Photographing the Rollingwood Residence | A Modern Treehouse by Lake|Flato Architects | Tobin Davies

Some projects announce themselves from the street. The Rollingwood Residence doesn't. From the road, it reads as a compact, carefully composed modern home on a wooded lot — restrained, even modest by the standards of the Austin luxury market. Walk through it, and the restraint reveals itself as precision. The house cascades down a steep hillside through a series of stepped levels, each one reaching further into the tree canopy, until the screened porch at the lower end feels genuinely suspended in the oaks. The project has been published in Dwell and featured on the AIA Austin Homes Tour, and it deserves both.

Lake|Flato associate Brian Comeaux led the design. The firm has been practicing out of San Antonio and Austin since 1984, and their work has a consistent quality of regional attentiveness — buildings that read the climate, the topography, and the existing landscape before they commit to a form. The Rollingwood Residence is that sensibility applied to a double-wide lot on a horseshoe-shaped street in one of Austin's quieter enclaves, ten minutes from downtown but dense with old oaks and backed by a creek. The brief from the owners was direct: small but highly designed. Not a McMansion. A house scaled to how two people actually live.

That brief produced a 2,400-square-foot home that accomplishes more per square foot than almost anything I've photographed at twice the size.

A House That Follows the Hill

The site drops steeply from the street toward the creek below, and the architecture doesn't fight it. The program is stacked in terraced levels that step down the slope, with the main living volume at the top and the primary bedroom and screened porch cantilevered at the lower end above the tree canopy. An offset gable roof follows the grade of the land, its floating geometry guiding the eye downhill toward a path of restored rock ledges — hand-laid by the owners themselves — that leads to a dry creek, a small amphitheater, and a private gathering space carved from the existing rock outcroppings.

This is the move that makes the Rollingwood Residence worth studying: the house and the landscape are designed together, each one making the other more legible. The architecture gives you elevated vantage points into the oaks. The landscape gives the architecture something worth looking at from every window. Comeaux describes Rollingwood as a hidden gem, and this lot — dense with mature trees, backed by a creek, close enough to downtown to be convenient but quiet enough to feel removed — earns that description. The compact driveway and building footprint were pushed to the west edge of the property specifically to leave the natural green space to the east undisturbed.

The siting decision isn't incidental. It's the first architectural move, made before a wall goes up. Photographing a house like this means understanding that the relationship between building and land is the subject — not just the building.

The Materials Argument

The exterior is Western red cedar and Lueders limestone. Both are materials with a history in Texas architecture, chosen here for the same reason they've always worked in this climate: they're honest, they age well, and they read as belonging to the landscape rather than imposed on it. The cedar will silver over time. The limestone, quarried from the same general geology as the creek rock below the house, ties the building to its site in a way that's almost geological.

Inside, the palette shifts but maintains the same logic. Blackened mesquite floors anchor the main living level — a material that's distinctly Texan, dark and rich against the lighter tones of the clear sealed maple millwork. Soapstone countertops in the kitchen. Honed limestone underfoot in other areas. Douglas fir joinery, left exposed in the ceiling plane, brings warmth to the upper reaches of the 18-foot living room. Every material selection was made, Comeaux explains, by thinking about the house as a whole collection — nothing chosen in isolation, everything evaluated against what it sits next to.

This approach to material restraint is something I encounter in the best architectural work and rarely in lesser projects. When a design team has exercised this kind of discipline, the photographer's job is clarified: show the materials clearly. Don't dramatize. Let the palette do the work. A room with blackened mesquite, maple millwork, and soapstone doesn't need to be lit dramatically. It needs to be shown honestly, with light that reveals texture and relationship rather than manufacturing atmosphere.

The Living Room and the Glazed North Facade

The main living volume is where the spatial ambition of the project is most concentrated. An open plan combines kitchen, dining, and living under 18-foot ceilings, with a glazed northern facade that runs floor-to-ceiling across the primary view. The orientation is deliberate — north light is consistent, diffuse, and doesn't create the harsh contrast shadows that direct southern exposure would in a Texas summer. The view through those windows is into the oaks, and at certain times of morning, the light filtering through the canopy into the living room has a quality that's almost aquatic — green-tinged, moving, alive.

