How I Built My Artist Website on Squarespace (And Why I Still Love It After 10 Years)

When I first started building my artist website in 2015, I didn't possess a debit card, wasn't really familiar with what "SEO" was, and hadn't yet figured out what kind of work to feature. But I did know that I needed a presence online where I could share what I was doing—and that it had to look clean, personal, and low-maintenance. That's when I found Squarespace, and nearly 10 years later, I'm still here.

What I'd like to do in this post is discuss how I've created and evolved my Squarespace site over the years as a photographer, artist, and collector of antique photographs. If you're just starting out with your first site or looking for a platform that really gets creatives, here's why I'm still convinced Squarespace is one of the best out there.

Why I Attended Squarespace

I tried some of the platforms at home beforehand, but Squarespace seemed more attractive right off the bat. I didn't have a coding experience and did not wish to have anything too complex to deal with. Squarespace was simple to use, graphic, and let me drag and drop everything in. I could design something that would be clean and professional without an existing web developer.

Their templates—especially the artists' and photographers' ones—were beautiful and minimalist, which made my photos speak for themselves. And the best part? Their customer service was (and still is) great. I remember getting in touch with them when my trial was expiring, informing them I had recently purchased a debit card and wanted to keep the site. They got back to me quickly and helped me sort things out.

Constructing the Site While Still an Student

When I was still a student at Columbia-Greene Community College, I'd work on my site at school and home, always trying things out. I rewrote the design frequently—exchanging templates, attempting new layouts, and viewing other photographers' Squarespace websites for ideas. It ended up sort of like a visual sketchbook for me.

Initially, I ordered my work by year and content type—such as, for example, "2016 → Portraits" or "2017 → Urban Decay." But after two years I realized that would get out of hand. Ten years from now I'd have a scrollable archive longer than my attention span. I eventually simplified the navigation and structured the galleries by themes and series of work instead.

What I've Learned From Using It Over the Years

Less is more. You don't need to show everything you've ever done. Stricter editing makes a greater impression.

Design changes. Don't be afraid to change templates or reorganize. The platform is such that it's easy to make the transition as your work and identity shift.

Keep it personal. My About page isn’t stiff or corporate—it’s written in my voice, just like this post. That helps people connect.

Blogging helps SEO. I’ve started blogging more recently about photography, vintage finds, autism, and creative process—not just for fun, but because it helps people find my site.

Customer service is important. Whenever I hit a snag that I don't know how to solve, their help center is chock-full of tutorials—and if I do need to contact them by email, they typically get back to me within an hour. Seriously.

Helping Others and Enlarging My Skills

I've also built websites for my dad and a couple of other individuals over the years using Squarespace. It’s easy for me to log into my own account and make edits for them as needed. Even with the newer version of the builder (which took a bit of adjusting after using the classic version for so long), I’ve been able to figure things out—and if not, a quick Google search or message to support solves it.

Final Thoughts

Building a website can be intimidating, especially if you're an artist who'd rather work behind the camera than behind a computer. But with Squarespace, it was empowering. It's not just a platform—it's a tool that has empowered me as an artist, made me confident, and enabled me to reach other people who are interested in the kind of work that I'm creating.

If you're thinking of setting up your own artist's website, I can't urge you strongly enough. You don't have to be an expert—you just have to start doing it.

I invite you to come check out my website at zachneven.com, and if you have questions about setting up your own, shoot me a message. I've probably made every mistake there is—and found some good workarounds in the process.

Growing Up in Chatham: Roots, Reflection, and What Comes Next

I feel blessed to have grown up in Chatham, New York. It was — and still is — a breathtakingly beautiful, historic small town with charm, quirkiness, and a close-knit sense of community. Or at least, it did feel that way more.

Back when I was young, it was as though everyone knew my name, in part because my family was connected to the town. Delson's was the family business, and people still remember the motto: "If we don't have it, you don't need it." It was the town's pride and institution. I always felt I was home — as though I was a part of Chatham's fabric.

Childhood Memories and the Chatham I Knew

Some of my best memories are of running around town, riding my bike alone once I was finally allowed to get off the driveway and backyard. I grew up on Route 66, in what people called the "Crayola House" or "Rainbow House," because it was painted every color of the rainbow and had bizarre front-yard statues. It was a distinctive house, in a good way.

I was lucky to have neighbors and schoolmates the same age and living in walking distance. We played games in the backyards, went to school events, parties, and town productions. I had my grandparents living just down the street as well. I spent considerable time with them and their friends — observing their work, sitting in on their daily routines, and learning the significance of becoming a good "town kid." Chatham was close-knit and lively.

