundred in today's money. Not cheap, but cheaper than the knowledge it replaces.
I don't think Eastman was selling photography.
I think he was selling relief.
Relief from learning.
Relief from effort.
Relief from not knowing what you're doing.
And the promise underneath it all is intoxicating:
Ownership feels like mastery.
That if you just have the right tool, the hard parts quietly disappear.
But not everyone was thrilled.
By the early 1890s, serious photographers had a name for these new users.
"Button-Pressers."
It wasn't affectionate.
One magazine ran ads openly shaming them:
"He is a poor specimen of a photographer who is content to press the button, let others 'do the rest,' and then claim the results as his own."
Another term entered the culture too.
"Kodak Fiends."
Columnists warned that society was being overrun by people who had replaced skill with machinery. Automatons. A menace. A new terror.
Because the cameras were small. Fast. Easy.
You could take pictures of people without asking.
The newspaper, The Hartford Courant warned that no one was safe anymore.
That the Kodaker lay in wait, ready to capture your most awkward moments.
And purists panicked.
One writer declared that photography was dead.
"When everyone is a photographer," he wrote, "then no one is an artist."
Same fear.
Same argument.
Different century.
Because the problem was never the camera.
It was the idea that ease could replace intention.
That convenience could stand in for curiosity.
That pressing a button could be mistaken for making something.
That belief hasn't gone anywhere.
It just learned how to ship a whole lot faster.
My name is Patrick Fore, and this is The Terrible Photographer podcast where we have honest conversations about creativity, identity and discovering your voice.
This is part two of a series of episodes I'm calling, Heresies, where we say the things the photography industry would prefer you not think too hard about and the series that might get me into some trouble.
Today is Episode 49. I'm calling it The Cult Member.
Last week: why listening to your client might be killing your work.
This week we're talking about loyalty, marketing, mastery.
And why your camera brand does not care if you're a good photographer.
If this is your first episode, welcome. Jump around. There's no order here.
And as always, you can email me anytime. Questions, thoughts, hate mail. I read everything. Email's in the show notes.
A few years ago, I agreed to teach a workshop.
This is not something I do very often. I don't seek it out. But I love photography and I like talking about it. I also believe in being generous with the little bit of knowledge and experience I do have.
But this was a camera club in San Diego. They said they had beginners. People who wanted to learn fundamentals. And I thought, alright. I remember being lost. I can at least help with that.
The workshop was called Intro to the Camera.
Exposure. Aperture. Shutter speed. ISO.
Basic stuff. The stuff that feels obvious once you know it and impossible before you do.
Now, this was right after Canon released the long awaited R5.
I had been shooting on my company's Canon 5D Mark IV and I had been saving up money to get my own camera. I had watched all the preview videos. I knew the specs probably better than the camera store salesman.
And I had just bought one. And when I mean bought it, I put $800 down at my local camera store as soon as presales were open. The morning that they released it, I was in the parking lot, before the camera store opened, to pick it up. Not to brag, but I probably was the first person in San Diego to receive that camera.
I also bought the RF 28–70 f/2.
And the RF 15–35 f/2.8.
All in, somewhere around ten grand.
And I felt good about it.
Not just excited. Legitimated.
Like I'd finally earned my seat at the table.
So I show up to this workshop being held at a library community meeting room. Fluorescent lights. Folding tables. That smell of old coffee and floor cleaner that never quite leaves a room.
Fifteen people milling around, pulling cameras out of bags, checking straps, poking at buttons.
Before the workshop started, I pulled my R5 and beastly prized Canon RF28-70 out of my bag and set it on a table next to a podium where I was going to present a carefully designed keynote presentation on exposure.
The camera was a signal, you know. It was a subtle, or not-so subtle sign that I knew my stuff, that I was a serious photographer.
And that's when I see him.
Bill.
Mid-sixties. Retired military, then Boeing. Cargo pants. Hiking boots. A hunter green fleece vest with a duck embroidered on the left part of the chest. The kind of guy who looks like he knows exactly how much torque a bolt should take.