The fireplace anchors one end of the main level. A few steps down, through a spatial compression that works the way good section design always does — making the release feel earned — the screened porch opens off the primary bedroom. Cantilevered over the surrounding canopy, with an imposing stone fireplace of its own and screens that frame the oaks rather than blocking them, this porch is where the treehouse analogy stops being a metaphor. You're genuinely in the trees. The floor is hovering over sloped ground. The branches are at eye level. The owners chose this house because they wanted to feel close to the landscape, and this is the room where the design delivers that most completely.

Photographing the screened porch required the same patience as the Camp Frio porches — managing the light differential so the screen reads as transparent rather than as a visual barrier, finding the moment when interior and exterior are in close enough balance that the camera can see through rather than stopping at the mesh. Late afternoon worked best, with warm interior light beginning to assert itself against a softening exterior.

Two Masters, One House

The spatial organization of the bedrooms is one of the more unusual features of this project, and worth understanding. Both bedrooms are designed as primary suites — the downstairs suite positioned for hot Texas summers, the upstairs one for cooler months, with a second-floor porch shaded by a large oak and dark slate tiling in the bath. The millwork in the downstairs suite stops short of the ceiling, allowing light to spill from the main space into the master bath — a detail that's invisible in a floor plan and immediately legible in person.

This seasonal flexibility in how the house is occupied is a genuinely thoughtful response to Austin's climate. It also reflects the owners' approach to the project overall: a house designed around how two people actually live, rather than how a house is supposed to be presented. No rooms they wouldn't use. No space for its own sake. The Dwell article quotes them directly: "A bigger house isn't always a better house."

That's the kind of conviction that produces architecture worth photographing.

Why This Project Holds Up

The Rollingwood Residence was completed and published in Dwell in early 2020. It appeared on the AIA Austin Homes Tour. It continues to appear in Lake|Flato's portfolio and in Shoberg Homes' project list as one of the cleaner examples of what a high-craft, site-responsive Austin residence can be.

What strikes me about projects like this — compact, precise, deeply considered — is how well they photograph over time. The restraint that might seem understated in person reads as confidence in an image. There's nothing to remove, nothing that was included for effect. Every material, every spatial relationship, every view through a window was considered as part of a whole. The camera finds that coherence and holds onto it.

This is what I try to bring to every project I photograph: the same attention the architects brought to the design. Not to illustrate a building, but to reveal it. The Rollingwood Residence rewards that approach.

Project Details Architecture: Lake|Flato Architects — Brian Comeaux Builder: Shoberg Homes Lighting Design: David Nelson & Associates Cabinetry: HEWN Structural Engineer: Structural Design Consulting Location: Rollingwood, Austin, Texas Size: 2,400 square feet Published: Dwell Recognition: AIA Austin Homes Tour Photography: Tobin Davies

Tobin Davies is a luxury architectural and interior photographer based in Austin, Texas. He works with architects, interior designers, builders, and developers on residential and commercial projects throughout Texas and nationally. For shoot inquiries, visit tobindavies.com/contact.

What Is Cost-Sharing in Architectural Photography and How Does It Work?

Cost-sharing means splitting the investment in architectural photography among the parties who benefit from the images -- the architect, interior designer, builder, owner, and sometimes others. Each party receives a usage license, and the total fee is divided accordingly. It's the most effective way to get high-quality images of a project without any single party absorbing the full cost. I use this structure on roughly half my shoots, and it consistently produces better outcomes for everyone involved.

Why does cost-sharing exist in architectural photography?

Because good architecture is never the work of one person.

A completed project represents the combined effort of an architect, an interior designer, a builder, a landscape architect, and often a handful of consultants and product manufacturers. Each of those parties has a legitimate interest in documenting the finished work -- for their portfolio, their website, their award submissions, their marketing. And each of them benefits when the images are excellent.

The traditional model -- one party hires the photographer and everyone else either asks permission to use the images or goes without -- creates problems. The hiring party shoulders 100% of the cost. The other parties either use images they didn't commission (and may not be licensed to use), or they don't document the project at all. Neither outcome is good.

Cost-sharing solves this by acknowledging what's already true: multiple parties need these images, and it makes sense to produce them together.

