Two Ways of Reading My Artwork: Place or Composition First?

I have noticed that some people approach my images primarily as photographs. They want to know what they are looking at, where the photograph was taken and what the place looked like. They may also expect the image to be beautiful, perhaps as a memory of somewhere they have visited, lived or would like to experience.

This is a familiar way of relating to photography. Almost everyone now carries a camera in their phone and uses it to preserve places, people and moments. A photograph is often valued for what it shows, for the memory it holds and for the beauty of its subject.

Others approach my images more as graphic compositions, or simply as art. Identifying the exact place or subject is less important to them. They respond more freely to colour, form, movement and abstraction, and may relate the images more closely to painting or graphic art than to conventional photography. They are also comfortable when an image does not immediately reveal what it depicts.

What both groups seem to share, however, is a curiosity about how I create the images.

How I approach a place

I usually begin with more concrete and recognisable images. I observe the light, the atmosphere, the spatial relationships and the structures that give a place its character.

For me, this first phase is a form of approaching the place with attention and respect. I do not arrive with the intention of immediately dissolving it into abstraction. I first want to understand what is there and what has drawn my attention.

As I continue working, my perception changes. I begin to notice not only the place itself, but also its graphic possibilities. I may shift existing forms through camera movement, layer elements in a double exposure or explore how a particular gesture changes their relationship within the image.

From control to flow

At the beginning of a session, I regularly look at the images on the back of the camera. I check how the movement has affected the forms and adjust the shutter speed or other settings when necessary.

This first stage is quite controlled. I am learning how the available light, the structures of the place and my movements interact.

Then there is often a point when I stop examining every single result. I begin making several images in succession, repeating a movement, varying it and following its rhythm. I enter a kind of flow in which the movement becomes more intuitive.

Technical control does not disappear completely. The light may change while I am working, particularly at dusk or at night, and I have to pause, adjust the settings and begin again. The process moves back and forth between observation, control and intuition.

It is also physical. The gestures involve my hands, arms, shoulders and sometimes my whole upper body. After working this way for an hour, I usually feel it almost everywhere.

Following a visual possibility

The result of a movement or an overlay is never completely predictable. Sometimes something appears that I had not anticipated: a new repetition, an unusual line, a concentration of colour or a tension between different directions.

When I recognise such a possibility, I follow it. I repeat the gesture, alter its direction or make the movement more complex. I may begin with a relatively simple shift and then push further towards a more graphic or abstract composition.

Abstraction therefore often begins as a discovery rather than as a predetermined goal.

I begin with what is there, then follow what the image begins to reveal.

This process can continue when I return home. While looking more closely at the photographs, I sometimes discover an even more abstract composition within a larger frame. A detail that was not fully visible to me while I was working may become an independent image through the choice of a particular crop.

From moonlight to Frequencies

Harbour Nights shows this development particularly clearly.

I began with photographs of the moon above the harbour. The moon and the surrounding structures were still clearly recognisable and connected the images to the location.

I then started working more strongly with the movement of the harbour lights. In the first images of Dancing Harbour Lights, the moon was still present. As I continued photographing, however, the repetition and movement of the lights became increasingly important.

The moon gradually receded, and the lights themselves became the subject. Their movements began to resemble visual signals or electronic patterns. This eventually led to Frequencies, the most graphic and abstract part of the series.

I had not planned this progression before I began. It emerged while I was working. Once I recognised the visual potential of the moving lights, I continued further in that direction.

From an alley to a wave

Suspended Heat developed through a similar process.

At first, I was drawn to the light at the end of a narrow alley. I began by shifting the scene in a relatively parallel direction. The location remained recognisable, although the movement altered its atmosphere and spatial structure.

I then felt that the movement could go further. Instead of simply moving the camera sideways, I combined the shift with a wave-like gesture. This changed the image fundamentally. The alley became less important as a recognisable place, while the movement created a much more abstract and graphic composition.

The abstract image still emerged from the same light, architecture and moment. I like how the wave-like movement seems to break out of the narrow alley, suggesting that even within confinement, there is always room for freedom and interpretation.

Why I work in series

This is one reason why I like working in series. A series can contain the entire development of my perception: from the first encounter with a place to the increasingly abstract possibilities I discover while working with it.

A more recognisable image can introduce the location and its atmosphere. Another may begin to shift or layer its structures. A later image may reduce them almost entirely to colour, line and rhythm.

The most abstract image is therefore not an interruption within the series. It is often the point towards which the process has gradually led me.