He reaches into his new, perfectly clean Canon branded camera backpack.
And pulls out a Canon R5.
Same body.
Same RF 28–70 f/2.
Exact match.
Sonovabitch.
At an Intro to the Camera workshop.
I watched him turn it over in his hands, like he was inspecting furniture. Squinting at the back screen. Pressing buttons with the careful uncertainty of someone navigating an unfamiliar dashboard.
So I walked over. Introduced myself. Asked how long he'd been shooting.
"Oh, just got into it," he said. "Wife thought I needed a hobby. Did some research. Bought what the internet said was the best."
"Great camera," I said. And I meant it.
"Yeah," he said. "Right now I'm just shooting in auto. Grandkids mostly. Haven't figured out all the settings yet. Hoping you can help me figure this thing out."
I smiled. Nodded. Instructor face on.
"No worries. That's what we're here for."
Inside, though, something ugly showed up.
Because I'd spent years with one lens. A beat-up fifty mm f/1.2 lens I bought twice-used for $700. Shot it until I could guess depth of field by instinct. Learned exposure by ruining images. By blowing highlights. By making ghosts out of people. By shooting manual when I didn't fully understand why, because I knew repetition mattered more than comfort.
And here was Bill.
Same camera. Same lens. Fresh out of the box. Shooting in auto. Asking what an f-stop is.
In retrospect, I think the thing that bothered me wasn't him.
It was me.
Because for a split second, I felt cheated.
Like there was supposed to be a gate.
A rite of passage.
A moment where someone checked your calluses before letting you hold the good stuff.
And there wasn't.
There never was.
That realization didn't make me feel enlightened.
It made me feel embarrassed.
Because I still wanted the gate to exist.
I wanted the years to mean something visible.
I wanted effort to leave a mark you could recognize on sight.
And Bill shattered that fantasy by walking into the room with the same camera and none of the scars.
That's when it clicked, quietly, in a way I didn't like.
This wasn't about him skipping the line.
There was no line.
The industry had already decided that ownership was enough.
That the tool could stand in for the work.
That if you could buy your way in, you belonged.
And I wanted that lie to be true, because I'd paid for it.
I'd worked for it.
I'd learned it the slow way.
Look, the problem wasn't Bill.
The problem was that I still believed in a system that rewarded effort.
And I know that, because I'd already seen how the curtain gets pulled back.
During this same time, I was working for a global guitar brand, Taylor Guitars.
That's where I learned how this actually works.
Not the romantic version.
The spreadsheet version.
Taylor didn't just have customers.
They had devotees.
People who flew in from Japan, Germany, Australia just to walk the factory floor in El Cajon. To smell the sawdust. To watch luthiers shape braces like surgeons. To hear about tonewood selection and neck joints and adhesive chemistry.
I gave those tours.
They filmed me explaining glue like I was revealing classified information. Asked about bracing patterns. Finish thickness. Why we used one adhesive instead of another.
And after the tour, they went to the store.
They bought hoodies. Hats. Guitar straps. T-shirts.
Instrument optional.
Logo-forward. Identity-forward.
They weren't just buying guitars.
They were buying belonging.
Here's the pattern I noticed.
The people who were most obsessed with Taylor gear, the ones who could recite specs from memory, almost never played particularly well.
They owned beautiful instruments. Four, five thousand dollars.
And they played… fine.
Meanwhile, touring musicians would come through. Session players. Songwriters. People whose names you've seen in liner notes.
And they'd tell me their favorite guitar was a beat-up, mid-range model they'd owned for years. Finish worn through. Frets divoted. Wood soaked with time.
They weren't loyal to the brand.
They were loyal to the sound.
But here's what I really learned at Taylor.
How the marketing machine actually calculates value.
Because brand partnerships aren't about art.
They're about attribution.
Let me show you how this works.
In modern marketing, everything is measurable. Trackable. Attributed to a specific source.