School was a mixed bag of goodies. I had fun, learned to try things in different ways, and always enjoyed being around other people — even though part of that experience was bullying (on both sides, if you want to hear the whole truth). But overall, I enjoyed school because it gave me a sense of structure and belonging.

From the Crayola House to a Hill in Ghent

After we arrived in Ghent, however, things were not the same. I was not driving around town as frequently, and while we did have a family with kids living adjacent to us, it was just not the same environment. Individuals started getting ready for college or pouring into cliques. The older you get, the farther away things feel in small towns.

Upon graduation, I discovered a harsh truth: most of the people I socialized with as a kid weren't necessarily friends — at least, not the friends I had in mind. I've had a weird and often solitary experience with friendships ever since. It's been hard to find people who truly "get" me.

What I Still Love About Columbia County

Even to this day, I love driving the side roads and taking in the scenery. Columbia County's charm — the old houses, the estate sales, the curvy roads that all seem to lead onto a main road — still moves me. I like knowing where I am, feeling a sense of place.

But I'll say it: it's not the same anymore.

The community is changing. A lot of my own age have moved away. Most of those who are left are second-home dwellers or retirees. I don't drink, I don't go to the gym, I don't work construction or landscaping — so I don't belong to a whole bunch of social cliques that are already established here. That hinders me from meeting someone. I know some others who've come and gone, and some who never even glanced in the rearview mirror. I see both sides.

There's peace in staying. And yet — there's something itchy in me as well.

A Future in Flux: DC, NYC, or Somewhere in Between?

My parents do plan to move to the D.C. area one day. Their Hudson building has to sell first, and their house will also go up for sale — a house I could never afford, even though I've joked about making the workshop a mini home for me.

They've said I can have a trial of a few months with them before entering into anything long-term, which is very considerate of them. I don't mind at all with a trial period — nothing's put on me.

Yet my heart keeps telling me New York City.

I haven't actually navigated D.C. and just find it seems so political to me — less art, less edge, more show. NYC, though, feels alive creatively. When I'm down there, I photograph, explore, and feel something ignite within me. The street photography, the galleries, the energy — that's my universe.

However, when I'm in town, I've mostly worked or wandered. I haven't tried yet to actually connect with people or see its social landscape. I'm following a group of creative people who meet every other week on the weekends. The next time that I'll be in town, I hope it's so I can get to know them — that is potentially a life-changer for me.

What's Next for Me?

Honestly, I have no clue what I'm doing for the next chapter. I can try to get into a support program toward the end of summer. My parents are fine with me testing out a couple of months in NYC, and I have savings to cover it for awhile. But I'd have to get a job, and there's a part of me that doesn't want to sacrifice the things I love to do — painting, collecting old photographs, street photography — for a salary.

Maybe I'm making it harder than it needs to be. But the reality is, NYC could bring me to life — or vomit me up. And that's both terrifying and exhilarating.

What I do know is: I'm someone who likes things to go a certain way, who likes to be rooted and free, and who's learning that no home is ever truly a home — but that doesn't mean I don't desire a home of my own.

Chatham Will Always Be Part of Me

Columbia County will forever be special. It was a great place to grow up in — even if it's changing. The town lost its charm now that the regular people are being priced out, and kids don't appear to play outside anymore like we did when we were growing up. The vibe is altered today.

However, I'll never forget where I come from — the backyard games, the Crayola House, the store with the sign that said, "If we don't have it, you don't need it."

And one day, perhaps I'll find out where I truly belong — whether NYC, DC, or somewhere in between.

I’m a Photographer Who Doesn’t Chase Gear—Here’s Why

What makes a great picture has nothing to do with price tags.

I'm never the gearhead type of photog. I don't care what just came on the market or which lens is the sharpest. I'm not reading gear blogs or fighting sensor specs in forums.

I've always approached photography as an art form first, above all. In my eyes, tools are tools—a bridge connecting what I feel and what I'd like to communicate with the outside world.

The Tools Serve the Vision—Not the Other Way Around

Yes, I've upgraded my camera once or twice—but always for utility reasons. My recent change wasn't about status or specs. I needed something compact, quiet, and beneficial. A camera that I could keep in my pocket and in my life.

That's how I operate:

Under the radar. Intuitively. With tools that enable the moment, not dominate it.

"Hand an amateur a Leica and a pro a point-and-shoot—the pro will still make the better image."

It's not the tool. It's the eye.

Asking Picasso what kind of brush he used. That would not make a difference. Because he did make a difference. The eye. The instinct. The heart of the work.

I Shoot How I See: Real, Honest, Unfiltered

Something else about me—I don't over-process my photos.

I might make a tiny adjustment here or there, but overall, what you're looking at is what I was looking at. And that's intentional.

I want to document life as it happens.

