Creative Director & Gallerist Jarod Taber On the art of belonging

Interview by James Wright

For Jarod Taber, an image is more than a two-dimensional representation—it’s a story shaped by space and intention. Taber’s work could be described as adjacent to the tradition of understanding photography as an art practice, though not in its conventional form. As a creative director, photographer, film director, and gallerist, Taber has built his career around the goal of making an image, finding a person, or even a collaboration and crafting its relationship to its physical surroundings.

His style is expansive, ranging from softer, more subtle tones to more raw work reminiscent of contemporary image-making in the fashion and art worlds, all the way to highly-curated, deeply intentional images that prioritise narrative over spontaneity. By blending themes of humanity and environment with the aesthetics and precision of fine art and editorial photography, Taber’s work represents an evolution—or even an expansion—of his rebellious nature. After transforming his creative agency, Authorized Dealer, into a gallery, he has continued to push the boundaries of visual storytelling.

James Wright: We’re speaking the week of the LA fires – you and your wife were just forced to evacuate. Tell me about the experience of evacuating – how it felt in the moment and how you’re feeling now.

Jarod Taber: It’s layered. I’ve had a lot of feelings about it because, like most people in LA, we live in Silverlake, we weren’t directly affected. So part of me felt a bit dramatic leaving. I had the same feeling during COVID – though that was a different experience. I was living in New York then, and with a global pandemic, with no foreseeable end, and all the uncertainty, it felt different. But still, Marki (my wife) and I left New York at the precipice – right before flights stopped, before full lockdown. And I remember feeling this overwhelming sense of I’m leaving my community.

That situation was complex in its own way, but we ended up in Southern California, this sort of safe haven. We moved into our bungalow, we could go outside, go to the beach. And I bring that up because fast-forward to this crisis in LA, and we basically did the same thing. When the fires started erupting, we left. Marki is more medically sensitive to smoke, so of course her health was a real consideration. But even with that, there was this familiar feeling of fleeing the city.  On one hand, anyone with the resources to leave should – especially in a city like LA, where, if things got worse and everyone tried to evacuate at once, it could turn into complete chaos. It’s better for people to leave in phases. But at the same time, I struggled with leaving because I feel it’s important to stay engaged, to be a part of the community on the ground and to actively participate. 

And we had done that through the gallery. When the Eaton fire broke out on Tuesday night, we woke up on Wednesday morning, and it was terrifying to be outside. Marki felt strongly that we had to get out.

When we decided to come back to the city for the weekend, we opened the gallery doors as a kind of reprieve. Whether people just wanted to drop in, take a breath, or shoot the shit, we wanted to create space for that. We had water, masks, and we were taking donations. There was a nice flow of people coming through, and it felt like we were contributing in a real way. We also gathered supplies and distributed them where we felt they were most needed. That, at least, felt like a meaningful way to give back.

JW: Do you think this has shifted how you feel about being in the city, setting emotions aside? Do you feel like the joy of living here is going to be stripped-away for a while? This isn’t an overnight fix; it’ll take years. I’ve been curious, talking to people — whether they’re fully honest or not — about whether LA still feels like a place where things can happen: work, opportunities, collaboration. 

JT: I don’t think it’s had much of an effect on me personally, but I do think it’s unfortunate how quickly our culture jumps to extremes. Obviously, this has been a devastating, catastrophic event for so many people. The Palisades are gone. Altadena is gone. Rebuilding will take years — this isn’t something where life just returns to normal in a couple of weeks.

That said, social media already has people judging each other for resuming business as usual content, which is its own separate conversation. 

For me, this hasn’t changed my desire to stay in LA or my long-term commitment to being here. If anything, and I know it sounds cliché, now feels like a more important time than ever for people like us — people who help usher in creative projects, spaces, and collaborations. That kind of work will be needed more than ever. If people decide to write LA off, to leave and say, there’s nothing here for me anymore, that would be a real loss. In moments like this, there’s so much opportunity — not just in physically rebuilding, but in shaping what the city’s creative and cultural community looks like moving forward. There’s a lot of healing ahead, but I think we’re in it for the long run.

JW: I hope you don’t mind me asking, but given that we've both had our health challenges at relatively young ages—though we don’t need to get into specifics—do you feel that experience has changed you? How has it shifted the way you move through the world?