When a brand like Taylor—or Canon, or Sony, or Profoto—works with an influencer or artist, they're running a calculation.
It's called ROAS. Return on Ad Spend.
Here's the formula:
Let's say Taylor loans a guitar to an artist. Production cost: $2,000.
That artist has 50,000 followers on Instagram. Engagement rate of 3%—which is decent. Industry average conversion rate for influencer marketing is around 1-3%, depending on platform and product category.
So the marketing team models it:
If this artist posts about the guitar three times over six months, and we assume a conservative 2% conversion rate, and the average Taylor guitar sells for $2,500...
We can calculate: Does this partnership generate more than $2,000 in attributable sales?
If yes, we move forward.
If no, we don't.
It's not personal.
It's math.
And it gets more detailed than that.
There's a metric called Brand Lift.
It measures how much an influencer partnership increases brand awareness, consideration, and purchase intent among a specific demographic.
You run surveys before the campaign launches. You run them again after. You track the delta. Measure the shift in perception.
If Brand Lift is significant, the partnership continues.
If it's negligible, you cut ties.
Because the goal isn't supporting artists.
The goal is moving product.
At Taylor, we'd get five or six requests a week from guitarists asking us to send them a free instrument in exchange for exposure.
"I have 10,000 YouTube subscribers. If you send me a guitar, I'll feature it in my videos."
And our marketing team would pull their numbers.
Follower count. Engagement rate. Audience demographics—age, income level, geographic distribution. Platform mix. Content quality. Posting frequency. Average views per video.
Then they'd model it:
If we give this person a $3,000 guitar, and they commit to three posts over six months, and their audience converts at 1.5%... does that equal at least $3,000 in attributable sales?
Most of the time, the answer was no.
Not because the guitarist wasn't talented.
But because the math didn't work.
Someone with 10,000 followers—even if they're incredibly skilled—doesn't have enough reach to justify the investment.
And here's the other thing people don't realize:
Even the big names—Jason Mraz, Billie Eilish, Taylor Swift in her early days—they didn't own their Taylor guitars.
They were loaners.
Technically company property. On loan as long as the partnership was mutually beneficial.
The artist agrees to be photographed with the guitar. Post about it occasionally. Mention the brand in interviews. Allow Taylor to use their image in marketing materials.
And in exchange, they get to use a $5,000 instrument for free.
But the second that artist's platform shrinks?
The second their genre shifts away from acoustic?
The second they stop posting about the brand or fail to meet the contractual obligations buried in the fine print?
The guitar goes back.
Because you're not a partner.
You're a line item.
An asset on a balance sheet. A tactic in a marketing plan. A conversion mechanism.
And when you stop being useful, you get cut.
Camera companies work the same way.
Canon has Explorers of Light. Nikon has Ambassadors. Sony has the Alpha Imaging Collective. Fujifilm has X-Photographers.
Sounds prestigious, right?
Like you've been chosen. Anointed. Recognized for your talent and vision.
But here's what actually happens:
You apply. Or they reach out because your Instagram's been growing.
They look at your follower count. Your engagement metrics. Your audience demographics—age, income level, geographic distribution.
Then they calculate:
If we give this photographer loaned gear and minimal support—maybe a few hundred bucks in travel expenses, maybe early access to new releases—how many camera sales can we attribute to their influence over the next 12 months?
They're not looking at your portfolio and thinking: "Wow, this person is a true artist. We need to support their vision."
They're looking at your analytics dashboard and thinking: "Can this person move product?"
And when you sign on—when you accept the loaned R5 and the branded jacket and the ambassador title—you're now an unpaid member of the marketing department.
You're required to post a certain number of times per month. Feature the brand logo prominently. Tag the company. Use specific hashtags. Attend product launches. Participate in campaigns.
You're creating content for them.
For free.
In exchange for loaned gear—gear that never actually becomes yours—and the prestige of being associated with the brand.
And they're tracking everything.
