Between the Scoreboard and the Soul with Jaymonte Mcleod

How do you view the intersection of sports and art, and where does your photography live within that space?
I see the intersection of sports and art as sacred ground—a space where movement becomes metaphor and every frame carries emotional weight. Sports are raw, unscripted, and filled with electricity. Art gives that chaos form, texture, and soul. My photography lives right at that intersection—where intensity meets intimacy.
As a Black sports photographer, I’m not just documenting highlights or stat lines. I’m telling stories—cultural, emotional, and deeply personal. A pre-game prayer. A sideline glance. A celebration that feels like liberation. These aren’t just game-day moments; they’re visual poetry. They speak to identity, resilience, pride, and struggle.
My work is about honoring both the athlete and the human being. It’s about spotlighting the beauty in the chaos and the quiet strength behind the spectacle. My lens lives in that space—between the scoreboard and the soul.

When you look through your lens, what are you searching for beyond the scoreboard or stat sheet?
When I look through my lens, I’m searching for something deeper than the final score or a highlight reel. I’m searching for peace.
The truth is, I haven’t felt true happiness in a long time. Life has weighed heavy—expectations, silence, heartbreak, and unspoken moments that left no room for expression. Photography became my refuge. My breath when things got too loud. My sanctuary when I had nowhere else to place the pain. It’s where I feel most seen, even when no one’s looking.
Every time I lift my camera, I’m not just chasing an image—I’m chasing something real. A kind of stillness that exists just beyond the noise. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m also preparing for the moment I’ll eventually walk away—not because I’ve failed, but because I’ve grown. Maybe photography has carried me as far as it was meant to, or maybe it’s the bridge to something greater that I can’t quite see yet.
What I do know is this: Life is bigger than what fits inside a frame. But through that tiny viewfinder, I’ve found glimpses of joy, clarity, and purpose I couldn’t find anywhere else. So maybe beyond the stat sheet, beyond the crowd, I’m not just searching for a shot—I’m searching for myself. And maybe that’s enough.

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Can you walk us through your creative process—from arriving at a game to selecting the final image you choose to share with the world?
When I arrive at a game, I don’t start with the camera—I start with the energy. I take a moment to breathe it in. To feel the room. I observe everything—the nervous stillness in the locker room, the eye contact during warm-ups, the sideline exchanges. I’m not just documenting—I’m listening.
I shoot with intention, not volume. I’m not chasing thousands of frames. I’m chasing moments that speak. The spaces in between. A stare-down before tip-off. A quiet exchange between teammates. A coach’s look during a timeout. I’m capturing emotion, not just action.
After the game, I sift through my shots with a different lens. I ask, “What image tells the truth?” Not the cleanest frame, but the one that feels. Sometimes the most powerful photo isn’t the dunk—it’s the silent exhale afterward. The weary look. The raw, imperfect moment that hits people in the chest. That’s what I share.
The final image is never just about the game—it’s about the people inside it. The souls behind the stats. Because every time I post, I’m not just sharing a photo. I’m telling a story someone might carry forever.

Who or what has influenced your visual style and storytelling approach?
My style is rooted in the bold honesty of the '90s—a time when art wasn’t afraid to be raw, beautiful, painful, and truthful, all at once. I pull from the cinematic energy of creators like Spike Lee, Tupac, and John Singleton. They didn’t just tell stories—they embodied them. They made people feel.
Spike taught me that angles, color, and silence could speak volumes. That you could film a Brooklyn block and turn it into a universe. Tupac showed me the power of vulnerability—how you can be revolutionary and poetic in the same breath. That duality—the rawness—is something I carry in every frame. Singleton’s Boyz n the Hood showed me that everyday life in our communities is epic. There’s power in simplicity.
Visually, I’m drawn to that textured, emotional grit—the kind of imagery that feels like a still from a film you lived through. I want my work to feel nostalgic, yet urgent. Familiar, but still arresting. These influences taught me not just to take photos, but to make them say something. To let the image speak for the voiceless. That’s the foundation of my storytelling—cinematic, cultural, and unapologetically human.