How does the cost-sharing model actually work?

The mechanics are straightforward.

Before the shoot is booked, I work with the primary contact -- usually the architect -- to identify which other parties might want to participate. Common participants include the interior designer, the general contractor, the landscape architect, the homeowner, and occasionally a product manufacturer or structural engineer.

Each participating party receives a usage license for their share of the images. I charge a licensing fee for each additional party, then divide the total shoot fee by the number of participants. The result is that everyone pays less than any single party would have paid alone.

Here's how that plays out in practice. Say a full-day residential shoot is quoted at a certain rate for one party. Add a builder and an interior designer, and the per-party cost drops meaningfully -- often by 30-50% per participant depending on the scope. The shoot itself doesn't change. The quality doesn't change. The number of deliverables doesn't change. What changes is how the investment is distributed.

I handle the licensing and coordination. Each party signs a simple agreement, receives their licensed images, and can use them within the terms of their license. There's no ambiguity about who can use what.

Who typically participates in a cost-share?

The most common configuration is three parties: architect, interior designer, and builder. That's the core team on most residential projects, and each has a clear use case for the images.

Architects use them for portfolio, website, award submissions, and press. Interior designers use them for the same, plus social media and client presentations. Builders use them for marketing, client acquisition, and trade show displays.

Beyond that core, I've seen cost-shares that include:

Landscape architects. Particularly on projects where the site work is significant -- Hill Country homes with extensive hardscape, courtyard houses where the landscape is integral to the plan, or commercial projects with designed outdoor spaces.

Homeowners. Some owners want professional images of their home for personal use, insurance documentation, or because they're proud of what they built. They're often happy to contribute to the cost if they know the option exists.

Product manufacturers. A custom window company, a stone supplier, or a lighting manufacturer may want images showing their product installed in a beautifully designed context. This is less common but can be valuable when the project features a product prominently.

Developers. On commercial and multifamily projects, the developer or ownership group often has marketing needs that differ from the architect's. Including them in the cost-share means one shoot serves both purposes.

The key is raising the conversation early -- before the shoot is booked, not after. Once the photographer is scheduled and prep is underway, the window for coordinating additional parties tends to close.

Does cost-sharing affect the quality of the shoot?

No. This is the most important thing to understand about the model.

I don't shoot differently because three parties are paying instead of one. I don't add images I wouldn't otherwise take, or dilute the shot list to accommodate competing interests. The shoot is planned around the project -- around the architecture, the light, and the design intent -- the same way it would be regardless of how many parties are involved.

What does happen is that the shot list may be slightly more comprehensive. If the interior designer has specific vignettes they want captured, or if the builder wants images of a detail that demonstrates their craft, those get added to the plan. But they're additions to a shoot that was already well-planned, not diversions from it.

In practice, cost-sharing often produces a stronger image set than a single-party engagement. More perspectives on what matters about the project means more thoughtful planning. And when multiple parties are invested in the outcome, the preparation tends to be better -- spaces are more thoroughly staged, details are more carefully considered, and the shoot day runs more smoothly.

When should I bring up cost-sharing with my collaborators?

As early as possible. Ideally, the conversation happens when you first decide to photograph the project -- not after you've already booked the shoot and received a quote.

Here's why timing matters. If an architect books a shoot and then, two weeks later, asks whether the builder wants in, the builder is being asked to pay for something that's already happening. That's a harder sell than being part of the conversation from the start. When everyone is involved early, the cost-share feels like a shared decision rather than an afterthought.

The simplest approach: when you decide the project is ready to photograph, send a quick message to the other key parties. Something like, "We're planning to photograph the project next month. We're working with Tobin Davies and doing a cost-share to split the investment. Would you like to be included?" Most people say yes. The savings are obvious and the value is clear.

If you're not sure who else might want to participate, ask me. I've done this enough times to know which parties typically benefit and how to frame the conversation.

What about usage rights when multiple parties are involved?

Each participating party receives a license that covers their specific needs. The standard Professional Usage License I include with every shoot covers website, portfolio, social media (with photo credit), award submissions, presentations, trade show displays, and corporate collateral for a defined term.

