I’ve had a camera in my hands since 1975.
That’s half a century, give or take. Enough time to witness the tectonic shifts in photography—analog to digital, digital to mobile. I lived through all of it. Not from the sidelines. From the trenches. From behind the lens. From under the studio lights. From across the oceans.
I ran working studios in Dallas, Austin, Cape Cod, Singapore, and India. I didn’t just take pictures; I built a business and a life around them. For a stretch of years, my stock photography was represented by some of the largest image agencies in the world. That was back when stock meant something, when there was artistry behind it, not just keyword stuffing and clickbait thumbnails.
I did it all.
Editorials. Corporate. Advertising. Stock.
Big budgets. Big clients. Big cameras. Big staff. Big successes. Big failures.
I lived the big life—at least, the big photographic life. I ate, slept, and breathed photography for decades. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I kept one thing tucked away: the scaffolding that held it together. The real stuff. The personal stuff. The internal wiring. The compass. The contradictions. The ache and the awe.
I didn’t talk much about that. I let the work speak.
Now I’m 71.
Twice married. Two daughters. Shannon, my second wife, gave me the gift of family in ways I’ll never forget or take for granted. My daughters—Emma and Audrey—full-grown woman, with lives of their own. Watching them live into their womanhood is one of the great privileges of my life.
Somewhere along the way—2011 to be exact—I traded in my big-ass DSLRs for an iPhone. That decision was as practical as it was philosophical. I didn’t lose my love for photography—I refined it. Simplified it. Reclaimed it. I became an evangelist for iPhone photography not because it was trendy, but because it was liberating. Still is.
I’ve seen enough sunrises through the car windshield and enough starlight from the roof of my tent to know this: I’m still very much alive.
I’m alone now. But I’m not lonely.
And there’s a difference.
I’m still shooting. Still traveling. Still roadtripping. Still pulling over to photograph whatever the hell speaks to me. Still pulling emotion from pixels. Still waiting for light to show me where to stand. Still chasing moments that look back at me and say, “This matters.”
I’m a card-carrying atheist. That wasn’t always the case. I used to be a believer—a dyed-in-the-wool, Bible-thumping, Jesus-loving believer. But the older I got, the more questions I asked. And the fewer answers made sense. I didn’t lose faith; I outgrew it. And what’s left—curiosity, awe, humility, tenderness—is more than enough to live a full life.
Politically? I don’t pledge allegiance to any party, but you could say I lean left—toward compassion, equality, dignity, and sanity. I find most political conversations today insufferable, because they so often lack nuance. And I live for nuance.
I’ve reached an age where I can say what I mean without needing to smooth every edge. I’ve spent decades worrying—explicitly or quietly—what people thought of me. About my work. About my faith. About my marriage. About my choices. About my truth.
But now?
I don’t much care what others say or think about me.
I care what I say. And what I think. And what I feel.
That’s not arrogance. It’s ownership.
I’ve done my time in the arena of approval. I’ve sat at the table where polite silence was mistaken for maturity. I’ve watched people spin themselves dizzy trying to get applause for a version of themselves they barely recognized. I’ve been that person.
No more.
Now, I live as I am. Openly. Proudly. Passionately. Not recklessly. Not rudely. But truthfully.
Because here’s what no one tells you about aging: it’s not just about loss. It’s also about gain. You lose the sharpness of your vision, maybe, but you gain the clarity of your perspective. You stop sprinting for likes and start walking with purpose. You stop auditioning for other people’s approval and start performing for the only audience that matters—yourself.
I’m not invincible. I’m not always right. But I’ve lived long enough, and hard enough, to know that playing small serves no one.
There’s a tenderness in aging that has nothing to do with fragility. It’s the tenderness of realizing how fleeting this whole damn thing is. How fast it all moves. How precious the boring days are. How even the regrets become souvenirs.
So yes, I’m 71.
I cry more. Laugh louder. Sleep lighter. Forgive quicker. Shoot slower.
I’m less afraid of failing. More interested in trying.
I say what I mean, and I don’t say it to stir the pot—I say it because my pot has been stirred for years, and now it’s time to serve the stew.
I hope my life still surprises me.
I hope I still wake up curious.
I hope I always find light worth chasing.
And I hope that in some small, stubborn way, I remind people that it’s never too late to own your story, speak your truth, and live the one life you’ve been given—without apology, without pretense, and without waiting for permission.
Because it’s your life.
And mine?
Well, I’m still living it.
Loud. True. And grateful as hell.
Jack
