Adib Noh Photography

  View from My Window The phrase “view from my window” sounds simple, almost ordinary. Yet, it carries layers of meaning far beyond what the eyes can see. A window is never just an opening in a wall. It is a boundary, a filter, and a perspective—all at once. In the photograph above, the window of a moving MRT train frames the city outside. Highways, buildings, trees, and passing vehicles appear slightly softened through the glass. This is not the city as it truly is, but the city as I experience it at that moment. And that is precisely the point. A window reminds us that we never see the world directly. We see it through our own “glass”—our experiences, beliefs, emotions, and circumstances. Just as the train window adds reflections, stickers, and a frame, our lives add layers to how we interpret what is happening outside us. Two people can look through different windows at the same city and come away with very different stories. The window also speaks of distance. I am insi...

  A shadow is an area where light is blocked by an object. When light travels in a straight line and meets something opaque—like a person, a tree, or a building—the object prevents light from reaching the surface behind it. The result is a darker shape that mirrors the outline of the object. That dark shape is the shadow. In simple terms Light source → shines Object → blocks the light Surface behind → receives less or no light ➡️ A shadow appears More than just physics Beyond science, shadows carry deeper meaning: In photography, shadows add depth, contrast, mood, and mystery. They help shape forms and guide the viewer’s eye. In art, shadows can suggest time, direction, and emotion. In reflection and metaphor, a shadow often represents what is hidden, unseen, or overlooked—things that exist, but are not immediately visible. A quiet reminder A shadow only exists because light exists. Without light, there would be no shadow at all. That is why shadows are not ...

CREATIVE DOUBLE EXPOSURE Double exposure photography has a quiet magic of its own. In this image, reality is no longer presented as a single, literal moment. Instead, layers of scenes, colours, and textures merge into one frame, creating something that feels closer to emotion and memory than documentation. What I find beautiful about double exposure is how it allows chaos and harmony to exist together. Trees overlap with architectural lines, light cuts through shadow, and bold colours intersect with organic forms. The result is not meant to be read in one glance. Like modern art, it invites you to pause, to explore, and to interpret. Each viewer may notice something different—a rhythm, a pattern, or a hidden balance. At times, the image feels abstract, almost painterly. The repetition of forms and the play of transparency turn ordinary urban elements into visual poetry. It reminds us that photography does not always have to explain; sometimes it simply needs to evoke. For me, this appr...

Walking the Tide Line He walks where the sea loosens its grip on the sand. Barefoot, unhurried, the fisherman follows the edge of the morning tide, his eyes scanning the water as carefully as others read a map. The sun is still low, filtering through layered clouds, turning the horizon into a quiet theatre of gold and blue. This is not a dramatic moment. It is a familiar one—repeated countless times, yet never quite the same. In his hands, the net waits. It is not thrown in haste. Fishing, like the sea itself, rewards patience more than force. He studies the waves, the ripples, the subtle changes in colour where fish might be moving just beneath the surface. To an outsider, it looks like wandering. To him, it is listening. The beach is calm at this hour. Footprints appear briefly before the water smooths them away. The fisherman’s steps leave no permanent mark, just as his presence is temporary—passing through, taking only what the sea allows. Behind him, the sky slowly brightens; ahea...

In Praise of CCD Colours: Why Old Sensors Still Feel Alive There is something about photographs taken with the LUMIX LX5 that keeps pulling me back. On paper, it is an old camera. Small sensor. Limited dynamic range by today’s standards. Slower. Less forgiving. And yet, when I look at images made with its CCD sensor, I feel something that many modern cameras struggle to give me: character. This photograph is a good example. The colours are gentle but confident. Skin tones feel warm without being exaggerated. The straw hats glow with a soft, organic yellow. Reds are lively but not aggressive. Nothing feels overly sharp or clinically perfect. The image breathes. That is the quiet magic of CCD. CCD vs Modern Sensors: Not Better, Just Different Modern cameras—especially smartphones and mirrorless systems—use CMOS sensors paired with powerful image processing. They are incredible tools: • Higher resolution • Wider dynamic range • Better low-light performance • Faster autofoc...

Yes — this is an interesting photo, especially within urban documentary photography. It may not be “perfect” in a conventional aesthetic sense, but documentary strength often comes from layers, context, and human presence, all of which are here. Let me break it down in a way that fits your favourite genre and your way of seeing. Why this photo works (as urban documentary) 1. Layered urban life You have multiple layers happening simultaneously: • Foreground: people sitting on the tiled floor (resting, waiting, observing) • Midground: a street artist sketching • Background: pedestrians flowing through the corridor • Sides: commercial displays, mannequins, advertisements This layering is a classic documentary strength — it shows how people coexist in a shared urban space rather than isolating a single subject. 2. Contrast of activities What makes it compelling is the contrast: • Sitting vs walking • Creating art vs consuming fashion • Stillness vs movement • ...

Chasing Monet, One Pond at a Time I have always loved Claude Monet’s paintings of ponds—especially his water lilies. There is something deeply calming about them. They are not just paintings of water and plants; they are paintings of light, time, and quiet observation. Monet did not merely see the pond—he felt it, returned to it again and again, and allowed it to reveal itself in layers. I am not an artist. I am, however, an amateur photographer. And through photography, I have found my own way of paying homage to Monet. Instead of canvas and oil paint, I use my camera. Instead of brushstrokes, I rely on reflections, textures, colours, and framing. When I photograph ponds, I am not trying to document them realistically. I am trying to interpret them—just as Monet did. The pond in this photograph is ordinary. Lily pads float quietly on the surface. Dry reeds stand along the edge. Fallen leaves drift without direction. Yet, when light hits the water at the right angle, the pond transform...