I had my first transistor radio in the late ’60s, maybe early ’70s. It was red plastic, roughly the size of a peanut butter sandwich, and I carried it with me like it was part of my body. I was obsessed with WBCN in Boston—one of the first progressive rock stations in the country. Hendrix. Zeppelin. The Who. I wasn’t just listening to music—I was inhaling culture. For a teenage boy in suburban Massachusetts, it was like a direct line to some larger world that was louder, messier, and way more interesting than the one I was living in.
I remember, with absolute clarity, my father—John Hollingsworth Jr., “Bud” to his friends—walking into my bedroom more than once and saying with a raised voice and clenched jaw: “Turn that goddamn thing off!”
To him, that little radio was a menace. A distraction. A portal to rebellion, noise, and nonsense. And maybe it was. But it was also mine. It was the first time in my life I had something I could hold in my hand that felt like it connected me to the world in a way I actually wanted. Not school. Not church. Not family dinners. That little radio.
Of course, I now realize—decades later—my dad wasn’t really mad at the radio. He was mad at what it represented: something pulling me away from the life he thought I was supposed to be living. A life of quiet structure. Of straight lines. Of responsibilities. My radio was loud. And crooked. And wildly of course.
Looking back, I get it. But it never sat well with me.
That little red box didn’t distract me from life—it opened it up. It was a soundtrack to the confusion and restlessness I didn’t yet know how to name. My dad saw a distraction. I saw a lifeline.
Fast forward a few decades.
In 2011, I started shooting with an iPhone. Not as a backup. Not as a novelty. As my main camera. I’d lost my DSLR bag on a cruise assignment in Barbados, and out of desperation, I used my phone. And something clicked. Literally and spiritually.
That click changed everything. That day—February 18, 2011—became my second photographic birthday.
But it didn’t take long before I started hearing the same old judgmental tune I heard as a teenager with my transistor radio.
“Put that goddamn thing down.”
Sometimes people say it with words. Sometimes just with looks. Raised eyebrows. Dismissive chuckles. People assumed I wasn’t really present because I was holding a phone. That I wasn’t really connecting. That I wasn’t really photographing. That the phone was a crutch, a shortcut, a toy.
But let me tell you something: to me, the iPhone was never a distraction. It was an invitation. A tool. A companion. It didn’t take me away from life—it brought me closer to it.
Just like the radio in 1970.
There’s this persistent myth that technology always separates us from the “real” world. Anything with a screen somehow cheapens the moment. That a phone is the enemy of presence. I call bullshit.
Yes, technology can be a distraction. So can a book. So can a bad mood. So can worry and routine and self-doubt. Distraction is a state of mind, not a device.
The iPhone—my iPhone—isn’t a distraction. It’s a lens. A way of seeing. A way of noticing. Through it, I’ve trained myself to look closer, linger longer, and appreciate more deeply. I don’t take pictures to avoid life. I take pictures because life is fleeting and I want to honor it.
That’s not a distraction. That’s devotion.
To him, that little radio was a menace. A distraction. A portal to rebellion, noise, and nonsense. And maybe it was. But it was also mine. It was the first time in my life I had something I could hold in my hand that felt like it connected me to the world in a way I actually wanted. Not school. Not church. Not family dinners. That little radio.
Of course, I now realize—decades later—my dad wasn’t really mad at the radio. He was mad at what it represented: something pulling me away from the life he thought I was supposed to be living. A life of quiet structure. Of straight lines. Of responsibilities. My radio was loud. And crooked. And wildly off-course.
Looking back, I get it. But it never sat well with me.
That little red box didn’t distract me from life—it opened it up. It was a soundtrack to the confusion and restlessness I didn’t yet know how to name. My dad saw a distraction. I saw a lifeline.
Fast forward a few decades.
In 2011, I started shooting with an iPhone. Not as a backup. Not as a novelty. As my main camera. I’d lost my DSLR bag on a cruise assignment in Barbados, and out of desperation, I used my phone. And something clicked. Literally and spiritually.
That click changed everything. That day—February 18, 2011—became my second photographic birthday.
But it didn’t take long before I started hearing the same old judgmental tune I heard as a teenager with my transistor radio.
“Put that goddamn thing down.”
Sometimes people said it with words. Sometimes just with looks. Raised eyebrows. Dismissive chuckles. People assumed I wasn’t really present because I was holding a phone. That I wasn’t really connecting. That I wasn’t really photographing. That the phone was a crutch, a shortcut, a toy.
But let me tell you something: to me, the iPhone was never a distraction. It was an invitation. A tool. A companion. It didn’t take me away from life—it brought me closer to it.
Just like the radio in 1970.
There’s this persistent myth that technology always separates us from the “real” world. That anything with a screen somehow cheapens the moment. That a phone is the enemy of presence. I call bullshit.
Yes, technology can be a distraction. So can a book. So can a bad mood. So can worry and routine and self-doubt. Distraction is a state of mind, not a device.
The iPhone—my iPhone—isn’t a distraction. It’s a lens. A way of seeing. A way of noticing. Through it, I’ve trained myself to look closer, linger longer, appreciate more deeply. I don’t take pictures to avoid life. I take pictures because life is fleeting and I want to honor it.
That’s not distraction. That’s devotion.
To be fair, I’ve had to earn that conviction. It didn’t come easy. There were plenty of times early on when I questioned myself. When I wondered if I’d sold out. If I was just another middle-aged man with a gadget, chasing validation. But the more I shot, the more I realized: this wasn’t about gear. It was about seeing. About showing up. About remembering.
My phone didn’t pull me away from life. It called me to it.
And isn’t that the point?
I think about my dad often. Especially since he passed in 2024 at the age of 97. He was old-school in all the best and worst ways. He didn’t understand the digital world, and he didn’t want to. But he understood discipline. He understood craft. He understood the value of paying attention. Which is exactly what I’m doing when I raise my iPhone and press the shutter. I’m paying attention. With everything I’ve got.
I think, if he were still here, I’d tell him that. I’d say: “Dad, I get it now. I know why you wanted me to turn that thing off. You weren’t mad at the music. You were mad that I seemed far away. But what you didn’t see is that I was listening to something that made me feel more alive. Just like now. With this phone. This camera. I’m not tuning out. I’m tuning in.”
I’m 71 now. And in the past 14 years, I’ve shot over a million iPhone photos. That’s not a distraction. That’s a life’s work. A practice. A calling.
And if people still want to tell me to put the goddamn thing down, I’ll politely smile and keep shooting. Because I know what I’m doing. I’m not missing life. I’m witnessing it. Frame by frame.
I’m not a slave to the phone.
I’m in love with the world.
And my camera—my iPhone—is how I say I see you.
So to all the critics, the skeptics, the purists, and the worriers: I hear you. I respect your caution. But don’t project your distractions onto me. Maybe your device pulls you away. But mine pulls me in.
Into light.
Into color.
Into memory.
Into meaning.
So no, I won’t turn that goddamn thing off.
Not now.
Not ever.
Click.
Jack.
