One of the most surprising parts of my work happens before I take a single photograph.
When I arrive at a project, I rarely reach for my camera right away. Instead, I walk. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for nearly an hour. If someone were watching from a distance, they might think I was lost.
In reality, I’m trying to understand the building.
Architectural Photography Begins With Sensing, Not Seeing
People often assume architectural photography begins with seeing.
I don’t think it does.
I think it begins with sensing.
Every building has its own personality, and like meeting a person for the first time, first impressions rarely tell the whole story. Some buildings reveal themselves immediately. Others are quiet, asking you to slow down before they offer anything in return.
I’ve learned not to rush those introductions.
What I Notice Before I Lift the Camera
As I walk, I notice things that will probably never appear in the final photograph.
The sound of footsteps changes from polished concrete to hardwood. A heavy door closes with a reassuring weight that speaks more about craftsmanship than words ever could. A narrow corridor suddenly opens into a generous room, and without thinking, my pace changes. I instinctively slow down.
No architect placed those moments there by accident.
Architecture has an incredible ability to guide us without asking for our attention. It shapes our movement, influences our behaviour, and quietly changes how we experience a place. Most of us don’t notice it happening because we’re busy living our lives inside buildings rather than thinking about them.
As a photographer, I’ve simply become more aware of it.
Light Doesn't Only Illuminate a Building — It Interprets It
Light is usually the first thing people expect me to talk about, and for good reason. It’s one of the most important elements in photography. But I’ve come to realize that light isn’t simply something that illuminates architecture.
It interprets it.
Morning light has a different conversation with a building than late afternoon light. Soft overcast skies reveal materials differently than direct sunlight. A textured concrete wall can feel almost warm for a few minutes each evening, while the same surface appears distant and restrained earlier in the day.
The building hasn’t changed.
Our experience of it has.
The Relationship Between a Building and Everything Around It
Sometimes what captures my attention isn’t the architecture itself, but the relationship between architecture and everything around it.
The sound of leaves moving outside an open window.
The reflection of a neighbouring building across a sheet of glass.
The way shadows from nearby trees slowly travel across a floor throughout the afternoon.
The silence inside a library.
The echo beneath a tall atrium.
These moments rarely appear in a photograph, yet somehow they influence every photograph I make.
Perhaps that’s because architecture is never experienced through vision alone.
It’s experienced through movement.
Through sound.
Through texture.
Through time.
How Buildings Quietly Choreograph Our Behaviour
I’ve noticed that different buildings ask different things of us.
Some encourage movement. Others invite stillness.
Some make you instinctively look upward. Others focus your attention on the horizon.
There are spaces where conversations become quieter without anyone asking. There are rooms where everyone naturally gathers near a window. There are staircases that feel ceremonial and others that simply help you move from one floor to another.
These are not just design decisions.
They’re human experiences.
The more buildings I photograph, the more I realize that architecture quietly choreographs our behaviour. We like to believe we move freely through space, making our own decisions. But thoughtful architecture gently influences many of those choices before we’re even aware of them.
That’s something I find endlessly fascinating.
Standing Still to Understand Why a Space Feels the Way It Does
Occasionally I’ll stop in the middle of a room and simply stand still.
Not because I’ve found the perfect composition.
Because I’m trying to understand why the space feels the way it does.
Is it the proportions?
The ceiling height?
The rhythm of the windows?
The quality of the light?
Or is it something more difficult to describe?
I’ve learned not to force an answer.
Eventually, the building reveals it.
Only then do I begin thinking about photography.
By that point, the camera feels almost secondary. Most of the important work has already happened. I’ve experienced the building as a visitor before approaching it as a photographer. The photographs that follow become less about finding interesting angles and more about translating that experience into an image someone else can feel.
Of course, a photograph can never reproduce the temperature of sunlight on stone, the sound of footsteps across timber, or the quiet atmosphere of an empty room.
But I believe it can suggest those things.
It can invite someone to imagine them.
That’s what I’m always hoping for.
When someone looks at one of my photographs, I don’t necessarily want them to admire the composition or notice the technical precision.
I want them to feel curious.
To imagine what it would be like to walk through that doorway.
To wonder how the space sounds.
To picture the changing light an hour later.
To feel, even briefly, that they’ve already been there.
The Walk Is the Photography
Maybe that’s why I spend so much time walking before I ever lift a camera.
Those walks aren’t separate from the photography.
They are the photography.
The camera simply arrives at the end of a conversation that began the moment I stepped inside the building.