A digital diary detailing projects, prose and passion. And alliteration.

May 6, 2023

Timing is everything—and if I had to guess, I’d say mine feels like it’s perpetually 5-10 years behind. I figured out I wanted to become a professional photographer 10 years into an engineering career. I got on Facebook/IG a few years after the peak social media photography boom. I’m still not on TikTok (honestly, I can’t be bothered). NFTs…well, that one was a right place right time very short lived fluke. And now with AI looming as an existential threat to my career right as I’m finding my stride…well, you get the gist. It therefore seemed only fitting that I start blogging in earnest right now. Here. In 2023.

Why now—and why a blog—you may ask? Well, for a list of reasons too long to enumerate here (some of which I don’t completely understand myself). But the big reason, I suppose, is that art is about connecting with people—and if I’m being entirely honest with you, connection is something that I’ve struggled with throughout the course of my career.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not completely inept. I have managed to amass a medium sized following of fair weather internet groupies and have achieved some moderate success as a working photographer. Obviously this wouldn’t have occurred if I hadn’t connected with an audience in some way. But I think I’ve generally taken a passive approach to connection, letting others determine when, where and how that engagement takes place, while I take a back seat and go along for the ride. So I’ve decided that now is the time to act with some agency and start connecting in my own way.

But first, an important question: why does connection feel so difficult? Well for three, I’m an introvert with perfectionist tendencies and a crippling fear of failure. If that isn’t enough, I also have an incredibly mundane life by most standards, which I’ve always felt has made me personally uninteresting. I used to think this last part was particularly damning in the art world, where there always seemed to be a direct correlation between artistic value and an artist’s extreme trauma or extreme privilege—and that, in order to be perceived as a “serious” artist, I needed a backstory that rivaled the plot of an Ari Aster film. That, or a really healthy trust fund.

(More on this to come in later posts, it’s a topic that I have A LOT of feelings on).

I think I also have conflated “connection” with having connections. That to make it as a commercial photographer I had to know a guy who knows a guy, or have that enviable skill of commanding a room simply by walking into it. Or that I needed to be able to effortlessly network and schmooze at agency parties that ran waaay past 9pm. The horror. Did I not just mention I’m an introvert who fears rejection?

Then there’s the idea of audience expectations.  Is my audience the other photographers who buy my educational content? Should I focus on my commercial photography and solely target agencies and brands? Am I a fine art photographer who should be selling my prints to private collectors and galleries? Why do I feel like I have to pick just one path and mold my brand identity to fit that one industry’s expectations, or risk losing credibility amongst all of them? What if I want to be ALL the things?

*cue existential crisis*

The truth is, when your passion becomes a business, it’s easy to lose sight of what drew you—and other people—to your art in the first place, and instead focus on your shortcomings. I have spent so much time measuring my ability to “connect” against perceived industry expectations that I lost sight of what connection actually means. True connection isn’t something that can be commodified and it shouldn’t be pursued for the purpose of career growth, but rather to find common purpose.

I didn’t become a photographer because I’m a social butterfly with incredible marketing skills an Oscar worthy back story that bears telling. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that—it’s just not me). I became a photographer because I love art and I’m compelled to create. I’d do it if I had a billion dollars or zero.  For me, art is an integral part of the human experience. In its making or its observation, I learn from art. It forces me to critically evaluate my own beliefs and values. It engenders empathy by allowing me to experience other people’s stories vicariously. It provides perspective—on what was, what is, and what can be. It makes me feel—hopeful and despairing and powerful and vulnerable and alive. I love the history and the science and the magic of it all.  Artis what connects me to people.

So this is me, recalibrating what “connection” means, and holding myself accountable to it. Let’s skip the name dropping/networking/small talk superficial bullshit.  I want to find my kindred spirits. The nerds like me who love the challenge of approaching a photoshoot like an engineering problem to be solved. The architects and interior designers whose obsession with color and texture and lines and form rivals my own. The historians who feel that pang of nostalgia deep in their hearts when they see a Rockwell or a Caravaggio hanging on a museum wall. The art school graduates with $50 in their pocket stoked to see how creative they can get on a shoe string budget.  The anthropologists, scientists, actors, readers, builders, parents, lovers—anyone who has ever felt deeply affected by art—these are the connections that are truly fulfilling to me.

With all that in mind, I present to you my blog. A digital diary detailing projects, prose and passion. (And maybe some alliteration). Uncurated, mostly unfiltered, and egalitarian, my hope with this blog is to pull back the curtain and give anyone and everyone an insight into what makes Kate’s brain tick.  The ideas and projects that excite me, my creative process (and all the messiness and frustration that comes with it), my musings and philosophies on art—the whats and the hows, but most importantly the WHYS of it all.  

I invite you to join me on my journey. I may be 5-10 years late to the party, but at least I’m finally showing up.