In what ways do you see your photography as a form of cultural preservation?
I see my photography as a living archive. A visual time capsule for culture, emotion, and legacy. Especially as a Black photographer working in sports, I’m not just capturing athleticism—I’m documenting history. Pride. Spirit. The unspoken language of our communities.

When I shoot, I think generationally. Who’s going to look at this image decades from now? Will they feel it? Will they understand what this moment meant to us? I want them to see our faces, our struggles, our joy—and know that we existed powerfully, creatively, and without apology. My work is about preserving those truths. By us, for us.

Your work feels both intimate and iconic. How do you balance capturing vulnerability and strength in your subjects?
That balance is everything to me. I believe vulnerability and strength aren’t opposites—they’re partners. They live in the same space. And through photography, I get to reveal that duality.
Before I shoot, I focus on trust. I observe. I respect their space. I wait for the moment when the mask drops—not to expose it, but to honor it. Vulnerability isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s a breath. A glance. A quiet pause. I look for those moments because that’s where the truth lives.
When they see themselves in my work, I want them to feel proud. Not because they looked perfect, but because they looked real. Strong and human. That’s where the legacy lives. Not just in the play, but in the person. That’s what I chase every time I lift my camera.

As an African American photographer documenting predominantly Black athletes, how do you navigate the weight and responsibility of representation?
Every frame I take is more than a photo—it’s a form of representation. A mirror. A memory. A message. And I carry that responsibility with purpose.
For too long, our stories—especially in sports—have been told through a narrow, incomplete lens. So when I step behind the camera, I do it with intention. I’m shooting for the ancestors. For the kids in the stands. For the athletes who’ve never seen themselves captured with honesty and pride.
Yes, there’s pressure. But more than that, there’s purpose. I stay rooted in truth. In empathy. In community. I look for the humanity, not just the headline. I shoot to honor the full picture—athletes as people, as culture, as history.
Because representation isn’t just about being seen. It’s about being seen correctly. And through my lens, I fight to make sure that happens—every single time.

What role does the environment play in your work? Do you find inspiration in the energy of the crowd, the silence before a game, or the rhythm of movement on the court?
The environment is a character in every shot I take. It’s not background—it’s part of the story. Every space I walk into, whether it’s roaring or silent, shapes my vision.
The crowd’s energy is electric. It feeds the moment. But the silence—the calm before the storm—that’s where intimacy lives. That’s when I find the stillness. The reflection. The humanity.
The rhythm of the game? That’s where the art is. Footwork. Breath. The sway of the body in motion. Sports is a kind of music, and I’m capturing the beat. When I’m locked in, I’m not just watching—I’m feeling. That’s when it becomes more than photography. That’s when it becomes connection.

What makes a moment timeless to you—and how do you know when you’ve captured it?
A moment is timeless when it speaks to something beyond time—beyond context. When it holds a piece of truth that still makes you feel years later.
It’s not always the biggest play or the perfect frame. It’s the emotion. The tension. The breath that got caught in someone’s throat. I know I’ve captured a timeless moment when I feel it in my gut—like I just froze something spiritual. Something sacred that would’ve otherwise passed by unseen.

Do you consider yourself more of a documentarian or an artist—or do those lines even exist in your work?
To me, those lines don’t exist. I’m both. I’m a documentarian and an artist. And the two feed each other every time I pick up the camera.
As a documentarian, I’m committed to the truth. To preserving real stories, real moments, real people—especially in Black communities where authenticity is everything. I want to show us fully, not filtered.
But as an artist, I interpret. I compose. I frame with emotion, with intention. I see light like brushstrokes, movement like choreography. I don’t just want to show something—I want it to say something.
So no, I don’t separate the two. Documenting is an act of art. And art, for me, is an act of truth. I live in that in-between space—and that’s where my voice is strongest.