As I'm sure you've experienced—or are still experiencing—when you’re really sick, there's this shift in how you view the world. When I was in and out of the hospital, it was a strange place to be, caught between “`Will I ever be the same?” and then the surprising return to normalcy when you’re back on your feet, walking outside. For a while, I couldn’t even walk, and then suddenly I’m able to again, and it’s like, "Wow, everything’s different." It’s funny, because when you’re that sick, you realise how trivial so much of what we focus on really is. And I don’t mean that in a way that makes me want to go become an environmentalist or abandon everything—I just mean, it helps you lighten-up about life.

That perspective shift has been helpful in the work. It’s allowed me to ease up on myself, on where I’m going, and what matters. It’s also given me the tools to recognise when something isn't worth the stress, or when I just need to rest. Before, I’d push myself to the edge, always worrying about the next thing or where things were going. Now, I can pause. It’s been a kind of necessary reset. But in a strange way, I think it’s also forced me to reflect on how much we let insignificant things drive us.

JW: We’ve talked before about your love of surf and skate culture. How did growing up outside of the major metropolises in California shape your sense of home and place? And how do you think it still influences you today? 

JT: I grew up in a really small town – just me and my mom. We moved around a lot, I was born in the Central Valley, then we moved to Oregon before heading down to San Diego. But I say I grew up in Santa Ynez since I was there from fifth grade until I graduated high school. 

I think growing-up there shaped me by giving me a real sense of what I wanted. From a young age, I knew a small town wasn’t for me — the people I wanted to be around, the world I wanted to be part of, existed in a city. I wanted to be in a place where music, art, and different kinds of people collided. 

I started skating when I was thirteen, and there were maybe ten of us who were into it — this tiny clique of kids playing music and skating, all eager to get out. At some point, we all ran away to LA for a couple of days, only to come back and get the backhand from our parents. But that urgency to leave, to see more, was always there. Politically and culturally, I felt out of step, mentally and aspirationally, with the place I grew up. 

As I get older, I see the value in growing up in a place like that. I hated it as a kid, but looking back, I think that frustration — the desire for more — shaped me. Being part of that small subculture gave me an entry point into bigger creative spaces later on. And now, as Marki and I are starting to try for kids, I think about what it would mean to raise one in a small town — the kind of freedom they’d have to just do whatever they want.

JW: Would you say that, even now, you still see yourself as rebellious?

JT: Definitely. It’s something I need to retain in order to feel I’m staying true to myself. Even if it’s small, rebellious wins. I still try to bring it into my work, pitching ideas I know won’t get accepted. If I don’t have at least a little bit of rebellion on me, I feel I’ve lost my edge. 

JW: Do you think the same drive — the need to shape your own ideas rather than execute someone else’s vision — also led you away from traditional employment? You've worked for others in the past, but now you run Authorized Dealer, which operates in multiple ways; a very contemporary approach, of course.

JT: My mom always told me: “You’re never going to be able to work for somebody else.” Hearing that at fourteen or fifteen, I think I carried it with me through school, college, and into my professional life.

I did try — I wanted to believe I could work for someone else and that it could be that simple. But every time I tried, I failed. For a while, I asked myself: “Is it just impossible for me to work for someone? Is that a flaw?” But it’s not. It’s just a matter of preference — how you want to work, what you want to create. I’d rather be the architect or caretaker of an idea, seeing it through and feeling deeply invested in the process, rather than just checking boxes.

I vividly remember working for an agency — I won’t name it — but I was only there for six months. They took us on a field trip, and the whole thing felt so contrived. Let’s take the class to the Judd Foundation so they can get inspired, then let’s sit in a room and talk about it afterward. I remember thinking, I am so not into this.

JW: We’ll get to Authorized Dealer in a moment, but I was reminded today of the concept of the collective unconscious. Fires aside, where do you think we are culturally right now? You run an agency, a production company, a gallery — you have a finger on the pulse of different creative disciplines. Where do you think people ‘are’ at the moment? What do they want? What do they need?

JT: I want to say the word, but I recognise there’s a bit of a cliche to it. But, when I think about Authorized Dealer and what it represents, the experience has shown me people want community.

People are craving a sense of place in a time when everything feels so dispersed, which is largely due to how we engage with one another now. We engage through social media, through our work, with our clients—but it all feels detached, like we’ve created this space between us. COVID exacerbated this, too. But the response we’ve had to the gallery has given me a clear view into how much people just want a place to gather.