The licenses are independent. The architect's usage rights don't depend on the builder's, and vice versa. If the interior designer wants to use an image on their Instagram, they don't need to ask the architect for permission -- they have their own license.

What the license does not include is transferring images to parties who didn't participate in the cost-share. If a subcontractor or product rep wants to use the images and they weren't part of the original agreement, they can obtain a separate license from me. This protects everyone's investment and ensures that usage is tracked and authorized.

I keep this simple by documenting everything upfront. Each party knows exactly what they're getting, what they can do with it, and for how long. There are no surprises after delivery.

Is cost-sharing worth it if I can afford the full shoot myself?

Usually, yes -- and not just because of the savings.

The financial argument is obvious: paying a third of the cost instead of the full amount is better for your budget. But the less obvious benefit is what happens to the images after delivery.

When three parties have licensed, professional images of a project, those images appear on three websites, three Instagram accounts, three award submissions, and three portfolios. The project gets three times the exposure. Your architecture is being represented by consistent, high-quality images everywhere it appears -- not by a mix of professional shots from your photographer and phone photos from your builder's site visit.

That consistency matters. When a potential client searches for your firm and sees the same polished images on ArchDaily, on the builder's website, and on the interior designer's Instagram, the project reads as credible and complete. When the images are inconsistent -- professional in one place, amateur in another -- the impression is fragmented.

Cost-sharing also strengthens your professional relationships. Inviting your builder or interior designer to participate signals that you see the project as a collaboration and that you value their contribution. That goodwill has a longer shelf life than the savings.

How do I get started with a cost-share on my next project?

Reach out to me when the project is nearing completion and you're starting to think about photography. Mention which other parties were involved and I'll help you frame the cost-share conversation.

I'll prepare a proposal that outlines the shoot scope, the per-party cost at different participation levels, and the licensing terms for each participant. You share it with your collaborators, and we finalize the group. From there, the process is the same as any other shoot -- shot list, prep, shoot day, delivery -- with the added benefit that everyone is invested in the outcome.

The best cost-shares I've been part of happened because one person -- usually the architect -- took five minutes to send an email to their project team. That small act of coordination saved everyone money and produced images that served the entire team for years.

Tobin Davies is a luxury architectural and interior photographer based in Austin, Texas. He works with architects, interior designers, builders, and developers on residential and commercial projects throughout Texas and nationally. For shoot inquiries and cost-sharing proposals, visit tobindavies.com/contact.

How to Prepare Your Project for an Architectural Photoshoot

The best architectural shoots are never improvised. Start coordinating with your photographer four to six weeks before the shoot date — sooner for large or complex projects. Build a shot list together, stage the space to read as designed rather than lived-in, and clear the exterior of anything that doesn't belong in the frame. Give your photographer context: the design intent, the key views you care about, and which details were yours. That's what turns a shoot day into something productive instead of expensive triage.

When should I start preparing for an architectural photoshoot?

Four to six weeks out is the minimum. On larger residential projects — anything with multiple buildings, a complex landscape program, or phased construction — I'd push that to eight weeks.

The reason isn't logistics for its own sake. It's that preparation has a sequence. The shot list needs to come before the staging conversation, the staging conversation needs to happen before the walk-through, and the walk-through needs to happen before you schedule the shoot day. Compress that sequence and something falls through. Usually it's the detail you most wanted captured.

There's also a practical reality around construction timelines: things run late. Scheduling a shoot with real buffer means that when the punch list drags into week three, you're not also scrambling to reschedule a photographer who had already locked travel.

If the project involves twilight photography — and for most exterior-heavy shoots, it should — add another variable. Twilight windows run twelve to twenty minutes. You don't get a second chance at that light. That's not something you want to be coordinating the morning of.

Who creates the shot list, and what should it include?

Both of us. That's the honest answer.

You know the project in a way I don't when I arrive. You know which wall detail was the one that took three material revisions to get right. You know that the connection between the kitchen and the courtyard is the move — the thing the whole plan is organized around. That knowledge needs to be in the shot list, not discovered mid-shoot.

What I bring is an understanding of what's actually photographable. Some things that matter enormously in the experience of a space — a ceiling height, the way light moves through a room over the course of a day — are genuinely difficult to convey in a still frame. Some things that seem secondary translate exceptionally well. Part of my job is to align your priorities with what the camera can do.

