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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
His name was Klarbinnax-7. He came from Vortak Prime — a civilization where uniformity wasn't just encouraged, it was enshrined. Same height. Same weight. Same six crimson dots on their foreheads. Same yellow hair. On Vortak Prime, the concept of "individual" was considered a dangerous evolutionary glitch.
For Klarbinnax, finding the right pattern to follow was all he'd ever known. The safety of sameness.
But then his navigation system malfunctioned after passing through an unexpected radiation belt near Earth. His ship spiraled out of control, shields failing, and crash-landed in Silver Lake, California of all places. Right next to a guy named Brad.
Brad was... magnetic. Six-pack abs and strong preferences about skin regiments. Brad wore designer vintage tees and often reminisced about his "golden days" as a model before he "got behind the camera to really control the narrative." He said things like "ShaBONG!" when he captured what he called "the money shot."
And Klarbinnax, stranded on a planet of seven billion different faces, did what he had been programmed to do. He found a new pattern to follow. A new template.
He discovered that Brad was a portrait photographer whose entire portfolio consisted of over-lit shots of aspiring models in abandoned warehouses. His Instagram feed was an endless parade of the same three lighting setups, the same five poses, all with identical retouching.
Klarbinnax binged Brad's YouTube channel. He devoured every workshop and e-book: Crush Your Photography Business. Style Secrets Unleashed. The Six-Figure Lens — which promised income from teaching rather than from client work.
Klarbinnax learned to drink green smoothies. Bought the same camera bag Brad was sponsored by. And eventually became a strange approximation of Brad. He even yelled "ShaBONG!" when he captured an image that looked like it could have been taken by Brad himself.
And in exchange, Klarbnax used his alien powers to enhance Brad's existence. He fixed his vintage Mercedes with telekinesis. Telepathically convinced followers to sign up for Brad's newest course on "Light Faces Like Brad." He even generated algorithmic favor that made Brad's posts appear at the top of everyone's feed.
Brad liked having followers that created more followers. It helped him create a community where people pay to learn his style. Klarbinnax showed Brad that he could find others that would pay him for this knowledge and find more people of their own. That he could create a pyramid of people willing to pay money to shoot all the same photos.
Meanwhile, Klarbinnax felt himself getting... thinner. The small obsidian cube from Vortak Prime grew heavier in his pocket as his six crimson dots began to fade.
But how could that be? Brad was thriving. This was just a new form of sameness, a new collective to belong to. Wasn't that what he wanted?
One day, Klarbinnax tripped on a curb while following Brad into a coffee shop. Faceplant. Camera crashing against concrete. Alien blood mingling with sidewalk dust.
And Brad? Brad laughed. Then immediately pulled out his phone to document the moment. "Content gold right here, folks!" Brad announced to his Instagram Live.
That's when Klarbinnax looked up from the sidewalk... and saw her. A woman — worn leather boots, hair the color of a forgotten seaside town, vintage film camera hanging from her neck. Unlike Brad and the small crowd forming, she knelt down beside him.
"Hey, you okay?" she asked, her voice soft but steady as she offered her hand. "That was quite a fall."
"I'm fine," Klarbinnax mumbled, embarrassed. His alien blood was turning purple against the concrete.
She helped him up and carefully picked up his cracked camera, examining it before handing it back. Her eyes lingered on the identical setup to Brad's – same bag, same accessories. He even was wearing the same branded tee-shirt as brad.
"You shoot with Brad?" she asked, nodding toward Brad who was still filming the incident and laughing.
Klarbinnax nodded, uncertain.
"I used to assist him," she said, her expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "Photography is more than about likes or money or whatever. To Brad, that's all it is -- but I don't think it has to be. It can be something more... human. Something more honest, ya know?"
"But he's successful," Klarbinnax responded, the words automatic.
She smiled. "Ha, well, maybe Brad isn't as successful as he wants you to think. At least not in the way that matters." She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Just a thought." And then she walked away.
Klarbinnax blinked. Looked at Brad, then watched as the woman walked away—still narrating the incident to his followers. And Klarbinnax wasn't sure if it was the growing lump on his forehead, or the unexpected kindness of the blue-haired stranger... But suddenly, he saw Brad clearly.