In LA, especially, there’s a real need for spaces like that. Other major cities like New York, Paris, and London have those kinds of spaces, but LA, in particular, needs it. I think it’s something that transcends beyond LA though. People are looking for that sense of connectivity and shared experience. They want to talk about where their heads are at, what’s inspiring them, but in a casual setting.

JW: As you said, community is one of those words that’s almost losing its meaning because we all overuse it. But it seems in a way, an analogy to belonging. 

JT: Because of the cultural floor we’ve created, everything feels niche and fragmented. Going to a gallery or a brand opening can feel isolating, with less of a sense of belonging or welcome. People often talk about how the four white walls of a gallery can feel exclusive, and I understand that.

But when you look at someone like Harley Wertheimer, he’s creating a different kind of space — one that prioritises accessibility over fast turnover. There’s something about the way he programmes his spaces that feels more open, making people more inclined to gather.

I think belonging is actually a great word to use. I think the need for a sense of belonging is everywhere, but it’s especially needed in LA. In a city like New York, you can just stumble into those points of contact. You have these run-ins, and you feel this extreme sense of belonging, even if you don’t know half the people. In LA, that kind of spontaneous connection is rare. 

JW: Did you have a clear vision for the gallery from the start, in terms of the kind of work you wanted to showcase, or has that evolved over time? What was the initial artistic intention behind the space? 

JT: From the beginning, the gallery’s ethos has been to cultivate relationships with artists in a way the industry often doesn’t allow. You spend so much time working with these individuals — learning from them, being inspired by them — that the goal was always to create projects and exhibitions that celebrate those relationships, free from the constraints of client briefs dictating what they should look like.

For example, this spring, I’m working with Ken, someone I met in New York years ago and have always considered a bit of a mentor because our approaches are so similar. In the late '90s and early 2000s, he curated a lot of photo books for brands — like when Leica launched a new camera, and he’d commission ten photographers to shoot exclusively with it while overseeing the project. We’ve never actually collaborated before, but he’s always been someone I could turn to for advice or to bounce ideas off. What’s especially gratifying is that he trusts the space and sees it as a strong platform for bringing in artists beyond my own reach.

Beyond that, the gallery became a way to celebrate photography in Los Angeles — an art form that often feels more like a commodity than something to truly engage with. While some photographers and filmmakers treat it purely as a way to make a living, others still maintain a dedicated art practice. I think it’s essential to recognise and celebrate both — where commercial work can coexist with artistic expression.

I’ve had people come up to me after exhibitions and say: “It’s so refreshing to see a space that champions commercial artists in a way that aligns with their art practice.” It acknowledges that the lines between commercial and artistic work aren’t as clear-cut as people assume, and both can thrive in a space like this.

I think about great spaces in cities like Paris — Ephemera Books, Yvonne Lambert — or my friend Ollie’s Friend Editions in New York, where fashion, photography, music, and art intersect in a single space. I’ve always seen these places as physical manifestations of a magazine — where different elements come together to inspire, spark passion, and create dialogue. That’s the essence of it: How do you make connections and spark conversation around the things you care about?

JW: It’s interesting to hear you talk about your space and how photography — along with film — fits into that, especially because LA doesn’t really have many respected or established spaces that exhibit photography. So, from that perspective, within the photography and visual art world, what’s a tradition you'd like to conserve?

JT: Photographically, I’m not a purist, so I don’t view photography in a traditional sense. If I had to answer the question about conservation, I think it comes down to conserving photography as an art form, as a vehicle for expressing one's unique perspective on the world or their surroundings. Photography has become so transactional that the idea of using it to express oneself in the same way other mediums allow is getting lost. Especially for people who got into photography because they genuinely loved it — like skateboarders who aren’t the best at skating but want to capture their friends in action, creating beautiful compositions. Over time, though, it’s shifted into how to make money from it.

There's a girl, Emily Rosser, who’s having a show later this year at the space. The work she’s planning to exhibit is incredible. But when I reached out to her about doing a show, she had the same response a lot of people do — thinking: "I don’t really have an art practice, I don’t know if I’m ready to share my work." It’s funny because that mindset still exists, largely due to how we perceive photography and what it means to have a ‘voice’ in this space. 

That’s just the reality of the industry now, especially if you’re a commercial photographer trying to make a living from your day rate. And while that’s the price of entry, it’s unfortunate. My hope is that those working in commercial photography still manage to carve out space for themselves, to remember why they started in the first place and to create for themselves, not just for the pay-check.

