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The Terrible Photographer is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
I have a confession. I like trees. I’ve always liked trees. There’s something about them—how they just stand there in their greatness, still, patient, not trying to prove anything—and yet, they grow.
I kinda hate living in a place that only offers up two half-hearted varieties: Palm and Eucalyptus. The palms sway like they’re at a never-ending beach party, and the eucalyptus? They just sort of stand there, tall and indifferent, smelling vaguely like cough drops.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I do miss the Midwest. I miss driving down streets lined with maples and oaks—trees that don’t just stand, but change. Streets painted in a hundred shades of green in the spring, bursting into fire in the fall. Trees that remind you that time’s passing, and somehow, that’s okay.
I recently shared a story about trees with my daughter, Lucy that I wanted to share with you too. This story is not about romantic nostalgia about trees, but more about how trees find their strength.
Back in the 80s, some scientists built this giant glass bubble in the Arizona desert—Biosphere 2. A perfect little world. Sealed off. Controlled. They wanted to see how life could thrive if you took away all the chaos. No storms, no pests, no pollution. Just the good stuff—sun, water, soil.
And the trees? They grew fast. Lush. Beautiful. But then they started falling over. One by one, the trunks snapped. Branches broke. They couldn’t stand under their own weight.
Turns out, they were missing something. Wind.
In the wild, trees need the wind. That resistance forces them to grow deeper roots, thicker bark. It’s what makes them strong. Without it? They’re weak. Fragile. Pretty, but temporary.
And that’s the part I can’t shake. Because I think about us—the ones out here trying to create, trying to survive, trying to hold it all together—and I wonder: maybe the hard stuff isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s what’s shaping us. Maybe it’s not about having the perfect environment. Maybe it’s about learning to stand anyway.
[Pause.]
This episode isn’t about chasing greatness. It’s not about becoming prolific or burning your ships or proving anything.
It’s about the wind. And what it means to still be standing in it.
This is The Terrible Photographer Podcast. I’m Patrick Fore and today’s episode is called, ‘Still Here.’.
---
### [REAL LIFE: Not Everyone Wants to Be Annie Leibovitz] (~7:30)
Let's get real.
Not everyone listening to this podcast wants to be Annie Leibovitz.
Or Steve McCurry. Or Andre Wagner. Or whoever is trending on Instagram or YouTube this week.
Some of you?
You just want to make rent.
You want to get through a family session without your gear breaking.
You want to edit after the kids go to bed and still get some sleep.
You want to feel something when you shoot, even if it's just for five minutes.
You're not chasing a book deal or a gallery show. You're chasing time. Energy. Sanity.
And that? That's valid.
Let me tell you about Andy Frame.
In 2008, when the recession hit, Andy was laid off from his corporate job after 20 years climbing the ladder. With a growing family, a heavy mortgage, and bleak employment prospects, he turned to photography—not as some grand artistic statement, but as a way to survive.
Within just five years, Andy went from being a complete photography unknown to running one of the most successful commercial photography operations in the business. He's shot Cakewalk, the largest privately-owned yacht in the United States. He's flown internationally on assignment. His images appear everywhere from Costco displays to Architectural Digest spreads.
**Andy Frame's story isn't about gear or technique—it's about grit. Starting from necessity, driven by the responsibility to provide for his family, he did whatever it took to make it work. He showed up day after day, pushed through the uncertainty, and in that process, discovered an incredible skill set that brought him remarkable success. When faced with setbacks, he simply fought another day.**
**I lost a client earlier this year.**
**Not because I messed up — but because tariffs hit, and his cost of doing business shot up 40% overnight.**
**Just like that, any future opportunity with him was gone. The budget evaporated.**
**We're all going to have stories like that.**
**It's not about winning every battle—it's about winning the war. There will be days when you're tired, when you just want to say fuck it and throw in the towel. But you need to press on. If not for others in your life, do it for yourself.**
If you’ve been feeling stuck, maybe even like you’re falling behind — behind other photographers, behind your own goals, behind where you thought you’d be by now — let me say this:
You’re not stuck because you’re lazy.
You’re not falling behind because you’re tired, uninspired, or just… numb.
You’re living in a world that doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for creativity.
A world that rewards hustle over honesty. Speed over stillness. Output over depth.
And if you’re still showing up at all?
Even if it’s just reaching out to that potential client you’ve been thinking about.
Even if it’s posting a piece of work you’re proud of on Instagram, even though part of you doubts anyone will care.
Even if it’s scheduling a test shoot you could easily blow off — but something in you won’t let you.
That means something.
That’s not nothing.
That’s you, staying connected to the work — even if just by a thread.
That’s not you failing.
That’s you holding on. And there’s nothing small about that.
**There's this study from the American Psychological Association that shows people who maintain even minimal creative activity during stressful life events experience better emotional regulation and lower cortisol levels.**
**It's not about being prolific. It's about staying connected. Even a little. Even in the mess.**
**That's not a side note. That's the whole damn story.**
---
### [THE PAUSE: Surviving the Gray Seasons] (~6:30)
There was a season where I didn't make anything worth showing.
