That’s not just a punchline.
That’s me.
I’m all three. Photographer. Democrat. Atheist. And they all walk into the same place—my life. My work. My writing. My creative output. This little bar I’ve built for myself. If you’re reading this, you’ve walked in too. So let me pour you a drink and lay it all out.
I approach photography autobiographically. That means I can’t—won’t—separate what I shoot from who I am. The way I photograph is the way I live: curious, observant, honest, skeptical, compassionate, contradictory, unfinished. My camera doesn’t just point outward. It reflects inward. And what it finds there is sometimes soft and warm, sometimes sharp and pissed off. But always human.
Some people think photography should be neutral. Objective. Polite. Safe. I’ve been there. I spent decades being “that guy.” The agreeable guy. The smile-for-the-client guy. The keep-politics-and-religion-out-of-it guy. The guy who played it so safe that he sometimes forgot what he believed at all.
Not anymore.
I’m 71 years old. I don’t have time for bullshit anymore. I’ve seen enough. I’ve lost enough. I’ve learned enough. And I’ve lived long enough to know that photography doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It exists in you. It exists in me. And it exists in the world we live in.
That means my work—hell, my brand—is going to carry some baggage. Good baggage. The kind worth unpacking.
I’m a Democrat. Not a milquetoast moderate. Not a performative progressive. But someone who deeply believes in justice, equality, human rights, the common good, and telling the truth—even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.
I’m an atheist. I used to be the opposite. I used to believe every word of the Bible was true and sacred and unquestionable. I went to a fundamentalist Bible school. I taught Sunday School. I walked the walk. But the more I lived, and the more I looked around, the more the story stopped making sense. These days, I find far more beauty and wonder in the real world than I ever did in the promised one.
And I’m a photographer. A working, wondering, wandering photographer. The kind who doesn’t care much about camera specs but cares deeply about how light lands on a weathered face, how shadows tell stories, and how the tiniest, in-between moments can say the most.
So yeah, when I teach photography, I sometimes talk about politics. When I write about a photo I took, I sometimes reference religion. And when I show you what’s in my camera bag, I might also show you what’s in my heart.
If that’s too much, I get it. There are other websites. Safer ones. Quieter ones. Places where it’s all sunsets and gear reviews and nobody ever says anything that might make you shift in your seat.
But that’s not what I’m building here. I’m not looking for followers. I’m building a home. A bar, maybe. A firepit. A place where you can bring your camera and your convictions. A place where photos don’t just hang—they speak.
I want to talk about light, sure. But I also want to talk about truth.
I want to talk about framing. But also about freedom.
I want to talk about what makes a portrait powerful. But also what makes a person proud.
You see, photography is not some escape hatch. It’s not a way to avoid the world. It’s a way to see it more clearly. More compassionately. More completely.
And if we’re really seeing—really looking—we can’t help but notice injustice, pain, joy, contradiction, humanity, absurdity. We can’t help but see the fingerprints of politics and belief and doubt in every frame. So why pretend they’re not there?
Some of the best photographers I know are opinionated. They’ve got a point of view. A lens and a perspective. Their work may not always be universally loved, but it’s never forgettable. I’d rather offend a few than bore the many.
That doesn’t mean I’ll rant all the time. It doesn’t mean I’ll turn every landscape into a sermon. But it does mean I’ll write honestly. I’ll speak plainly. I’ll shoot like I mean it. And I’ll share like I care.
Because I do care. Deeply.
About the world we live in.
About the country we vote in.
About the myths we believe in.
About the people we photograph.
And about the power of this beautiful, ridiculous, irreplaceable medium to help us see—not just better photos, but better versions of ourselves.
So here’s my invitation:
If you’re looking for someone who pretends to be neutral, I’m not your guy.
But if you want someone who’s lived long enough to tell the truth without apology—and shoot the world with both eyes open—pull up a chair.
Let’s talk.
Let’s click.
Let’s drink to that strange and wonderful collision of photography, politics, and belief.
Because when a photographer, a Democrat, and an atheist walk into a bar?
The light’s always good.
Click.
Jack.
