The tower looms from the mist like a memory—part presence, part phantom—its vertical lines slicing through a weightless sky.
A monolith fading gently into the cloud, reminding us how even giants can dissolve into silence.
A lone bird crosses the frame—a subtle tension of motion against the unwavering vertical grid of glass and steel.
The crown, spiked with antennas, as if the tower is reaching beyond its earthly form, transmitting into the ether.
The bird becomes a companion—not a contrast—but a mirror of the building’s stillness in motion.
The shot catches the tower in breathless equilibrium, caught between the heavens and the city, massive and yet ethereal.
The SHARD in the Fog: AN etude of Stillness and Strength
The John Hancock Tower—officially 200 Clarendon Street—has stood tall over Boston since 1976. Designed by Henry N. Cobb of I.M. Pei & Partners, it’s a monolith of mirrored glass: sleek, angular, and uncompromisingly modern. More than a building, it is a reflection—of sky, city, and time itself.
Most photos of the tower are taken from well-trodden ground: framed by brownstones in Back Bay, rising behind the Public Garden, or glowing in sunset light from the Esplanade. These classic views celebrate its place within the city.
But I wanted to photograph it differently.
This series is a quiet, contemplative portrait of the John Hancock Tower. Rather than capturing it as a backdrop, I approached it as a subject—a being of its own. In soft fog and dim light, I explored its massive presence up close, isolating its form and rhythm. With each frame, I wanted to express the building’s immense weight, its stoic endurance, and its silent grace that endures above the bustle below.
From the distance of the Longfellow Bridge, with a 250mm lens, I zoomed in—not just optically, but emotionally. I focused not on the skyline, but on the tower itself. Frame by frame, I explored its geometry, its gravity, its solitude. I wasn’t capturing a landmark; I was studying a presence—remote, monumental, and eerily calm.
In the first shot, it emerges from the mist like a relic from another world—its mass softened by the sky. In another, its edge vanishes into fog, a monolith becoming memory. A lone bird arcs across the frame—a flicker of movement against a rigid grid of steel and glass. At the crown, antennas pierce upward as if the tower were not just tall, but listening. Sometimes, the tower feels grounded. Other times, it feels like it might float.
These photos aren’t about perspective. They’re about perception.
This session wasn’t about getting closer, it was about seeing deeper—from afar.