Urban photography doesn’t begin when I lift the camera to my eye.
It begins the moment I step outside and start walking.
I don’t go out for walks to take photographs. I walk so photography can happen. That distinction has quietly shaped everything about how I work, how I see, and how I’ve come to understand my own photographic voice.
Cities don’t reveal themselves on command. They don’t perform because you showed up prepared. They unfold slowly, at human speed, and the only way I’ve found to engage with them honestly is by moving through them on foot—without urgency, without expectation, and without a predefined outcome.
Walking slows the city down
When you walk, the city stops being a backdrop and starts becoming a collaborator. You begin to notice how people occupy space rather than pass through it. How they wait at corners, lean against buildings, hesitate before crossing, or disappear into the shadows. You see how light slides across a street over the course of an hour instead of a second.
This kind of seeing requires presence. It’s something I’ve written about in depth in Finding Style in the Street: the 28mm Field of View and the Discipline of Presence. A wider lens doesn’t tolerate distance—physical or mental. Walking creates the conditions that 28mm demands. It keeps you close. It keeps you engaged. It forces you to respond to what’s actually in front of you rather than what you wish was there.
Familiar streets teach you how to see
There’s a common belief that strong urban photography depends on constantly finding new locations. My experience has been the opposite. The work that feels most honest to me has come from walking the same streets repeatedly, often without any clear photographic intent.
At first, repetition feels uninspiring. The streets feel ordinary. Predictable. But that’s exactly when things begin to shift. Once novelty disappears, you stop reacting emotionally and start observing structurally. You notice patterns. You learn how people move through a space. You begin to anticipate moments rather than chase them.
This process has been central to projects like Faces of Toronto: an intimate street portrait project with a 28mm lens. Those portraits didn’t come from going out with the goal of making portraits. They emerged from familiarity—walking, noticing, and slowly building the confidence to engage with strangers when the moment felt right.
Walking turns photography into a practice, not a performance
Walking removes pressure. There’s no assignment, no expectation to “get something,” no obligation to justify the time spent. That freedom is essential. It allows photography to be what it should be: a response, not a performance.
In an era where photography is often shaped by algorithms and attention metrics, it’s easy to start thinking in outcomes—likes, engagement, validation. Walking dismantles that mindset. It turns photography back into a private act of observation before it becomes a public artifact.
I explored this same tension between intention and outcome in When I Think About Having a Pint: how a half-drunk Guinness sparked a social media idea. The realization was the same: the strongest work doesn’t come from optimization. It comes from paying attention to what already resonates within you.
The city reveals itself at human speed
Cities are living systems. They’re shaped by weather, light, construction, chance encounters, and repetition. When you walk, you synchronize yourself with that pace. You’re no longer passing through the city—you’re participating in it.
This is where the influence of photographers like Garry Winogrand becomes relevant. His work wasn’t about control or perfection. It was about immersion. Walking allowed him to stay embedded in the flow of the street long enough for chaos and order to coexist in the same frame—an idea I unpack further in Garry Winogrand and His 28mm Lens: how he shaped how I see.
Walking builds trust—in the city and in yourself
The more you walk, the more you begin to trust that something will eventually reveal itself—not because you forced it, but because cities always offer moments to those who are present. That trust extends inward as well. You stop questioning your instincts. You stop overthinking whether a photograph is “worth taking.”
This shift was central to my decision to commit fully to a voice, style, and niche, something I reflect on in Chapter Two of the Two-Year Project: committing to voice, style, and niche.
The walk is the work
For me, walking is not separate from photography. It is photography. It’s the studio, the research phase, and the archive all at once. Every step refines how I see. Every familiar corner deepens my understanding of the city I’m trying to document.
The photographs are simply the residue of that process.
Urban photography rewards patience, proximity, and presence. The city will give you everything—but only if you’re willing to meet it on foot, without rushing, and without demanding anything in return.