He questioned to himself if Brad was really a photographer at all, and maybe he was more a salesman of simplified formulas. A man who had built a career teaching others a stripped-down version of photography that anyone could replicate but no one would remember.
And in that moment, Klarbinnax realized something Earth offered that Vortak Prime never had—a choice. The blue-haired woman had shown him, in one simple gesture, that on this planet, being different wasn't a glitch to be corrected. It was a possibility.
That night, for the first time since arriving on Earth, Klarbinnax, alone in his broken spaceship made a photograph just because it moved him—a self-portrait that didn't hide his alien features but celebrated them. It wasn't perfect. It wouldn't sell a course. It wouldn't launch a workshop.
But it was his.
[Podcast Introduction]
Welcome to The Terrible Photographer Podcast — My name is Patrick and This episode is called "Copy Machine."
I think somewhere along the line, a lot of us stopped making work that we love... and started making work that just looks like, well, it belongs to someone else.
Today, we’re diving into the psychology of imitation: why we copy, who we follow, and how easy it is to lose your voice trying to find success. From preset culture to workshop worship, we’ll talk about what it really means to make something original — and why so many photographers (including me, at times) have defaulted to just hitting "print."
No shame. No shade. (okay a little bit of shade) Just an invitation to step off the assembly line — and start making work that actually sounds like you.
[Segment 2: The Science of Following]
The story of Klarbinnax-7 might seem far-fetched maybe even cheesy, but let's be honest—many of us have our own version of Brad. Our own template we've been following. Our own pyramid schemes of influence. So let's talk about why we do this."
"Copying works. At least at first. It's safe. It's fast. It gives you results you can measure — likes, engagement, maybe even bookings. And it taps into something ancient, something wired into our neurological lizard brains: the urge to conform.
Psychologists call it social proof — a concept pioneered by Robert Cialdini (pronounced: chahl-DEE-nee). It's that powerful cognitive shortcut where we assume that if others are doing something (especially successful others), it must be correct, valuable, or safe.
It's why restaurants with lines outside seem better. Why we read reviews before buying. Why we look at what the cool kids are wearing.
In uncertainty, we follow the herd. It's not weakness—it's evolutionary. For most of human history, going against the group could get you killed. So we developed this psychological failsafe: when in doubt, do what everyone else is doing.
The problem? In creative fields, this survival mechanism becomes the very thing that kills our originality.
And that makes sense. Because safety matters. Especially when you’re struggling — financially, creatively, emotionally. When the pressure is on, originality can feel like a luxury. Conformity feels like a strategy.
But here’s where it turns dangerous: we don’t just copy others’ techniques. We start copying their values. Their choices. Their voice. Their priorities. Maybe even their personality. And little by little, we lose our own.
There’s research on this. In one famous experiment, people were shown a set of lines and asked which one matched in length. When actors in the group deliberately gave the wrong answer, real participants went along with the lie, just to avoid standing out.
We’re not as independent as we think. Most of us would rather be wrong with the group than right alone.
There’s a scene in Dead Poets Society (a fovorite movie of mine) where Robin Williams’ character asks his students to walk across a courtyard. He doesn’t give them any real instruction — just to walk. At first, everyone moves in different rhythms.
But slowly… they start marching in sync. Same pace. Same beat. Same direction. Without being told.
And Williams just watches. Then he says, “Now, I didn’t ask you to do that. I didn’t ask you to conform.”
But we do. Almost instinctively.
Because it’s easier to match the rhythm of the group than risk walking off-beat. Because it’s safer to look like everyone else than to look foolish trying something new.
And in the photography world — where “success” is often wrapped in a visual trend, a preset – OR dare I say a PERSONALITY — it’s incredibly easy to be duped. To believe that someone else’s aesthetic, business model, or messaging template is the path forward.
Even if it costs us our creativity.
Even if it costs us money.
How much money is it costing us??
The global online photography education market was valued at over $785 million in 2023. And it's projected to hit $1.47 billion by 2030.
That’s not camera sales. That’s just education.