No personal work. No test shoots. Just jobs. Edits. Invoices. Just filling my days with busy work and hoping something would happen. Either I got a lighting bolt of inspiration and motivation or atleast I would get an email requesting a booking
And I started to think maybe I didn't have it anymore. Maybe whatever spark I had had gone out. That maybe people didn’t care, that maybe everyone figured out that I sucked this entire time.
But here's what I've learned since:
Creativity has seasons.
Sometimes, you're coasting at a good speed. Everything clicks. The light is good. The work flows. Life seems up. Flowers are blooming and you feel good.
And sometimes? You're in winter. Dormant. Quiet. Boring.
But just because nothing's blooming doesn't mean nothing's alive.
Trees survive winter underground. Roots grow in silence. Strength builds in places no one sees.
And you? You might just be in one of those seasons. Not broken. Not behind. Just resting. Just waiting.
There is this story about Gregory Heisler. If you don't know who he is, you've certainly seen his work—more than 70 TIME magazine covers, portraits of everyone from Muhammad Ali to Bruce Springsteen to Hillary Clinton.
In the early 1990s, Heisler photographed President George H.W. Bush for TIME magazine. For this shot, Heisler used a technically challenging in-camera double exposure technique, he created what the magazine called 'The Two George Bushes'—showing both the statesman and the politician in a single frame. Really well done image, incredible even.
The White House though didn’t feel the same way. They hadn't been informed about this approach, and when the cover was published, Heisler's White House photographer privileges were immediately revoked.
This could have been a career-ending disaster. Instead, it became just one chapter in a long and distinguished career. Heisler kept working, growing, and eventually became a distinguished professor of photography, teaching new generations about the art and craft. For him, this firing just became another story along his journey.
As Heisler himself has said, "Photography's 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent moving furniture." The seasons when nothing seems to be working—when doors are closing rather than opening—those aren't detours from your path. They are the path.
What matters isn't whether you've had setbacks or made mistakes. What matters is whether you learn from them, adapt, and keep going. Heisler's career wasn't defined by losing his White House credentials, but by what he did afterward: continuing to create powerful images that connect with viewers on a human level.
Elizabeth Gilbert once said, "I will always be safe from the random hurricanes of outcome as long as I never forget where I rightfully live. I live in that delightful land, 'This is what I love, this is where I find my joy.'"
Maybe you're there now. Maybe your roots are growing in quiet.
---
### [REFRAME: Survival Is Creative Too] (~5:30)
Here's what we forget:
Creativity isn't just about what you make. It's about how you live.
Sometimes the bravest, most creative thing you can do is just stay.
Stay in the work. Stay in the tension. Stay in the part where nothing's certain, but something in you won't quit.
You don't have to be prolific right now.
You don't have to be full-time, all-in, burning-your-ships-at-the-shore committed.
You just have to protect a little piece of yourself. The part that still sees the world a certain way.
That's enough.
Joe McNally, who has shot for National Geographic, LIFE, and Sports Illustrated, tells a story about working in Iceland—an island that, as he puts it, "just sits there and vents all day long."
He was photographing a model on slippery volcanic rocks hovering over water that could potentially scald them both. The location was stunning but treacherous. McNally realized immediately that his usual complex lighting setup—kickers, hair lights, side lights—would be not just impractical but dangerous.
So he stripped everything down to its essence: one light on a C-stand with an extension arm. That's it. No assistants holding reflectors at precarious angles. No multiple light sources to manage on unstable terrain.
What's fascinating is how McNally describes this limitation: "The natural light is far and away the most important light," he says. "It illuminates everything but [the subject]." His single flash was just there to "selectively draw the viewer's eye" to the most important element in the frame.
This is the essence of professional creativity—not adding more, but recognizing when less is more. Not fighting against constraints, but embracing them as creative opportunities.
Many photographers talk about "perfect lighting setups" as if there's a formula you can follow. But the reality is messier. The reality involves looking at what's in front of you, assessing the risks, and making smart decisions about what you actually need versus what you theoretically want.
Toni Morrison — the Nobel Prize-winning author who wrote Beloved and Song of Solomon — once said,
“At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.”
She wasn’t a photographer, but she understood something that hits close to home:
Not everything beautiful needs to be captured. Not every moment demands a lens or a frame.
Sometimes, just witnessing is enough. Sometimes, just being is enough.
And maybe — just maybe — your presence, your persistence, your still here-ness, is enough too.
---
### [CLOSING: Why This Podcast Exists] (~3:30)
This book, this podcast? It's called Lessons From a Terrible Photographer. But it's not really about photography.
It's about what it means to want something more — and not always know how to get there.
It's about being alive and creative and scared and trying anyway.
Photography is just the metaphor.
The real story? It's about that space between survival and self-expression.
The space where you're holding on to the part of you that still believes in more — more than bills, more than metrics, more than just getting by.
If that's where you are?
I see you.
And no, I don't have answers.
But I'm still here too.
---
### [CREATIVE INVITE] (~3:00)
This week, I want you to write something down.
Not why you started.
Not what you post on Instagram.
Not your "brand story."
Write down what's kept you here.
What's stopped you from quitting.
What's still worth noticing.
Keep it somewhere you can see it.
Because when things get heavy—and they will—that reason? That's your anchor.
You're not falling behind.
You're growing roots.
I'll see you in a couple of days.
Until then — stay human. Stay weird. And yeah... stay terrible.