A good shot list has three layers. First, the establishing shots — the images that show the project in its full context, inside and out. Second, the room-by-room or space-by-space sequence, each with a primary angle and one or two alternates. Third, the details: the moments where materiality, craft, or spatial invention is most concentrated. For a well-organized shoot, fifteen to twenty final deliverable images might draw from thirty to forty setups on the shot list.

Send me drawings before we finalize the list. Floor plans and sections help me understand the geometry of the spaces before I walk in. I can anticipate where the light will be at different times of day, flag spaces that might be challenging, and propose a sequencing that works with the sun rather than against it.

What does "ready to photograph" actually mean for interior spaces?

It means the space reads as the architect or designer intended it — not as someone lives in it.

That's a harder standard than it sounds. Even beautifully designed homes accumulate visual noise: phone chargers on countertops, shoes near the door, a jacket on a chair, small appliances that emerged from cabinets and never returned. None of that is anyone's fault. But the camera sees all of it, and removing it in post is expensive and often unconvincing.

The most useful framing I give clients: walk through the space and ask, for every object you see, whether it was placed by the designer or by the life being lived in it. If it's the latter, it probably needs to come out for the shoot.

Furniture placement matters more than most people expect. Pieces that were moved for practical reasons — pulled away from a wall to make a traffic path easier, angled for TV viewing rather than conversation — should go back to their design positions for the shoot. I'll make adjustments during setup, but I can only work with what's there.

For staged or recently completed projects, the work is different. Empty houses photograph poorly — they lack scale and warmth. If the project was designed with a specific furniture program in mind, now is the time to make sure key pieces are present. A curated selection of art, objects, and soft goods does more for a photograph than any amount of post-production.

One more thing: clean the glass. Windows, skylights, shower enclosures. The camera reads every smudge and water spot at full scale.

How do I prepare the exterior of the project for photography?

The exterior is where most last-minute problems land, and it's the category most difficult to fix the day of.

Landscaping should be in its intended condition — not necessarily full maturity, but maintained and intentional. A newly planted lawn that's still patchy reads on camera as incomplete, not just young. If there are trees or shrubs that were meant to be in the frame, they should be in the frame. If the landscaping is still in progress, I need to know that before we schedule, because it affects which views are viable.

Driveways and hardscape should be clear of vehicles, equipment, and construction debris. This seems obvious until you arrive at a shoot and there's a subcontractor's truck parked in the primary composition because someone forgot to coordinate. Give everyone involved — builder, owner, neighbors — a heads-up about the shoot date and what you need.

Speaking of neighbors: if the project has key exterior views that pull neighboring properties into frame, it's worth a conversation. A boat parked next to the fence, a trash can that lives at the curb, a basketball hoop that appears in the background — these are small things that require either neighbor cooperation or significant post-production. The former is faster and cheaper.

Construction signage, builder banners, and permit boxes should be removed or moved out of camera range. I can work around most things, but there's no elegant way to recompose away a six-foot job site sign.

Why does time of day matter, and should we plan for twilight?

Light is the medium. Everything else is subject matter.

The direction, quality, and color temperature of natural light determine what a space looks like in a photograph. A room that's spectacular at ten in the morning can be flat and difficult at two in the afternoon. An exterior that comes alive at golden hour can be harsh and shadowless at noon. Scheduling a shoot without thinking about this is like scheduling a paint consultation without thinking about the wall color.

For most Austin-area projects, I start exterior photography in the early morning or late afternoon — when the sun is low and the light is warm, directional, and doing something interesting. Interior photography gets sequenced around which rooms receive good light at which times. That sequencing is part of what I'm doing when I build out the shoot day schedule.

Twilight is worth planning for on almost every project that has exterior architecture worth showing. The window is short — usually twelve to twenty minutes between when the sky has the right ambient exposure and when it goes dark. But the images that come out of that window are often the strongest in the deliverable set. The combination of interior light glowing from within, exterior materials rendered in ambient blue, and a sky that still has color and detail is difficult to replicate at any other time of day.

