JS: I'm a photographer who's deeply invested in capturing the internal transformation that happens through movement. Most of my work lives at the intersection of endurance sports and art—running, cycling, and moments where the mind and body are in tension. When someone asks what I do, I usually say that I document athletes, but not just in the traditional commercial sense. I'm interested in the quiet, complex moments—the pause at mile 22, the body in the aftermath of a long run, the stillness before a sprint.

My path to this work has been anything but linear. I started out as a musician, studied ethnomusicology and later got an MFA in Design. I worked in product, operations, and eventually creative direction before fully stepping into photography. But all of that gave me a layered view of storytelling—how rhythm, repetition, systems, and intuition all collide in creative work. Photography ended up being the medium that let me collapse all of it into a single frame.

JS: I've always been interested in systems—whether that's musical structure, training cycles, visual composition, or the logistics of a production. Ethnomusicology is the study of music in its cultural context. It taught me to listen deeply—not just to sound, but to how a body moves, how a rhythm emerges from repetition, how communities express themselves through cadence and ritual. At the time, I thought I'd pursue field work or become a professor. 

But what it really gave me was a way to connect physicality and emotion through pattern—something that shows up constantly in sport.In endurance sports, there's a rhythm that builds over time—something abstract but deeply felt. The same is true in art. My MFA helped me build a visual language to express that rhythm, and my background in music and sport gave me the internal metronome to know when it feels honest. Where art and sport come together for me is in those moments of vulnerability—where the repetition, fatigue, and ambition strip everything else away. That's where real storytelling lives.

JS: The path looks linear on paper, but in practice it was always more intertwined. Before anything else, I was a musician. I spent ten years writing music, producing albums, and touring. That experience taught me early on that creative success isn't just about making things—it's about understanding how to sustain it. You have to build the structure around your creativity or it falls apart. I learned how to negotiate, book shows, promote, and manage logistics—all while staying connected to the artistic core. That balance became second nature.

Later, when I moved into roles in product design and operations, I saw it as a continuation of that same pattern. Even in the most "left brain" environments, I was still problem-solving, building frameworks, and trying to create something with resonance. On the side, I kept making photographs, mapping ideas, and staying close to movement culture—running, cycling, training—because that's where my creative instincts lived.

Now, as a photographer, I draw from all of it. I like structure. I like clarity. I want a shoot to be well-planned and well-run. But when it's time to create, I let instinct take over. That constant tension—between planning and improvising, business and art—is what keeps my work sharp and sustainable. It doesn't feel like a switch between modes; it feels like a conversation I've been having for years.

JS: For a long time, I sat in the middle—not fully in, not fully out. I knew what going freelance really meant: being your own boss, your own sales team, your own creative engine and operations lead. It takes an enormous amount of focus and commitment—honestly, not unlike training for something big. You have to be all in.What held me back wasn't the work itself. That part came naturally. It was the energy it takes to market yourself, pitch over and over, get ghosted, deal with lowball offers. It wears on you. But at a certain point, I mentally crossed the threshold. I just said, "I can do this. Now let's go."

Looking back, the years I spent in graduate school at Parsons were a huge part of laying that foundation. Being in that environment—where I was producing work at a high volume, researching deeply, designing systems, and delivering consistently—showed me what I was capable of when fully committed. That stretch of time built a kind of quiet confidence that I carried forward into photography.Over time, I began to understand what I was really bringing to the table—years of lived experience, perspective, and a point of view shaped by design, sport, and storytelling. Once I found confidence in that, the rest followed.

JS: There's a mental landscape you enter during long solo efforts that you just can't understand from the outside. A place where time stretches, and your thoughts move at the same rhythm as your cadence. I once did a 120-mile solo ride—no music, no conversation, just the sound of tires on pavement and my own breath. After hour five, something shifted. The physical strain didn't disappear, but my mind was free to wander. I moved through memories, creative ideas, doubts, dreams. I felt both completely alone and deeply connected to everything around me.

That kind of experience changes how I see athletes. I'm not just looking for the moment of exertion or the polished finish-line shot. I'm drawn to the in-between—the internal shifts, the solitude, the small psychological battles that never make it into highlight reels. Because I've been there, I know what it means when an athlete gets quiet or distant or locked in. I recognize the look in their eyes when they've gone somewhere else entirely. That understanding allows me to capture not just what they're doing—but what they're feeling.

JS: The Renaissance Athlete, to me, is someone who doesn't define themselves by a single output. It's not about being good at a dozen things—it's about allowing your identity to be fluid. I run, I cycle, I swim, I lift, I shoot, I write. All of it connects. The more varied the input, the more nuanced the output.

Versatility matters now because we live in a time where rigid definitions are falling apart. Athletes aren't just athletes. Creatives aren't just creatives. We need to be responsive, adaptive, and layered—and the only way to get there is to keep moving across disciplines.

JS: Running. I grew up playing team sports, and for most of my life, running was framed as punishment—something you did when you messed up, or something to suffer through during practice. I hated it. I remember running the mile in middle school and thinking it was the hardest thing imaginable.It wasn't until much later that I started to approach running differently. As a form of training at first, then as a way to process, to create rhythm, to access something internal. Even now, I have to remind myself to settle in, to relax, to trust the repetition. It's a discipline of presence.

Coming to running with that kind of baggage—and slowly shifting my relationship to it—has been humbling. It's taught me patience. It's reminded me that resistance can eventually turn into love, and that the things we avoid often hold the most growth.

 

COURIER: You've photographed athletes who run, ride, climb, and everything in between. You also dabble in a ton of various sports. What have you noticed about how truly versatile athletes like yourself and those you photograph approach their kit?

JS: Most of the versatile athletes I know—and photograph—are intentional about their gear but not precious. They want things that can move with them across sports, not just look good in one specific setting. Simplicity, durability, and function matter. It's less about over-specializing and more about building a system that can adapt to whatever the day demands.

That mindset resonates with me. I want my gear to be as fluid as my routine—something that can keep up if the day starts with a tempo run and ends with a ride, or a shoot.

COURIER: What else?

JS: I'm heavily influenced by music and landscape. I think of sequences like albums and images like verses—each one a stand-alone moment, but collectively telling a broader story. Movement, especially long efforts outdoors, is where ideas tend to surface. It clears out the noise.A mantra I tell myself is: "Go until my mind empties." That's the threshold I look for—whether I'm riding, running, or editing. From that place, I can create more openly. Things simplify. I trust my instincts.And socks? The perfect pair disappears. It keeps you grounded, lets you move without noticing, and stays with you through every mile. That's the kind of creative work I want to make—quietly essential.

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