Just people paying to be taught how to shoot, light, pose, brand, and sell like someone else.
There is a reason why so many photographers are abandoning client work for becoming educators and influencers.
We’re all looking for shortcuts. For the new strategy. For the secret lighting recipe. For the most optimal business blueprint.
But we forget that what works for one person doesn’t always work for another. And that sometimes — maybe more often than we care to admit — those courses, those masterminds, those memberships, those “game-changing” workshops leave us… right where we started.
Just with less money.
And a little more self-doubt.
And as famous writer Ralph Waldo Emerson says, “Imitation is fucking suicide.”
(he didn’t say fucking, I added that)
[Segment 3: The Cost of Staying in the Copy Machine]
Here's the quiet tragedy: when you live inside the copy machine, you build a business that isn't yours. You construct a creative identity on a borrowed foundation—one that can collapse the moment trends shift or the person you're copying moves on. Like Klarbinnax losing his crimson dots, your defining features slowly fade.
In my view, there are photographers whose work has spawned entire industries of imitation. Peter Hurley with his jaw-line focused headshots. Lindsay Adler with her precise, editorial lighting. Sue Bryce with her transformative portraiture. And many others. That's not a knock on them—it's a testament to how distinctive and powerful their work is.
But there are 3 costs to this creative duplication:
First, you sacrifice autonomy—both creatively and financially. Your decisions become reactions: "What would Peter do with this jawline? How would Lindsay light this? What pose would Sue use here?" You're not steering your own ship; you're following someone else's wake.
Second, you attract the wrong clients—people who want what you imitated, not what you actually are. They come to you for the formula, not your vision. And the moment a newer, cheaper, more accessible version of that formula appears, they'll migrate there.
And finally? You become invisible. Not because you lack talent. Not because you're not working hard. But because your work blends into everything else—a ghost in the algorithm, another drop in an ocean of sameness. When you look at those who shoot head shots like Peter, the measure of quality is measured against the target that is set by Peter’s style. The more you deviate from his style, the more you are critiqued. But in these situations, sameness is celebrated, rewarded.
Fall in line, shoot the way you're told, pay your subscription fees, and if you do it well enough, we’ll reward you with a gold star.
How many photographers can you name who shoot exactly like Peter Hurley? Now, how many can you name who created something so distinctly theirs that it couldn't possibly be mistaken for anyone else's work?
This sameness isn't just creatively limiting—it's exhausting. It leads to that particular brand of burnout that doesn't announce itself with sirens. It sneaks in through the back door of your mind. Shows up as procrastination. Cynicism. That quiet thought at 2 AM that maybe you're not cut out for this.
But what's actually happening is that you're running someone else's race. You're measuring yourself against metrics you didn't choose. You've outsourced the thinking, the seeing, the feeling to a program, a formula, a personality.
Your creative life becomes the equivalent of being a line cook at Burger King. Yes, you might be efficient. Yes, what you make might even be satisfying in that cheap, momentary way. But the recipe isn't yours. Your job is simply to reproduce what's already been created.
So you stick to the approved script. You light it like Lindsay. You pose it like Sue. You direct expressions like Peter. And maybe, just maybe, you'll get the results you've been promised.
But it doesn't have to be this way.
[Segment 4: Breaking Free from the Copy Machine
So how do we escape the copy machine? How do we develop a voice that's actually ours?
In my view, there are three critical steps to finding your authentic creative voice—and they're not what most photography influencers will tell you.
First, flip the ratio. Most photographers have this backwards. They spend 80% of their time consuming education and 20% actually shooting. They're information hoarders, not image makers.
The real path forward? Spend 80% of your time and money on practice and test shoots. Dedicate just 20% to education, workshops, and conferences. Making images is how you discover what matters to you, not by watching another tutorial.
Think about it: Peter Hurley (pronounced: HUR-lee), Lindsay Adler (pronounced: AD-ler), Sue Bryce (pronounced: BRYCE)—none of them found their signature styles by following someone else's playbook. They put in thousands of hours experimenting, failing, and refining. Their voices emerged through iteration, not imitation.
