A Quiet Way of Looking: The Photography of Chieh-Lin Wu
I had the opportunity to meet Chieh-Lin and step into her photographic world. She is a photographer born in Taiwan in 2000 who now lives and works in London. Her work spans a very broad spectrum, ranging from fashion photography to a more experimental approach. Chieh-Lin has moved away from fashion photography to focus on observing quotidian objects and highlighting their uniqueness and beauty. She takes her time to observe as she wanders through the spaces she discovers; things that others might find mundane come to life and take on a new vigour through her lens, revealing human presence without showing faces. Our everyday lives are brought to life in a poetic and visually harmonious way.
She is equally adept in both the analogue and digital worlds, and her images never feel rushed; quite the opposite, in fact. She invites us to pause and observe, to slow down in a society where everything moves at breakneck speed, and to discover unexpected things in the nooks and crannies that can also inspire us.
I sat down with her to talk in more depth about her work and the shift in her practice towards that beautiful universe of contemplation.
You studied fashion photography, which is often about staging and perfection. What made you turn away from that to focus on slow, quiet observation?
Studying fashion photography gave me a strong foundation in image-making, and I still think it influences the way I approach photography today. My attention to composition, colour, texture, and the relationships between subjects all comes from that background. Projects like Footnotes, which focuses on shoes, still carry references to fashion, even though fashion itself is no longer the main subject.
What changed over time wasn't how I photographed, but what I was drawn to photograph. I gradually found myself paying more attention to everyday subjects and the subtle relationships between people, objects, and places. Rather than constructing scenes, I became increasingly interested in observing what already existed. That shift happened naturally through making work, and observation has since become the centre of my practice.
After studying abroad, you returned to your childhood neighbourhood and started photographing weathered walls and temporary repairs. Why did these ordinary details suddenly catch your attention?
I think it's because these details reminded me most of the place where I grew up. They weren't landmarks or remarkable scenes, but they reflected the rhythms of everyday life that I had become so familiar with without really noticing them. Returning after spending time abroad allowed me to see them with fresh eyes. Things that had once felt ordinary suddenly became distinctive, and I realised they revealed something about the character of the neighbourhood.
In your work, you photograph flowers almost as if they were characters. How did spending seasons watching them wither and collapse change your idea of what a portrait can be?
Spending time observing flowers through different stages of their life cycle changed the way I think about portraiture. I became less interested in photographing them at their most beautiful and more interested in how they changed over time. Their form, colour, posture, and condition all became ways of expressing individuality.
It made me realise that a portrait doesn't have to rely on a human face. For me, portraiture is about paying close attention to a subject and recognising its unique presence. Whether I'm photographing a flower, a person, or an everyday object, I'm interested in how observation can reveal something distinctive without depending on conventional ideas of portraiture.
This interest in details also shows in how you look at people for instance, looking down at strangers' hands on the Tube. What was it about their hands that made youfeel they could reveal as much as a face?
The traces left by time and habit don't lie. Unlike our faces or hairstyles, our hands are often not the first thing people notice, nor are they something we consciously present to others. Because of that, they can tell us something more instinctive about a person.
We use our hands constantly, and over time they are marked by our routines, the work we do, and the objects we interact with. To me, they offer a portrait that feels less intentional. Rather than showing how someone chooses to present themselves, they carry the imprint of everyday life.
You have mentioned that intimacy also exists in our connection with everyday items. How do you capture those quiet moments where a body and an object seem to merge through habit?
I don't really go out looking for these moments. They happen naturally when I spend enough time observing. The more attention I give to my surroundings, the more I notice how people unconsciously adapt to the objects they use. Over time, those objects almost become part of the body. That's the relationship I want to photograph.
Looking at objects like chairs left outside in working environments, they often seem suspended between being useful and being abandoned. What draws you to these specific items, and what do they tell us about the people who live and work around them?
What first draws me to these chairs is how they sit within their surroundings. I often find that chairs resemble people. Sometimes, when I come across one, it almost feels as though someone is still sitting there or has just stood up. Perhaps it's because they are objects designed entirely around the human body, so they naturally carry a strong sense of human presence.
I'm also fascinated by how people in Park Royal adapt these chairs to fit their daily routines. Some seem to have been placed there on impulse for a short break, while others have been arranged more deliberately to create a comfortable place to rest. These small decisions tell us something about the rhythms of work and everyday life in the area.
You have described shoes as "footnotes" to a person’s life. Why do you feel that worn soles and creases offer a more honest reflection of someone than their conscious choices?
I've always thought of shoes as companions rather than possessions. They travel through life with us, adapting to our bodies and gradually changing alongside us. That's why I once described them as "footnotes" to a person's life. Like footnotes in a book, they aren't the main story, but they offer small details that deepen our understanding of it.
The worn soles, creases, and scuffs aren't something we consciously create—they accumulate naturally over time. To me, these marks feel deeply personal because they reflect the journeys, routines, and experiences shared between a person and the shoes they wear.
Throughout your work, you consistently represent people through what they leave behind rather than showing them directly. Do you see yourself continuing with this philosophy as your practice evolves?
I think I will. For me, this way of approaching people feels more open and more rewarding. I'm less interested in recognising someone immediately than in gradually discovering them through small clues. I enjoy that process of looking, questioning, and piecing together an impression without ever arriving at a complete answer.
More broadly, it reminds me not to rush to conclusions—whether about a person, a place, or an event. We rarely see the whole picture from a single perspective. Taking the time to look more closely often changes our understanding, and I think that applies to photography as much as it does to life.
Born in Taiwan and now living in London, you’ve experienced two very different visual landscapes. How does the specific atmosphere, light, and pace of London influence the quiet, observant mood of your images?
Living in London has definitely influenced the way I see my surroundings. I spend a great deal of time walking, and many of my photographs begin during those everyday journeys. Rather than searching for something extraordinary, I'm often drawn to small moments and objects that gradually give a place its character.
The pace of London can feel fast, but photography encourages me to experience it at a different pace. It reminds me that a place isn't understood all at once, but through returning, spending time there, and allowing familiarity to build.
Many of your observations, like the chairs in Park Royal, feel like ongoing archives rather than finished series. How do you decide when a project is complete, or do you see them all as a single, continuous conversation?
I rarely begin a project knowing exactly when it will end. Many of them develop quite naturally through continued observation. Sometimes I realise a body of work has reached a point where it can stand on its own, while other projects continue to grow because I still feel there's something new to learn from them.
Rather than thinking of them as completely separate series, I often see them as different chapters within an ongoing exploration. Although the subjects change, they're connected by similar questions about time, observation, and the relationships between people, objects, and places.
You work with both digital and analogue photography. Does shooting on film—with its physical limitations and the wait to see the results help you slow down and match the quiet rhythm of the subjects you are observing?
Working with film has certainly made me more deliberate, but I don't think it's simply because I have fewer frames. It encourages me to spend more time looking before I press the shutter. That process feels very close to the way I naturally work, regardless of the camera I'm using.
Whether I'm shooting digitally or on film, observation always comes first. Film simply reinforces that mindset by asking me to be more patient and intentional. The delay before seeing the results also creates a distance that allows me to return to the images with fresh eyes.
London 15.01.2025
Word by Adela Blanco