One of the questions I hear most often is surprisingly simple.
“How long did it take to take this photograph?”
The answer most people expect is a few seconds.
The answer I usually give is closer to an hour.
Not because the camera takes that long to make an image, but because the photograph is often the result of dozens—sometimes hundreds—of small decisions that remain completely invisible once the shutter is pressed.
Those decisions are what interest me most.
When I arrive at a project, I don’t immediately unpack my equipment. I walk through the space, often without thinking about photographs at all. I pay attention to how the building introduces itself. Which spaces naturally invite me forward? Where does the light settle? What feels calm? What feels unresolved?
I’m not searching for compositions yet.
I’m trying to understand what the architect wanted people to experience.
Every project has a different rhythm. Some buildings reveal themselves immediately. Others ask for patience. I’ve photographed spaces where the composition appeared within minutes, and others where I wandered for nearly an hour before feeling that I had truly understood what deserved to be photographed.
That first decision is probably the most important one.
Not where should I put my camera?
But what is this project really about?
Everything else follows.
Sometimes it’s a remarkable staircase.
Sometimes it’s the way daylight moves across a textured wall.
Sometimes it’s not a single element at all, but the relationship between several spaces that only makes sense once you’ve walked through them in sequence.
The camera comes later.
One of the biggest misconceptions about architectural photography is that we’re searching for the most dramatic angle.
In reality, I’m often searching for the most truthful one.
The widest view isn’t always the most honest. The most symmetrical composition isn’t necessarily the one that best represents the architecture. Sometimes an angle looks spectacular in a photograph but completely changes the proportions of the space. Other times, moving the camera just a few steps to the left reveals the building exactly as it feels in person.
Those are very different photographs.
Choosing between them isn’t a technical decision.
It’s an ethical one.
Every architectural photograph interprets a building. My responsibility is to make sure that interpretation respects the design rather than competing with it.
That responsibility continues throughout the entire day.
- Should I wait another twenty minutes for the sunlight to move across the façade?
- Should the blinds remain open, or were they intentionally positioned the way they are?
- Would removing that chair improve the composition, or would it remove part of the story?
- Does the reflection in the glass strengthen the image, or distract from it?
- Would someone who visits this space tomorrow recognize the place I photographed today?
None of these questions appear in the final image.
Yet every photograph depends on them.
Patience may be the most invisible decision of all.
Architectural photography often looks effortless. A finished image gives no indication that the photographer might have spent thirty minutes waiting for a cloud to move, another fifteen for the wind to calm the trees, or several more simply watching how people naturally moved through the building.
I’ve learned that not every moment deserves to be photographed.
Some moments deserve to be waited for.
There are also decisions about what never enters the frame.
Sometimes it’s obvious. A garbage bin, a security cone, a temporary construction fence. Those distractions are easy to recognize.
The harder decisions involve elements that genuinely belong to the building.
- A neighbouring structure.
- A busy street.
- A parked car.
- An aging tree.
Do they distract from the architecture, or do they explain it?
There isn’t a universal answer.
Every project asks the question differently.
The same is true during post-production.
People often imagine editing as the stage where photographs are transformed. In reality, I see it as the stage where on-site decisions are completed. Perspective correction isn’t about making a building look perfect; it’s about allowing the viewer to experience it naturally. Removing a temporary distraction isn’t about creating fiction; it’s about returning attention to the architecture.
Good editing should rarely announce itself.
It should quietly disappear.
Perhaps the most surprising realization I’ve had over the years is that many of my favourite photographs were never the obvious ones.
- They weren’t the widest.
- They weren’t the most dramatic.
- They weren’t captured from the highest drone flight or during the most colourful sunset.
- They were simply the images that felt the most honest.
- The ones that respected the architecture enough to let it speak for itself.
When someone looks at one of my photographs, I don’t expect them to notice any of these decisions.
In fact, I hope they don’t.
I hope they simply experience the space.
They notice the warmth of the light, the balance of the composition, the atmosphere of the room, or the quiet confidence of the architecture. If the photograph feels effortless, then all those invisible decisions have done exactly what they were supposed to do.
People sometimes tell me I have a good eye.
I appreciate the compliment, but I don’t think that’s the whole story.
A photograph like this isn’t created by one eye.
It’s created by curiosity.
- By observation.
- By patience.
- By knowing when to move a chair—and when not to.
- By understanding that every decision, no matter how small, shapes the final image.
The shutter is simply the last one.
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