When people walk into an exhibition, they usually see the final works, polished, well-lit, thoughtfully arranged. But what they don’t often see is what goes into making that space come alive.
From setting up walls to capturing moments on camera, I discovered that the magic of exhibitions isn’t just in the finished work. It’s in the quiet labour, the conversations, and the sense of belonging you build through doing.
I didn’t walk into this exhibition as an “artist” or “photographer.” I started by doing the groundwork. Clearing out the space. Cleaning up. Painting walls. Drilling, fixing, lifting. Setting up lighting. Mounting digital screens. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest.
There were no official titles, no pecking order. Just people trying to make things happen. That’s what made it special.
I documented the entire exhibition quietly and intuitively. There was an official photographer too. But to my surprise, the team ended up using many of my photos across their social media and for archival material. That appreciation meant the world to me.
Maria and others thanked me directly. That acknowledgment wasn’t just flattering. It was affirming. It told me that the way I see things has value. It made me realise that exhibition photography isn’t just coverage. It’s conversation. A way of extending the artwork’s life and presence, honestly and emotionally.
Exhibition documentation isn’t just coverage—it’s conversation.
Small roles don’t mean small impact.
I realised I’m most alive when I’m in these hybrid zones, between creative and technical, between support and authorship.
I’m interested in working with curators, artists, and exhibition teams, not just to build the space, but to think with them.
To help the work exist, feel, and function.