Real. Flawed. Authentic.

While going through hundreds of thousands of vintage photos—photos which never were retouched—I discovered that's the kind of photography that resonates with me. The not retouched. The real. The imperfect.

And honestly?

It pains me to see faces photoshopped into plastics.

Parents photoshopping themselves out of visibility in photos with their kids. One day, those kids will look back—and they won't even register the real people who brought them up. That's not just sad. It's erasure.

I Care Deeply—But I'm Not Rigid

I care deeply about what I do. But I'm designed to do it loosely.

I had one client who wanted each shot to be absolutely perfect in-camera—no angling, no cutting. That was not how I work. I tried it. It felt like they were asking me to do another's process instead of using my own.

I am always eager to work with someone.

If a customer is not satisfied with my edit? I'd be happy to deliver the RAW files for a small extra fee. It's about trust. And trust is founded on respect—for the way I visualize, the way I photograph, and the way I understand the moment.

For the past five years, I've also steered clear of cropping client photos. I send them full-sized. Why? Because how someone may use a photo can shift. And I'd rather leave that to them.

I'm Not a Content Creator. I'm a Storyteller.

Fads rise and fall—faster than ever.

I don't go after them. I never have.

The pros I admire don't either.

Maybe trends are wonderful for clicks. Maybe they do actually work on social.

But that's not the reason I'm here.

I'm not an influencer.

I'm not a content creator.

I'm a feeler. A storyteller. An artist.

And I create things because I want to, and for the people who actually get what I do.

"The best camera is the one you have with you."

That's another mantra that I live by.

And so it's true. To everybody, that is a phone. And for goodness' sake, that's good enough. I have photographed colleagues who take excellent pictures of their work on their phones. It's not about what you're holding—just what you're looking at.

Final Thoughts

If you're wondering whether or not your gear is good enough—

Let me give you a time-saver:

It is. You are.

Don't let perfectness stand in the way of your expression.

Start where you are.

Use what you have.

Feel everything.

And shoot like it counts—because it does.

Found by the Past: How I Grew Up with Antiques, Art, and a Special Interest in Forgotten Photos

I've lived surrounded by old and antique things from as far back as I can remember. My father's a dealer—it started with cameras, before all of that turned digital. He used to sell film cameras, books, lenses, old photography bric-a-brac—anything related to taking pictures in the pre-digital days.

He was a photographer first, and I was his stand-in or model sometimes when he needed to rehearse a shot for furniture or portraiture. I was just his helper otherwise—loading the van, rearranging chairs, or setting up a booth. Our weekends were not spent watching football games or movie nights—they were spent estate-selling, browsing antique shops, flea-marketing, and visiting museums.

I was surrounded by objects that had already lived whole lives by the time I brought them into my hands.

My parents say my first profession was as a junk-picker—just like my old man. And honestly? They were correct. Fast forward to today, and you could call me a creative junk-picker, I guess. I find beauty and potential in what others discard.

My own initial real "collection" was fossil rocks—little ones that you'd notice along creek beds or on the side of the road. My dad even gave me a cabinet to put them in. I obsessed over the textures, the age they were from. Already, maybe I understood that things tell stories, even though they can't talk them out loud.

I was also a Legos person. They weren't collectibles to me—more like a language. I could build, re-arrange, bring whole worlds to life. I regret that I let people bully me out of that. I would have likely built incredible things by now. But that is another story entirely.

About five years ago, something creatively changed. I started working on what I've termed my Modernized Painting Series. I take old images—perhaps photographs or paintings—and I tamper with them. Maybe I cover faces with colored dots in a panoramic photo, or abstracify parts of a 19th-century print. It's a visual interrupt. A way of both honoring and challenging memory, identity, anonymity.

That's when I got serious about collecting. I started going to estate sales regularly—not just with my father, but as my own person. I started shopping for material to use in artwork, to sell, and to be honest, the excitement of searching. You never know what you'll find, or who you'll meet. The community is small and intricately intertwined, and soon I started running into people who knew my father—or had heard of me because of him.

I was getting bored one evening and started digging deeper online. And that's where I ended up in this huge, lively community of vintage photography collectors and dealers—mostly through Facebook groups. I was already buying on eBay and Etsy, but this was different. It was more personal. You could swap, message people, listen to the histories behind the collections.

Since then, I've been buying, scanning, cataloging, trading, and occasionally selling old photographs. I scan most of everything. I dream of building this massive source library—something artists, creatives can draw from for inspiration, repurpose, or just look back at. I keep a lot of the hard copies, to sell, to display, to integrate into new work later.

Some people have given me photos for free, and I’ve done the same. There's a kind of barter system in this world, one based not only on value but on shared reverence. These aren’t just images—they’re fragments of lives that might’ve otherwise vanished. Preserving them feels like an act of care.

