I have been thinking about gold less as a symbol of value than as a material with a complicated history.
Gold atoms were formed in extreme astrophysical events, deep in interstellar space. During the early formation of the Earth much of its gold would have migrated towards the core with other dense elements. The gold accessible nearer the surface today likely arrived in showers of meteorites. It is literally not of this world.
Architecture has spent centuries turning gold into meaning. It has been used to articulate sanctity, sovereignty, wealth, ceremony and power. But it is rarely encountered as mass. It is often present as an extraordinarily thin surface, burnished and delicately applied. Reduced to a layer almost without thickness.
I find that relationship between material history and architectural surface fascinating.
The longer I work with buildings, the more important the relationship between instinct, intent and understanding becomes. Instinct matters because photography is inevitably responsive. The relationship between two materials, or a shift in spatial proportion can register before it has been fully intellectualised. But instinct without understanding can easily become mannerism, and intent without attention can become imposition.
Understanding changes the nature of the photographic decision. A gilded surface, for example, behaves very differently according to the light. It can appear brilliant, almost immaterial, or dense and subdued. At certain angles it becomes visually dominant; at others it recedes into the surrounding material. The temptation is to photograph gold at the moment when it behaves most recognisably as gold, when it is luminous, visibly precious.
That is not always the most interesting condition. Gold does not need to be made more luxurious by the photograph. Stone does not need to be made more monumental. Concrete does not need to be made more severe. Old buildings do not need to be made more picturesque.
The responsibility of the photographer is not simply to intensify whatever cultural meaning has already gathered around a material.
This is where I think ideas such as purity and authenticity remain useful.
Purity is not the absence of complexity. It is not synonymous with minimalism, restraint or visual cleanliness. I think of it more as fidelity to the conditions already present: material, construction, light, proportion, use and time.
Authenticity is similarly difficult. It cannot be reduced to patina, imperfection or visible craftsmanship. Those qualities can become stylistic conventions as quickly as polished perfection can. Authenticity requires a more patient form of attention. It asks what something is before deciding how it should be represented.
The strongest images often begin with the decision to understand what is already there, and to interfere with it as little as the photograph requires.
St. Paul’s Cathedral photographed for Speirs Major Light Architecture