Click-through rates on your posts. Conversion rates from your promo code. Referral traffic from your blog. Engagement metrics. Follower growth.
If your content isn't driving measurable sales?
You're out.
Because the brand doesn't care about your work.
It cares about your reach. Your engagement. Your ability to convert followers into customers.
You're not an artist to them.
You're a conversion rate.
There's a video I saw a while back on YouTube that made me rewrite the enture chapter on gear in my book.
It's from a series called Mix with the Masters—behind-the-scenes production breakdowns where successful producers walk you through how they made hit records.
This one features Benny Blanco.
The title is straightforward: "Benny Blanco producing 'Eastside' and 'Younger And Hotter Than Me.'"
Two massive songs. Billions of streams combined. Radio play. Chart dominance. The kind of success most producers would kill for.
And the video opens on Benny sitting at his desk.
It's not a desk.
It's a simple wooden table. Looks like something you'd find at IKEA or build yourself in a garage.
On it: a Mac. Not new. Not the latest model. Probably two, three generations behind.
An old wired USB keyboard. The kind with a cable. White plastic. Standard issue.
An old-school Mac mouse. Wired. Round. The kind they stopped making years ago.
A coffee mug.
A sandwich on a cutting board.
That's it.
No fancy studio monitors mounted at ear level. No acoustic treatment on the walls. No rack of outboard gear with blinking lights.
Just a guy. At a wooden table. With a computer that's seen better days.
And on the screen behind him, you can see Pro Tools.
The session is open. Multiple tracks laid out. Audio waveforms in different colors. Green, blue, purple, red. The visual signature of a song in progress.
He's making music.
Hit music.
Music that's been streamed over a billion times.
On gear that looks like it came from a college dorm liquidation sale.
And here's what gets me:
He's not apologizing for it.
He's not saying, "Yeah, I know this setup is basic, but..."
He's just working.
Talking about his process like it's the most natural thing in the world.
At one point in the video, he talks about how the song "Eastside" came together.
He says he went through "old sessions to see if I had like a little guitar" that might work.
Not: "I went to the store and bought a new guitar plugin for $399."
Not: "I hired a session guitarist."
He dug through old projects. Looking for something he'd already recorded. Something he could repurpose.
Found a guitar part. Pitched it. Created a loop.
Then he started layering.
Synths. Rhythmic elements. Different sounds at different tempos and speeds.
And he says—and this is the part that matters—"all different sounds doing different things and going at different tempos and different speeds... starts to make its own little like symphony."
That's not a gear problem.
That's not a "if I just had the right plugin" problem.
That's ears.
That's knowing what you're listening for.
That's the ability to hear potential in a scrap of audio you recorded months ago and didn't know what to do with at the time.
Earlier in the video, he talks about how he used to "run home from school just so I could get in front of a computer and start making stuff."
Not: "So I could research the best DAW."
Not: "So I could watch gear reviews."
Making stuff.
That's where the obsession lives.
Not in acquisition.
In creation.
And you can hear it in how he talks.
There's this curiosity. This constant experimentation.
He's not following a formula. He's not replicating a template.
He's layering sounds. Trying things. Seeing what happens when he pitches something up or down. When he loops it. When he adds something that shouldn't work but does.
And he's doing all of that on a Mac that's outdated.
With a wired keyboard.
With plugins that came free with the software.
Because the gear isn't the point.
The sound is.
Benny Blanco can afford anything.
He could walk into Sweetwater right now and buy a Mac Studio with 192GB of RAM. The latest MIDI controllers. A Neve console. Neumann U87 microphones. API preamps. Whatever the current flagship Pro Tools rig costs.
He has the money.
Cost isn't the issue.
But he doesn't.
Because he's not chasing gear.
He's chasing sound.
And if you watch the video, you'll see him talk through his process.
How he layered the vocals on "Eastside." How he built the instrumental. The choices he made. The plugins he used—most of which are stock. The kind that come free with the software.