Second, have the audacity to defy your heroes. This is the hardest part, because we've been conditioned to believe there's a "right way" to do things. But here's the truth: there is no right way. There's only your way.
Start small. If they say only use natural light, try strobes. If they swear by one modifier, try something else. If they tell you to always shoot at f/2.8, try f/8. Change your locations, your color stories, your post-processing.
The goal isn't to be contrarian for the sake of it—it's to break the creative habits that have been installed by other people. Have the courage to do things the way you want to do them just because you want to do them, and understand that's good enough.
Remember: what a certain photographer says isn't "my way or the highway"—and if they do say that? Fuck 'em. You don't need them. Find your own highway.
Finally, diversify your influences. If your Instagram feed, YouTube subscriptions, and workshop attendance all feature the same type of photographer creating the same type of work, you're in an echo chamber.
Seek out photographers who shoot nothing like you. Learn from genres you don't work in. Look at photography books and the work of dead photographers, not just the ones with YouTube channels.
Henri Cartier-Bresson (pronounced: ahn-REE kar-TYAY breh-SOHN) never sold a preset. Diane Arbus (pronounced: DY-an AR-bus) didn't have a membership site. Richard Avedon (pronounced: AV-uh-don) wasn't doing Instagram Lives. Yet their work remains influential decades later because it came from a place of genuine curiosity and personal vision.
The photographers who break free from the copy machine understand something essential: originality isn't about inventing something no one has ever seen before. It's about the unique combination of influences that only you can bring together.
So ask yourself: What would my work look like if I stopped trying to please the algorithm, the client, the workshop leader, the guru? What would it look like if I created work that I truely liked?
That's where your voice is hiding. In the gap between what you've been taught to make and what you actually want to make.
It's time to find it.
Consumption is easier than creation.
But creation is where the gold is buried.
Closing: Breaking Out of the Copy Machine
So, let's bring it home.
Remember Klarbinnax and his journey through the world of imitation? His story matters because it's really our story. Most of us anyway have all been there—standing at that crossroads between safety and self-expression, between copying someone else's formula and creating our own.
Here's what I hope you take away from today:
First, understand that copying is natural—it's built into our biology. Social proof isn't a character flaw; it's how humans have survived for thousands of years. But in creative work, what keeps us safe can also keep us small.
Second, recognize the true costs of living in the copy machine. It's not just about making derivative work—it's about losing autonomy, attracting the wrong clients, and eventually becoming invisible in a sea of sameness. That burnout you might be feeling? It could be your authentic voice trying to break free.
Third, remember the 80/20 rule—but flip it. Spend 80% of your time making images and only 20% consuming education or content. Your voice emerges through creation, not creative consumption.
Fourth, have the courage to defy your heroes. Not out of disrespect, but out of respect for your own journey. Their highway got them where they needed to go. Yours might look different.
And finally, diversify your influences. Look beyond Instagram and YouTube. Study photographers from different genres, different eras, different worlds. Your unique voice isn't found by following one path perfectly—it's found in the intersection of all the paths that have meant something to you.
The blue-haired woman in our story was right. Brad isn't as successful as he wants you to think—at least not in the way that matters. True success isn't measured in followers or workshop sales or people who pay to be in your club. It's measured in work that could only have come from you.
A Question to Carry With You
Before I leave you today, I want to give you a question to sit with this week. It's simple but potentially life-changing if you really engage with it:
If you stopped caring what other photographers thought of your work—if you weren't trying to impress them, join their communities, or earn their validation—what would your photography actually look like?
Not what your clients want. Not what the algorithm rewards. Not what workshops taught you. But what would you create if the only person you needed to please was yourself?
Sit with that. Think about it as you sit in traffic. Journal about it. Let yourself imagine it without rushing to judgment. The answer might surprise you—and it might just be the key to breaking out of the copy machine for good.
Because somewhere along the line, a lot of us stopped making work we love... and started making work that just looks like it belongs to someone else.
This has been The Terrible Photographer Podcast and My name is Patrick.
Feel free to email me at patrick@terriblephotographer.com or follow TerriblePhotographer on Instagram, @TerriblePhotographer
Remember friends,
Stay different, stay curious, and yeah, stay terribl