I’m not going to bore you with endless details about my biography—just the parts that eventually connect to my journey in photography. Because really, if you don’t know Jack, don’t worry. Some days, I feel like I don’t even know Jack.
Oh, and by the way, “Jack” isn’t my legal name. Legally, I’m John Alexander Hollingsworth III. But if you grew up in New England, as I did, you’d know that many “Johns” were called “Jack”. Think of John (Jack) Kennedy—JFK. It just stuck, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I grew up in Reading, Massachusetts, a small town about 15 miles north of Boston. It was your quintessential New England town: Democratic-leaning, predominantly Catholic, and filled with conservatives who were proud of their roots. Reading had its quirks, though, including the strong influence of Italian culture. Many of my school and family friends were Italian, which meant I had my round-the-clock fill of pasta, lasagna, meatballs, sausages, and, of course, garlic bread. Looking back, I probably owe my love of eating and photographing food as much to those friends as to my own family.
I was always sitting at someone else’s dinner table-Taco’s, Baccari’s, Morelli’s
The best part of Reading, as I remember it anyway, wasn’t school but my neighborhood—Barrows Road. It was straight out of a 1960s sitcom like “Leave It to Beaver”. Minus the white-picket fences, every kid rode their bikes until the streetlights came on, and every parent seemed to know what every child was doing at all times (except, of course, when I would sneak off for a smoke, at the basketball court, behind the Nelson’s). Barrows Road was a little world unto itself—a community that shaped my sense of belonging, connection, innocence, and youth.
Growing up, my life was deeply intertwined with the local high school. Both my parents were teachers at Reading Memorial High School (RMHS). My dad was a popular math teacher, head football coach, and eventually the athletic director. My mom was a teacher, too, which made it nearly impossible to escape their watchful eyes. To say I felt “seen” as a kid would be an understatement. My teachers were their colleagues, and every misstep at school somehow made its way back home before I even walked through the door.
Our family revolved around sports. My dad’s coaching meant that athletics was woven into the fabric of my childhood. Whether it was playing football, basketball, or baseball, sports were both an expectation and a way of life. On the surface, I wore the mask of a confident, outgoing kid—a natural fit for the sports world. But internally, I wrestled with shyness and insecurity. While I put on a public face of extroversion, I often felt unsure of myself and my place in the world.
The camera would, ultimately, address this covered and hidden self-doubt and lack of confidence in me.
Click.
That internal duality—projecting confidence while feeling insecure—created a space within me where creativity could and would bloom. Sports taught me discipline, teamwork, and perseverance, but they also taught me how to channel emotion and energy into something bigger than myself. Those same lessons carried over into my creative life, where photography became my new playing field.
Photography didn’t enter my life until the summer of 1975. My dad gave me a shiny new Minolta SRT 101 to take on my first overseas adventure to Europe. Up until then, my world was defined by small-town life and sports fields. But holding that camera opened up an entirely new dimension. Suddenly, I was looking at the world not as a series of places or events but as a canvas full of stories waiting to be told.
It just felt different. Way different.
Northern Europe was the perfect classroom. I framed scenes, experimented with angles, and started seeing the world through a creative lens for the first time. Although far from obvious at first, that trip lit a fire in me, and from that moment on, photography became part of my life and, over time, my way of making sense of the world.
Click.
Over the years, my journey in photography has mirrored my evolution as a person. Analog photography, with its slow, deliberate process, taught me patience and the importance of paying attention to detail. Digital photography brought precision and experimentation, allowing me to push boundaries and explore new techniques. And mobile photography—my current passion—reminds me every day of the joy and spontaneity that first drew me to this craft.
Free at last.
You can’t possibly know me without knowing my journey in photography. Hell, I can’t even fully know myself unless I see myself through a lens. It’s through photography that I’ve experienced the best and deepest parts of life—love, humanity, intimacy, and the beauty of the world around me.
Sports taught me how to work as part of a team. Photography taught me how to see the world as part of something larger than myself. Both have shaped who I am, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without either of them. So, if you don’t know Jack, now you do—or at least a little better. I’m just a guy who picked up a camera one summer and never looked back. A guy who found his voice through a lens, one frame at a time.
Click.
Jack.