Weather is a variable I can't fully control, but I plan around it. Overcast days produce excellent soft light for interiors. Partly cloudy days can produce dramatic skies that add to exterior images. Heavy rain delays shoots. I build flexibility into my scheduling for this reason — it's better to have a backup date confirmed in advance than to scramble the morning of.

What should the architect or designer communicate before the shoot?

More than most do.

The single most useful thing you can give me is design intent — not a project description, but a sense of what the project is for. What problem was it solving? What experience were you trying to create? What's the move that makes this project different from the last one? That context shapes everything: which details I look for, how I frame the establishing shots, what story the final image set should tell.

Beyond intent, give me the key views you care about. Every architect has two or three compositions they've been seeing in their head since early schematic design. Tell me what they are. I may have a different read on what's going to be most compelling photographically, and we can have that conversation — but I need to know what you came in hoping to see.

Tell me which elements were designed and which were inherited. In renovation projects especially, this matters. If the windows were original and you worked around them, I should know that. If the flooring was the owner's selection and you'd rather not feature it, tell me. I'm not going to make editorial decisions about what to emphasize without that context.

Finally: if there are drawings, sections, or renderings that show the design intent for a particular space, share them. Arriving with a section drawing of a key room tells me the ceiling geometry, the relationship between levels, and the angles that read best. That's a better briefing than a walkthrough alone.

Can other parties share the cost of an architectural photoshoot?

Often, yes — and it's worth raising early.

On most residential projects, there are multiple parties who benefit from strong photography: the architect, the interior designer, the builder, and sometimes the owner. Each party will use the images for different purposes — portfolio, website, press submissions, Instagram, marketing materials. Each has a reason to want the images to be excellent.

The simplest arrangement is a cost-share where each party contributes to the shoot fee in proportion to how much they'll use the images, and usage rights are licensed accordingly. I'm straightforward about how this works. It doesn't affect how I approach the shoot — it just determines who gets what in the final delivery.

Raise this conversation with your collaborators before you book, not after. Once the shoot is scheduled and the prep work has begun, the window for that conversation tends to close.

What mistakes waste the most time on a shoot day?

A few come up again and again.

Spaces that aren't staged until I arrive. I can't set up a shot while someone is still moving furniture and clearing countertops in the same room. Those two things need to happen in sequence, not simultaneously.

Decisions about what to include made on the day. If you're not sure whether to stage the guest bedroom, make that decision before I arrive. Every unresolved question on shoot day costs time that should be spent behind the camera.

Chasing a light condition we missed. If we were scheduled to get the east-facing living room at nine in the morning and we didn't get there until eleven, that room may not be shootable until the following morning. Planning and sequencing exist to prevent this.

Bringing too many decision-makers. One primary contact on site is ideal. Two is manageable. A group of stakeholders with different opinions about how a space should look is a problem. Those conversations should happen before the shoot, not during it.

Not accounting for the space between spaces. Hallways, transitions, moments of arrival — these are often where the architecture is most concentrated. They fall off shot lists because they're not "rooms," but they're frequently the images architects and designers reach for most.

Preparation doesn't guarantee a perfect shoot. Light changes, something breaks, a space reads differently in person than in drawings. But a well-prepared shoot gives you the flexibility to adapt. An unprepared one means you're spending the day catching up to problems instead of making photographs.

Tobin Davies is a luxury architectural and interior photographer based in Austin, Texas. He works with architects, interior designers, and developers on residential and commercial projects throughout Texas and the wider region. For shoot inquiries and project consultations, visit tobindavies.com.

Photographing Bonterra Farm for Blackburn Architects: Equestrian Architecture on 100 Acres in New Hampshire

Most of the architecture I photograph is designed for people. Living rooms scaled to human comfort, kitchens oriented toward morning light, bedrooms that frame a view at eye level. The proportions, the materials, the way a space unfolds — it's all calibrated to how we move through and inhabit a building. Bonterra Farm is designed for horses. That distinction changes everything — how the architecture works, how light moves through it, and how I approached photographing it.