He's not using secret producer tools that only professionals have access to.
He's using what he has.
And mastering it.
A $100 Shure SM57 microphone versus a $5,000 Telefunken U47?
Ask any working musician and they'll tell you: depends on the sound you're going for.
The SM57 has been used on more hit records than almost any other microphone in history. It's the industry standard for snare drums. It's been on guitar amps, vocals, brass, percussion. You'll find it in basement studios and Abbey Road alike.
Not because it's cheap.
Because it works.
And yeah—sometimes you need the U47. Sometimes you need that specific warmth, that vintage tube character, that thing only a $5,000 condenser microphone can give you.
But the point is:
The decision isn't about price.
It's not about status.
It's not about showing up to the session with the "right" microphone so other producers nod in approval.
It's about: Does this tool help me make the thing I'm trying to make?
That's it.
That's the whole question.
Benny doesn't use an outdated Mac because he can't afford a new one.
He uses it because upgrading would mean relearning his workflow. Reconfiguring his session templates. Updating his OS. Dealing with plugin compatibility issues. Spending a week troubleshooting instead of creating.
And he'd rather make music.
He'd rather "get in front of a computer and start making stuff."
Because that's where the obsession lives.
Not in the specs.
In the making.
Willie Nelson has played the same guitar—"Trigger"—for over fifty years.
A Martin N-20 classical guitar. Beat to absolute hell. There's a hole worn completely through the top from decades of picking. Autographs scrawled across the body from other musicians. Scratches and dings and wear that would make any luthier wince.
It's held together with love and stubbornness and probably some duct tape somewhere.
Any guitar tech would take one look at it and recommend immediate retirement. "Willie, we can get you a new one. Custom-built. Perfect."
But he won't replace it.
Because that guitar has his sound.
The wear. The damage. The decades of use. The way the wood has aged and resonated and absorbed the sweat and smoke and stories of fifty years on the road.
They're part of what makes it sing.
He could afford any guitar in the world. Could walk into a custom shop and commission something pristine and perfect and exactly to his specifications.
But he doesn't want that.
He wants the tool that serves the work.
The tool he's mastered so completely that it's become an extension of how he hears music.
Musicians fetishize sound.
Photographers fetishize newness.
Now—I need to say something before we go further.
Because I don't want you walking away from this thinking I'm just another guy saying "It's not the camera, it's the photographer."
That's become a cliche at this point.
And worse—it's not even honest.
Of course the camera matters.
I can do more with my R5 than I can with my iPhone.
Can I make an interesting photo with my iPhone 16? Yes.
Can I use the limitations of the iPhone's sensor to think creatively about composition, light, timing? Absolutely.
But can I produce better, more efficient, more technically capable work with a tool like the R5?
Also yes.
The R5 gives me dynamic range the iPhone doesn't have.
It gives me interchangeable lenses. Manual control over every variable. The ability to shoot in light conditions that would destroy a phone sensor. RAW files I can push in post-production without falling apart into noise and artifacts.
It gives me autofocus that can track a subject's eye through a crowd. Burst mode that captures twenty frames per second. A viewfinder I can trust in bright sunlight.
That's not elitism.
That's capability.
A carpenter with a sharp saw can work faster and more precisely than a carpenter with a dull one.
That's not snobbery. That's physics.
So let me be clear:
The problem isn't caring about your gear.
The problem isn't wanting good tools.
The problem is using gear as a substitute for skill.
Thinking the right camera will transform you from mediocre to masterful.
Believing that if you just had that lens, that body, that lighting setup, then you'd be able to make the work you're imagining.
That's the trap.
Because the R5 doesn't make me a better photographer.
It makes me a more capable photographer—but only if I already know what I'm doing.
If I don't understand light, the R5 won't teach me.
If I don't have a point of view, the R5 won't give me one.
If I haven't developed taste, the R5 will just help me make technically perfect images that say nothing.
The tool enables. But it doesn't create.
Vision creates. Mastery creates.