JW: Your first show, Assembly, was with your long-time friend and collaborator, Jack Bool. You and Jack, however, have worked together consistently over time. How has that relationship evolved as both of your careers have grown? And looking at it now, with Jack’s work being exhibited, how do you think that dynamic has shaped your career trajectory?

JT: It was a no-brainer that Jack’s show would be the first if I was going to open a space. He’s someone who has helped shape my career just as much as I’ve helped shape his — our paths have always intertwined, with both of us offering opportunities to each other as we've progressed. It’s funny because Jack and I are like brothers now. We were born a day apart, so we're both Capricorns with the same quirks and tendencies, which is often the reason we butt heads. In so many ways, we’re literally the same person, and that’s both frustrating and kind of great.

I met Jack in 2016 or 2017. At the time, I was running a gallery in San Francisco with a friend called Book and Job, and Jack’s work was a big part of what I was getting into. Carson, who opened the space, had this grand idea of running a gallery, but like most people, he needed help managing it. So, I worked with him for a couple of years, until I left the Bay Area. Fast forward a few years after that, and I come back to see a Jack Bool show at the gallery. I didn’t know his work at the time, but I was intrigued — like, who is this person? 

Around that time, a commercial project came up, and I thought Jack would be perfect for it. He’d never shot a commercial project before, but it turned out to be a really interesting project — one of those moments where print still had its magic. The project was published, and it felt like the perfect chance to champion Jack’s work. 

As we’ve both gotten older and our careers have grown, we don’t get to work together as much as we used to. And we've both become jaded in our own ways, navigating the industry on our separate paths. But I couldn’t be more proud of Jack — he’s made an incredible career for himself. When I look back at what he was creating then versus now, it’s amazing to see how far he’s come. What’s even more inspiring is that in a world where photography has become so transactional, Jack has maintained a true art practice. His point of view is palpable and distinct — he’s not just creating for the sake of it, but with a real, personal lens. It's like Zoe Ghertner, another commercial photographer I admire — she’s working for the same big clients, but her artistic point of view is still very much her own. That’s rare to see, and Jack has that.

JW: What makes you feel jaded?

JT: It’s not necessarily about me, but more about the context around me. In my experience, the opportunities I’ve been given, the spaces I’ve been invited into — it all comes with this kind of cultural cache and social clout, especially with Instagram’s dominance in the industry. It’s become this thing that lingers over everything. Over the years, I’ve found myself in situations where I’ve become the person who just gets things done, because I’ve dipped my toes into so many creative avenues. I started in film, I worked at Vice as a director and editor, and then moved into consulting and creative direction. I’ve touched every part of this process, so I know how everything works. It’s gotten to the point where clients and collaborators know I’m someone who can execute.

But then there’s always this ‘creative auteur’ who swoops in at some point in the process, someone who just shows up with a vision and takes all the credit. And that’s where I get tired — tired of that ‘cool guy’ mentality that runs this industry, of people needing to wear someone else’s name on their backs to feel validated. There’s this sense of ego attached to everything, like: “Look at me, look at what I’ve done,” and it just gets old. And I’m at this place now where I feel incredibly fortunate to not need to play that game anymore. The gallery, for me, is not about being the cool guy. It’s not about that “cool factor” at all. It’s a space for real engagement with artists and ideas in a way that feels intentional, not based on the popularity contest of who’s in the room or whose name is on the project.

The studio makes money, I have clients, but the gallery is something entirely different — it’s just for creating, for sharing what feels important. I’m really lucky to have that, and I’ve reached a point where I don’t need my ego wrapped up in any of it. I can just let it be what it is, without worrying about proving anything.

JW: I’m curious, looking back on everything you've built — your gallery, your business — what, if anything, do you regret? Is there something you would have approached differently, either creatively or from a business standpoint, that you feel could have shaped things in a better way?

JT: I don’t know that I regret anything in my career. There was a time when I felt regretful for not taking a more direct, singular path that made sense.

It’s funny how I went from saying before that people feel like they can rely on me to get things done, to now saying they don’t understand me on paper. I’m thinking about those two things in completely different ways. In the sense that people don’t get me on paper, it probably explains why I don’t have a corporate creative director job, because no one would probably hire me. People don’t get why I’ve gone from being a video guy to a strategy guy, to an art direction guy, to someone who knows how to handle productions. But ultimately, I think it’s what’s paid off. At least now I know how to deliver a deck, hang a show, and be that annoyingly persistent producer over text.