Bonterra Farm barns at twilight — Blackburn Architects — Dover New Hampshire — equestrian architecture photography by Tobin Davies

A Different Kind of Client

Blackburn Architects hired me to photograph Bonterra, and the farm's owner, Blythe Brown, hosted me for the day. It was one of those shoots where the context is as important as the architecture — you can't separate the buildings from the land they sit on, or the animals they were built to serve. Blackburn Architects, based in Washington, D.C., has been the world's leading equestrian architecture firm since 1983. Their founder, John Blackburn, is credited with fundamentally rethinking how barns are designed — pioneering an aerodynamic ventilation approach that prioritizes the health and safety of horses through natural airflow, strategic light, and careful orientation to the land. Their barns are known throughout the world, and they literally wrote the book on the subject — their monograph, American Equestrian Design, is the definitive reference. Bonterra is one of their most recognized projects. The distinctive shingled barns sit on wooded New England land and house a facility specializing in Friesian horses — powerful, elegant animals with a presence that matches the architecture built around them.

Architecture Designed for Animals

What makes equestrian architecture fascinating from a photography standpoint is that the design logic is completely different from residential work. In a home, you're thinking about human comfort, personal expression, and how a family lives. In a barn designed by Blackburn, you're thinking about airflow patterns, sightlines that keep horses calm, natural light that supports animal health, and proportions scaled to creatures that are far larger and more sensitive to their environment than we are. The ceilings are higher. The doors are wider. The windows are positioned not for a person standing at a kitchen counter but for cross-ventilation at horse height. The center aisle of a Blackburn barn is designed so that a horse standing inside feels like it's standing under a shade tree outdoors — open, breezy, calm. That's not a metaphor. That's the design intent. Photographing this means recalibrating your eye. The scale references are different. The human figure, which normally anchors an architectural photograph, becomes secondary. The "client" for this architecture is a 1,200-pound Friesian, and the success of the design is measured by whether that animal settles down when it walks in.

One of the things Blackburn is known for is how they use light. Their barns feature high roof lines, large windows, and cupolas that aren't just decorative — they're functional elements of a ventilation and daylighting system. At Bonterra, the light moves through the barns in a way that feels almost ecclesiastical. There's a quality to the interior illumination that reminded me of photographing spaces with clerestory windows — shafts of light entering from above, creating depth and atmosphere in what could otherwise be a utilitarian structure. The shingled exterior reads differently throughout the day too. New England light has a quality that's distinct from what I'm used to in Texas — softer, cooler, with a silvery tone that suits the weathered cedar shingles. By late afternoon, the barns take on a warm glow against the surrounding woods. The evening shot — light pouring from the barn windows into the New England dusk — is the kind of image that tells you everything about the relationship between the architecture and the landscape.

100 Acres of Context

Bonterra isn't just a barn. It's a full equestrian compound — barns, carriage house, paddocks, riding areas, and support structures spread across 100 acres of wooded land along the Cochecho River. Photographing a property at this scale means thinking about the relationship between structures and landscape in a way that's more like documenting a campus than a single building. Blythe Brown has built something remarkable here over two decades. The property has a sense of stewardship — of the land, the animals, and the architecture — that you feel immediately when you arrive. That's not something you can fake in a photograph, but it does come through. When the grounds are loved, when the buildings are maintained with care, when the animals are healthy and at ease — the camera picks up on all of it.

Why This Project Matters to Me

I photograph a lot of luxury residential work in Texas. Modern homes, clean lines, Hill Country limestone. I love that work and it's the core of what I do. But projects like Bonterra remind me why I got into architectural photography in the first place — because great architecture is great architecture, regardless of who (or what) it's designed for. When Blackburn Architects calls and asks you to fly to New Hampshire to photograph one of their most iconic projects, you say yes. Not just because of the prestige of the firm or the beauty of the property, but because the work itself demands something different from you as a photographer. Different scale, different light, different priorities. That's how you grow. The images from Bonterra have become some of the most-viewed work in my portfolio. I think that's because they surprise people. Visitors come to my site expecting Texas modernism and find these beautiful shingled barns glowing in New England twilight. It opens a conversation about what architectural photography can be — and that conversation has led to some of my most interesting commissions.

Project Details Architecture: Blackburn Architects, Washington, D.C. Location: Dover, New Hampshire Property: Bonterra Farm — 100-acre Friesian horse facility Owner: Blythe Brown Original Design: 2002 Photography: Commissioned by Blackburn Architects