And you can't buy either of those.
[PIVOT - BEHAVIORAL CHANGE, NOT ANNOUNCED INSIGHT]
I stopped opening launch emails at some point.
Not as a rule. It just happened.
A new body drops. I see the subject line. And I let it sit.
The urge to upgrade didn't disappear.
I just stopped feeding it.
The camera I own stopped being a statement and started being a tool again.
And tools don't need applause.
They need dirt.
Scratches. Wear. Familiarity.
The camera doesn't become invisible until you've embarrassed yourself with it enough times.
Until you stop thinking about what you're holding and start thinking about what you're trying to say.
Pride is expensive.
You can put pride in your work.
Or you can put pride in your kit.
One of those costs time.
The other costs money.
And most of us don't buy new gear because we're inspired.
We buy it because it feels like progress without risk.
Because gear has answers.
Specs. Reviews. Rankings.
Work doesn't.
Work asks uncomfortable questions.
Is this interesting?
Is this honest?
Is this actually mine?
Gear never asks that.
Gear just arrives in a box and says, "You're doing great."
I've had photographers show me a new camera and wait.
You can feel it.
That pause.
They want approval. Confirmation. A nod.
And I'm annoying enough to say, "Cool. Now go make something interesting."
Sometimes the room shifts.
Sometimes they laugh.
Sometimes they don't like it.
Because that sentence refuses the ritual.
It doesn't validate the purchase.
It redirects the pride.
Impressing people with gear is easy.
Receipts are loud.
Impressing people with work is slower.
And quieter.
And riskier.
Look, I get it.
You wanted the gate to exist too.
You wanted your camera to mean something. To signal that you'd put in the work. That you'd earned the right to be taken seriously.
And the industry sold you that idea. Wrapped it in carbon fiber and premium glass. Made you believe that ownership was proof of commitment.
It's not your fault for believing it.
I believed it too.
I showed up to that workshop with my R5 on display because I needed Bill to see it. To know that I belonged. That I'd paid my dues in a way that was visible and undeniable.
And when he pulled out the same camera, I felt robbed.
Not because he didn't deserve it.
But because I realized the thing I'd been chasing—that external validation, that proof of effort—didn't exist the way I thought it did.
Here's what I've learned since then:
It's okay to love your gear.
It's okay to feel proud of the tools you've worked hard to afford.
It's okay to get excited about a new lens or a new body or a new lighting setup.
The problem isn't caring about equipment.
The problem is using it as a substitute for the work.
Using it to avoid the vulnerability of putting something out into the world and not knowing if it's good.
Using it to skip the uncomfortable middle part where you make bad images and learn from them and slowly get better.
You're allowed to have the gate.
You're allowed to work hard for your gear.
You're allowed to feel legitimate because you own professional equipment.
But that legitimacy doesn't come from the camera.
It comes from what you do with it.
And if you're waiting to feel like a "real" photographer until you own the right gear?
You're going to be waiting forever.
Because the camera companies will always have a new model.
A new feature.
A new promise that this time, this upgrade will finally close the gap between where you are and where you want to be.
It won't.
But here's the good news:
You don't need it to.
You already have what you need.
Not in the motivational, "you're good enough" sense.
But in the practical, mechanical sense.
The camera you own right now—whatever it is—is capable of making extraordinary work.
The only question is: are you?
And you won't find that answer in a spec sheet.
You'll find it by shooting. By failing. By trying again. By making work that embarrasses you until you make work that doesn't.
Your brand doesn't care if you're proud.
But your audience does.
And they're not impressed by your kit.
They're moved by what you do with it.
So here's the permission.
You're allowed to stop auditioning for other photographers.
You're allowed to own your camera without worshiping it.
You're allowed to make work with the "wrong" body, the old lens, the scratched glass.
If someone side-eyes your setup, let them.
Because if the most interesting thing about your work is what you shot it on, you didn't make work.
You made a purchase.
Stay curious.
Stay courageous.
Stay terrible.