I do regret, though, not taking education more seriously. I’ve been talking to a lot of friends lately who went to CalArts, like Kirstie Wardall and Jillian Garcia, and even Jack Paradise. And I think if there’s one thing I regret, it’s not having that foresight. I was a rebellious skater just trying to check a box with college. I wish I’d taken the time to think more critically about what I was getting out of school, or maybe faced myself in a different way — whether that means a more traditional education or something outside the box. I wish I’d considered who the professors were, what I was really sitting in on, and how I could activate that.

I don’t regret going to school or just getting it over with, but I do regret not paying attention, not understanding what education could mean in the long run. I’ve had to learn a lot the hard way, especially how to write. 

JW: Do you think depth of connection is more important to you than breadth of connection? When you think about success, do you define it in terms of reaching a smaller group of people but making a real, meaningful impact on their lives, or do you believe that for something to truly matter, it needs to reach a larger audience?

JT: To me, a successful gallery opening is one where I can connect meaningfully, even if the turnout is large. The two openings we've had were pretty big — about 150 people — but you can't talk to everyone. Still, within that setting, I’ve had opportunities to connect with people who express how important it is to have this kind of space in the neighborhood, especially focused on photography. But outside of the sheer number of people walking through the door, it’s really about the quality of those interactions.

And I think depth has a natural way of expanding into something more manageable over time. You start with these intimate connections, and then those relationships grow through mutual friends. It starts small—just you, Sally, Jim, and Tim—and over time, those connections become something deeper and more expansive. But it always begins with depth.

I don’t care for the gallery to be a world-renowned space, plastered everywhere. If thirty people show up to a show, I’m thrilled. I had a book launch once where only thirty people came, and it was probably my favorite opening. It felt so intimate—everyone was inside, mingling, connecting. I met some great people that night, and now we’re beginning to build new relationships. You can’t have deep connections with everyone, but I believe that genuine relationships naturally expand into a broader community. It’s a reminder that starting small doesn’t mean staying small.

JW: What makes you optimistic today, industry-wise?

JT: Despite everything going on — the wildfires, the political climate — I genuinely feel there’s a return to gathering, connecting, and community. There’s a movement to support each other and reconnect, for lack of a better word. The internet has created so much polarisation, and I think that’s the right word for it, but I sense that people are starting to push back against that in some way. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly, but I feel like there's a shift happening. It's more of a hope, a sense of optimism, but I really do believe people are moving away from some of the divisive tendencies and starting to refocus on community, on shared interests, on spaces where people can come together.

In our industry, it’s tough to discern between what’s genuine and what’s just another empty brand activation with a logo slapped on it. But I do think there’s a real desire for celebration — whether it’s around food, music, art, or other fields like science or education. I see that movement, and for me, personally, I feel it in my work with the space. It might be on a smaller, more niche scale, but I think there’s a shift happening in our industry.

It’s also been inspiring to see people take action, like Zoe and Jillian, holding clients accountable for not making meaningful changes. The question you asked earlier about how the landscape of work is going to change and how that impacts living in Los Angeles — it’s been encouraging to see pillars of our community, like Zoe and Jillian, push back and demand that this community be taken seriously. It’s not about individuals needing work; it’s about understanding that the collective needs to stay together, to rebuild. And I think that’s what we’re seeing right now, particularly in the wake of the fires and amidst all the political upheaval. It’s a signal that, even in these divisive times, there’s a collective effort to stay strong.

JW: Final question — if you had to go on the record and say you have one dream, creatively or professionally, what would that be?

JT: I don’t tend to think in terms of career milestones or what's ‘better.’ I'm inspired by so many things, and it's hard to set a clear destination. But if I had to sum it up, I guess it’s not really about a dream in the traditional sense — it’s more about spending every day supporting the people around me. Whether it’s helping them get work, offering a space like Authorized Dealer (or even a digital platform, if that’s the direction we’re heading), or just being there for them — whether financially, with conversations, or by showcasing their ideas — that would be the dream. 

It's not a flashy goal or a concrete milestone; it's more of a feeling. When I was younger, I used to say something more bro-y, like “as long as me and the homies are getting paid, that's all that matters.” But now, I’d phrase it differently. It's about elevating those around me, together. I don’t need to leave my artistic mark on everything — I just want everyone to rise together. A good example of that is the Jack Bool show. That’s how I see the world: lifting up the people I care about through our shared work.

Follow @jarodtaber and @authorizeddealergallery