Chris and Lindy - August 2012

Through glass, life refracts.

A wedding day is a living mosaic—composed not just of vows and ceremonies, but of the fleeting, unguarded moments that weave them together.

It begins in the quiet light of morning, in the careful clasp of a dress or the tightening of a tie. It flows through the time-honoured rituals—the offering of tea to elders, the clasp of hands in prayer—and into the tender silences between father and daughter, bride and groom. As a photographer, my work is to listen with my eyes, to catch the glances, gestures, and pauses that reveal the depth of the day.

I began photographing weddings when I was just fifteen years old, in the era when the photographer would rise at 5 a.m., rushing to the bride’s home to begin the day’s journey. The sequence was clear and unchanging—the groom arriving to fetch the bride, the tea ceremonies at both households, the returning and the farewells. Back then, the groom was welcomed without condition; now, he is often met with playful trials to prove his worthiness, adding a modern spark to the tradition and making the occasion all the more memorable.

This particular wedding was captured with both the Canon 7D fitted with a wide-angle lens and the Fujifilm X100. I have always admired the clarity and depth of field the X100 produces, even if its focusing is not the quickest, while the Canon’s wide perspective allowed me to embrace the full atmosphere of the day. Together, they rendered the occasion with honesty—layering tradition, intimacy, and joy into a story not about staged perfection, but about the truth of a day rooted in heritage, alive with spontaneity, and bound by the invisible threads of family and love.

In this moment—half shadow, half light—the groom’s hand stretches forward, as if to steady the world for the one who now shares his road. Her gaze, bright with trust, meets him in the stillness between breaths. Outside, buildings rise, clouds drift, and time folds itself into layered reflections.

Every marriage begins here: at the seam between the known and the unknown, where joy is lit with the quiet knowledge of what must be built, sustained, and sheltered. As Rilke wrote, 'A merging of two worlds, yet each remains whole.' The glass does not separate them from life; it frames their entry into it.

The black-and-white palette pares the scene down to its truest elements—gesture, light, and the shared courage to step forward. It is the visual echo of vows stripped of ornament: promises made not for the ease of the day, but for the storms and calms to come.

Like the shifting interplay of reflection and reality, marriage is never only one thing. It is both the shelter and the open road, the hand that shields and the gaze that follows, the passing clouds and the steady ground beneath. It begins, as all great journeys do, with a single movement forward.

This is the pause before the crossing—what Gaston Bachelard might have called “the instant where daydream and reality embrace.” She is suspended between two worlds: the one she is leaving and the one she is entering. The glass, with its layers of reflection, becomes a metaphor for the threshold.

Her smile speaks to the truth that love often lives in small, unspoken moments—not in the grand declarations, but in the quiet self-assurance that comes from knowing one’s choice is true. In this way, the photograph is less about the spectacle of a wedding and more about the intimate solitude that accompanies transformation.

The Pouring of Respect

In the soft grayscale of this photograph, Lindy leans forward, hands steady, smile warm, offering a cup of tea to her elder. It is more than a simple act of serving—it is the symbolic heartbeat of a wedding steeped in tradition.

The Chinese wedding tea ceremony, often overlooked in the rush for portraits and banquet toasts, is perhaps one of the most profound rituals in the entire day. It is here, in this intimate moment, that a bride and groom acknowledge the generations before them, offering tea as both gratitude and promise. Gratitude for the sacrifices and guidance that have shaped them; promise to carry those values forward into the home they will now build together.

In the background, other family members stand ready, cups in hand, the choreography of respect unfolding in quiet succession. The black-and-white rendering strips away distraction, drawing our attention to the curve of smiles, the meeting of eyes, and the gentle exchange of porcelain between hands weathered by time and those just beginning their journey.

There is no spectacle here—no stage lights, no applause—only the ancient, unbroken thread that binds family through gesture, humility, and acknowledgment. As Confucius once observed, “Filial piety is the root of 

A Sweet Pause Between Traditions

After the formal grace of serving tea to the elders, the couple finds a quiet corner to share dessert. The shift is almost cinematic—moving from the solemn ritual of respect to the tender informality of laughter and conversation.

The groom leans forward, speaking mid-bite, the spoon in his hand an unguarded gesture of everyday intimacy. Lindy meets his words with a radiant, slightly playful smile—a look that belongs not to the camera, but entirely to him.

Around them, the setting is humble: bowls on the table, light streaming through patterned windows, a tray of confections at the side. Yet the atmosphere is warm and complete. It is a reminder that weddings are not only the grand rituals we remember, but also the small, unscripted intervals that make the day truly theirs.

Dessert here becomes more than sweetness on the tongue—it is the palate’s punctuation mark between one tradition and the next. As the poet Mary Oliver once wrote, “Happiness is not a competition, it is a companion.” And in this frame, companionship is visible in every glance, every word, every shared spoonful.

Hands Open to the Sky

In this moment, the wedding pauses—not for a photograph, not for ceremony alone, but for prayer. The groom’s eyes are closed, his hands open, as if offering both gratitude and hope to something greater than himself. Beside him, the bride mirrors his posture, her veil diffusing the light and softening her expression into a portrait of calm devotion.

This is the still point in the turning day—the breath between vows spoken and life lived. Here, in the act of prayer, we glimpse not just the bond between two people, but the bond they seek with the divine, with their families, and with the future they are stepping into.

The monochrome palette strips the image to essentials: faces, hands, the fall of light. Even the background, with guests standing quietly, frames the couple’s focus without intruding on it. The photograph becomes a meditation on humility—a reminder that love, when grounded in faith, is less about possession and more about stewardship.

As the poet Khalil Gibran wrote in The Prophet: “Let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of the heavens dance between you.” In this image, those winds seem to pass gently through the open hands of the bride and groom, carrying with them a silent promise: to walk together, but also to keep their hearts open to something beyond 

A Veil Between Moments

Through the delicate mesh of her veil, Lindy looks towards her father—not with the gaze of a child, nor yet fully that of a wife, but somewhere in the tender space between. The light catches her earrings, small constellations swaying gently, while her eyes hold a mixture of affection, gratitude, and the quiet ache of transition.

Her father’s face, softly out of focus, carries the gravity of a man who knows this is both a moment of giving away and of holding on. Weddings are filled with spoken vows, yet here, nothing is said; the language is entirely in the meeting of eyes, the unbroken thread of recognition between parent and child.

The monochrome palette deepens the intimacy—no distraction of colour, only the quiet interplay of light, shadow, and emotion. It is a reminder that behind the public pageantry of a wedding lie private moments, where two lives acknowledge the years that have passed and the changes that are about to come.

As novelist George Eliot once wrote, “What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, and to be with each other in silent, unspeakable memories.” In this instant, Lindy and her father are bound by exactly that kind of memory.