Chasing the light…

Photography has taught me that sometimes the most beautiful thing is not the architecture or the furniture in a room, but the way the light falls across it.

I can walk past the same wall a hundred times and barely notice it, then at 4.30 pm one afternoon, a shaft

of light suddenly transforms it into something extraordinary. Shadows appear or sharpen. Colours deepen or change completely. Texture emerges. For a few minutes, an ordinary corner becomes cinematic.

A shadow creeping across a staircase. A piece of linen caught in the sunlight. The curve of a chair. The way late afternoon light hits an old wall. Light bouncing off the side of a building in Rome, making a centuries-old façade suddenly look completely different.

It’s one of the things I love about photography. You begin to notice things you might otherwise walk straight past. The way sunlight filters through sheer curtains, the reflection of a building in a window, or the patterns created when light passes through the leaves of a tree. Nothing has changed about the space itself, but somehow it looks entirely different.

And the wonderful thing is that it might only last a few minutes.

The light moves, the shadows shift, and suddenly the magic has gone. You can return the following day, at exactly the same time, and it won’t necessarily happen again. The conditions might be different, the sky might be overcast. It’s a reminder that even the most ordinary things can be extraordinary for a very short time.

And, if you happen to be travelling with me, there is a very good chance that at some point in the late afternoon, I will suddenly interrupt whatever everyone is doing and say, “OMG, look at the light!”

It has become a bit of a thing.

Conversation stops. Drinks are briefly abandoned. Heads turn towards whatever wall, doorway, staircase or building has caught my attention. Everyone is expected to appreciate the moment, whether they were previously enjoying a perfectly good conversation or were just about to take a sip of their wine.

I like to think they appreciate it.

Because there is always that particular moment in the day when the light changes, and everything becomes warmer, softer and infinitely more beautiful. And for some reason, I feel compelled to ensure that everyone else sees it too.

“The light moves, the shadows shift, and suddenly the magic has gone. You can return the following day, at exactly the same time, and it won’t necessarily happen again.”

It’s not enough for me to notice it. I need to point it out, explain why it’s beautiful, and occasionally retrieve my camera to prove that I wasn’t imagining things.

Of course, by the time I’ve done all that, the light has usually moved.

This is where photography becomes a slightly frantic exercise. One minute I’m enjoying the moment, and the next I’m trying to work out whether I have the right lens, whether the exposure is correct, and whether I can get into the right position before the sun disappears behind the neighbouring building.

It’s hardly the most relaxing way to spend an afternoon. But I can’t help myself.

The moments are fleeting, which is probably why I feel an urgency to stop what I’m doing and take it all in, or otherwise desperately try to capture it with my camera.

Sometimes I get the photograph I wanted. Other times, I look at the image afterwards and realise that it doesn’t quite convey what I saw. The warmth isn’t quite right, the shadows aren’t as dramatic, or the whole thing somehow looks a little less magical than it did standing there.

And that’s the frustrating part. A photograph can record the light, but it can’t entirely recreate the experience of being there when it happened.

Perhaps that’s why I keep trying.

I love that photography encourages me to slow down and look more carefully. To notice the small things. To appreciate the beauty in a space without necessarily needing to change anything about it. Sometimes the architecture is extraordinary, sometimes the interiors are beautiful, but occasionally it’s simply the afternoon sun doing all the work.

A few moments later, the moment has passed.

Perhaps photography for me is really about collecting those tiny fragments of time before they disappear. The moments that were never staged, never planned and may never look exactly the same again.

And perhaps that’s why, even when I’m not carrying my camera, I still find myself looking for the light.

Just don’t be surprised if I interrupt your lunch to point it out.