I still go to sales. I still post online that I am looking. I still get excited at the unknown of what an old attic is going to yield.

And having been diagnosed for autism, I learned the language for what all this is:

It's my special interest.

It's a thing I find myself going back to over and over. The thing that never, ever fails. The thing I could talk about endlessly, obsessively plan, and get lost in until time ceases to have meaning.

And beyond that—it's who I am. This obsession with lost photos, lost things, lost individuals. it's how I get time to fit. It's how I connect when words fail.

To others, they're nothing more than dusty old photos.

To me, they're snapshots of presence.

Even if no one remembers their names.

The Diagnosis Didn’t Change Me—It Helped Me Translate Myself

For most of my life, I knew that I was different—but I never could put my finger on why.

When I was younger, I was in extra help classes. I did have a small group of school friends, but too often felt like I was outside the group. I hid alot—especially my depression. I would write constantly in a journal, telling things I could not tell people out loud. I even remember, about ten years or so ago, having to tell people that I needed to have my head scanned. I needed to know how my brain functioned. I knew something wasn't quite right—not that there was anything wrong, exactly, just in a way that didn't fit everyone else.

After I had the mental health breakdown, the idea of testing came back stronger than ever before. This time, however, my family did not brush it off. We started calling—working through numbers, names, and waitlists. Eventually, through a relative, we were matched with a woman who had done state-level work performing autism assessments and was halfway through her retirement.

Before even testing me, she met with my parents. They came armed with scribbled journals, Facebook posts, and even my IEP—which, ironically, was going to be purged the following week. Following that meeting, she handed my dad a book on autism and instructed him, "Read this." He did. And having read it—and reviewed my IEP—he said to me that it was reading the same person.

That's when everything changed. My dad knew.

It was a surprise to everyone. Therapists, school officials—none of them were catching on. But in hindsight, it was all there. Just. concealed. Misunderstood.

And then the testing. Two consecutive days. The first one was a killer—two hours of constant cognitive and mental testing, something I hadn't seen since high school. It was hard. But necessary. After working my way through everything, she sat with me and said it to me: I'm on the spectrum. She just had to write it down.

When I got the confirmation, I texted some close friends and relatives. All of them told me the exact same thing: "You're still you. We accept you. We love you." That was grounding. It informed me that a diagnosis is not a new name—it is simply a better name for what has always been.

It helps others understand me. Helps me understand me.

It describes the strangeness that I just can't seem to get a handle on. The overwhelm. The hyperfocus. The social burnout. The re-watching of the same videos repeatedly. The ordering of things just so. The emotions that come out sideways. The silences that aren't empty.

After diagnosis, I dove in. Books, podcast episodes, videos, discussing with those who've walked this way before. I started paying attention to so many things I've done or still do. None of them are strictly "autistic things"—there are lots of human things. But I've come to understand that autistic actions are on the same continuum as neurotypical ones—merely more intense, or less masked.

One word that has lingered with me: neurospicy. I appreciate it. It adds some color to the clinical. It fits.

And through all of this—before, during, and after diagnosis—I’ve been telling parts of this story publicly. Mostly through my Instagram stories, and long posts that feel more like open journal entries. For years, I’ve been posting as a way to say “I need help” without saying it directly. I’ve left breadcrumbs. Not everything. But enough that if someone’s watching closely, they can feel what I’m feeling.

My website, on the other hand, is the reverse of all that confusion.

Where social media is a trash dump—emotional, cluttered, unedited—my site is tidy. Thought out. Systematic. It's my portfolio, but also my introverted self-portrait. It's all that I couldn't say when I didn't have language, or couldn't talk fast enough. It's the me that says: Here. This is what I perceive. This is how I feel. This is what I produce when the clamor at last subsides.

Since the diagnosis, I've also been contemplating masking a lot more. That's an entire other level I haven't entirely explored. I know I mask—I always have to some extent. Especially out in public, around groups, in "professional" environments. But simultaneously, I've never actually felt like I wasn't me. Just a me attempting not to be a bother to other people.

Unmasking, for me, is slow. I’m still figuring out how much is performance and how much is adaptation. Still learning what it means to feel safe enough to show up fully, and how to spot the difference between authentic connection and just being tolerated.

This whole journey—getting tested, receiving the diagnosis, making art, reshaping my digital presence—has been like putting together a collage. Bits of my past, my thoughts, my habits, my dreams. Cut up, reshuffled, glued back together. And somehow, despite the mess, it forms something real.

I’m still learning. Still questioning. Still processing.

But I’m not hiding anymore.

This is my mind. This is my art. This is my life—neurospicy and all.