23.05.2025 | Ref: URBANVOID Zine Vol. 03
When did you start photographing and what inspired you to pursue photography?
I started taking photos long before I understood what photography really meant. It began as a quiet instinct—a way to hold onto fleeting moments or moods I couldn’t put into words, or knew I wouldn’t be able to remember. Over time, I explored other creative outlets: ten years ago, I was competing in dance at my high school; eight years ago, I was writing plays for my university’s student club events; six years ago, I moved to the UK to study media production. Yet time and again, I found myself returning to photography. It gave me a sense of discovery that other mediums didn’t. Choosing how to express your unique self is always a work in progress, but right now, I’m embracing photography as the medium that allows me to observe and navigate the hidden layers of life.
How would you define your photographic aesthetic?
My photographic aesthetic is closely tied to the name I work under: Collagewise. It reflects how I see both photography and life—not as fixed or absolute, but as layered, fragmented, and constantly shifting. Like a collage, life is full of contrasts: the chaotic and the calm, the visible and the hidden. Photography helps me explore these juxtapositions, training my eye to notice the in-between moments and the unexpected harmonies that shape our experiences.
I’ve moved away from fitting my work into a fixed visual style. Instead, I approach each story in the way it feels most honest—genuine, unstaged, and emotionally true. Sometimes it leans toward a tongue-in-cheek social documentary, with an unapologetic edge reminiscent of Martin Parr. Other times, it’s more minimal and geometric, using high contrast and silhouettes to reduce subjects to iconic forms. This sense of anonymity invites viewers to project their own emotions or narratives onto the image, making it both personal and universal.
What attracts you most to urban photography?
Photographing urban environments feels like diving into the life I’m living—again and again—with fresh eyes. Each time, it’s familiar, yet never the same. I’m drawn to how people move through cities, how light plays off concrete, and how public and private moments unfold side by side. Cities are never neutral—they reflect stories, tensions, and layers of meaning.
Urban photography lets me observe and reframe these everyday scenes, revealing something deeper. I didn’t set out to specialise in this field intentionally—it grew out of the rhythm of my own life. Being in cities, walking with no fixed purpose, letting the environment guide what I notice—that process felt natural. Over time, it became clear that this was the space where my visual curiosity felt most alive.
Before the storm © Shannon Dinh, 2024
How do you choose your subjects or locations to photograph?
I’m most drawn to places where the energy is raw, real, and unfiltered—like outdoor markets. Markets are a microcosm of society, where people from all walks of life come together for a shared purpose: to buy, sell, and connect. They’re full of unscripted moments—nothing feels posed or artificial. That authenticity is what draws me in.
What fascinates me is the rhythm of human interaction: laughter, bargaining, quiet exchanges, the mix of generations and cultures all colliding in one space. It’s a living reflection of a place’s character. And in that honest, collective energy, I often feel a quiet sense of belonging—as if I’m both observing and participating at the same time.
Can you tell us about one of the biggest challenges you’ve overcome?
One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced in my photography journey has been learning to trust my own voice—especially in a world filled with noise and pressure to define a specific “style” or fit into a genre. I used to spend a lot of time second-guessing my work, comparing it to others, or trying to create images that looked “right.”
I still do that sometimes. But over time, I’ve come to accept self-doubt as part of the process. Every feeling—uncertainty, hesitation, curiosity—is a color on the palette. It no longer holds me back creatively. I’ve learned to lean into the unknown, to shoot for myself first, and to follow what feels genuine, even if it doesn’t fit neatly into a category. I haven’t fully let go of the need for validation—but I’ve made peace with that, too. It’s part of the journey, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of.
What elements do you consider essential to create a successful photograph?
For me, a successful photograph is about presence. When I look at a great photograph, I can almost feel the photographer’s presence, taking in the energy around them. Emotion, timing, and intention are the key ingredients. Composition and lighting are important, but they’re just tools to serve the feeling. If an image doesn’t make you feel something or stop you for a moment, it won’t leave a lasting impact.
The strongest photographs often carry a sense of honesty or tension—something beneath the surface that invites the viewer to look deeper. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable to look at, but that’s what gives it power. I also value imperfection. Sometimes, an off-frame shot or imperfect exposure can capture the mood more effectively than a polished one. What matters most is that the image feels alive—genuine and unforced, not staged or overthought.
Merry-go-round © Shannon Dinh, 2024
What photographers and artists inspire you?
I find myself falling in love with the work of photographers from all over the world every day—on Instagram, Photocrowd, local photography Facebook groups, or emerging platforms like the Foto app. While I could name many photographers I admire—Laurin Strele, Ed Kashi, Hojjat Hamidi, Marijn Fidder, Jeremy Paige, to name a few—what truly inspires me is seeing art thrive and watching both professionals and amateurs dedicate their lives to learning the craft, enjoying the journey, and sharing it with the world.
That collective passion influences me the most—especially after hearing that the photography course at the university I once attended (not my course, but within the same faculty) was recently closed due to low enrollment.
Is there a particular moment in your career when you felt especially proud of your work?
When someone I don’t know reaches out to share their appreciation for my work—and sometimes even opens up about their own thoughts, struggles, or insecurities with photography—that truly warms my heart. As someone who’s always been shy about reaching out, it feels surreal to know that people not only connect with my work but want to talk to me about it. I’m incredibly grateful for those moments. They remind me why I keep doing this.
What do you want viewers to feel or take away when they look at your photos?
I don’t want to tell viewers exactly what to feel—I’d rather create space for them to feel something. Whether it’s curiosity, discomfort, joy, or just a pause in their day, I hope my photos invite people to slow down and look a little closer. If someone walks away from my work seeing something familiar in a new way, or simply feeling a little more connected to the world around them, then I’ve done a pretty good job.
Solitude by the Thames © Shannon Dinh, 2025
What are your future projects?
I’m currently working on a personal series that explores the dynamics of the local car boot sale scene. What makes it especially interesting is that sellers rarely come alone—they’re often with family, partners, or friends. That creates another layer of interaction, not just between sellers and buyers, but also among the vendors themselves. The environment is constantly shifting, and the opportunities for storytelling feel endless. Potentially, a photobook on the same topic is coming in the near future.
I’m also challenging myself to step out of my comfort zone by collaborating more with others, which is a big shift since I’ve mostly worked solo. Looking ahead, I’d love to experiment with mixed media—combining photography with sound or painting to tell more textured, layered stories. I’m not rushing the process, but I’m excited to explore new ways of seeing and sharing.
