Noppadol Maitreechit has a simple way of describing photography. “It makes me happy and brings me real joy,” he says. During our conversation, I found myself returning to those words and to the importance he places on the act of looking.
He spoke about looking in different ways. Sometimes it meant spending hours watching films while he was a student in Bangkok; sometimes it meant walking through the streets, alert to the possibility that the elements of a photograph might come together. At one point, he summed it up in a single sentence: “I missed looking.” The words stayed with me because they explain more about his relationship with photography than the chronology of his career ever could.
Born and raised in Chumphon, in southern Thailand, Noppadol, who is also known as Dew, moved to Bangkok at eighteen to study motion picture and video at Rangsit University. After graduating, he worked in the Thai film industry as an assistant director and acting coach, developing his understanding of composition, colour and timing.
Later, when he and his wife moved to Wellington, New Zealand, to run a Thai restaurant, photography became something he carried alongside his new life. He photographed whenever time allowed, without any particular expectation of where it might lead.
When they eventually returned to Thailand and opened a restaurant of their own, he realised that what he had missed during those years was not necessarily filmmaking itself, but the habit of observing the world with complete attention.
“I missed looking,” he told me. “I missed searching for compositions in everyday life. The colours, the people. I was missing reality itself.”
That feeling gradually brought him back to image-making. Today, Dew is a recognised figure in Thai street photography, with international awards, several publications and a growing commitment to teaching. Yet achievement never seems to be the centre of the story when he talks about his work. He returns instead to the pleasure of walking, waiting, meeting people and discovering something unexpected in ordinary life.
His background in cinema is visible in the way he constructs a photograph, in his use of colour and in his patience as he waits for different elements to fall into place. Many of his images feel as though something has just happened, or is about to happen, leaving the viewer to imagine what exists beyond the frame.
This approach is particularly evident in Fisherman’s Dream, his series about Burmese migrant fishermen in southern Thailand. Rather than concentrating only on dramatic events, Dew pays attention to the pauses, routines and small interactions that make up everyday life. There is no attempt to heighten what he sees, only a sustained attention to the ordinary rhythms of these lives.
By the end of our conversation, it seemed to me that photography is the form this way of seeing has taken. The camera matters, of course, but the deeper habit began much earlier, in the cinemas of his youth and in the hours spent watching how colour, movement and human behaviour could create meaning inside a frame.
How did your journey into photography begin?
It began with a deep passion for cinema. My name is Noppadol Maitreechit. Today, I work as a chef and run a small, cosy restaurant in my hometown of Chumphon.
Growing up, my world was shaped by a local cinema just a few steps from my house. I essentially grew up inside those stories.
Before entering university, I had not even realised that film studies existed as an academic path. Once I discovered it, I did not hesitate. That education sharpened my vision and taught me how to truly “see”.
At the time, one of my greatest joys was travelling almost every week to screenings organised by the Japanese and German embassies, as well as to art-house cinemas, where I absorbed every frame I could. Those years of watching films still feed my work today.
After I returned from New Zealand, my life changed direction. Opening my own restaurant finally gave me the space to reconnect with my creative interests. At first, photography was simply an affordable creative outlet, and I found joy in composing frames with my mobile phone.
Everything changed when I came across the work of the photographer Taveepong Prathumwong. Following his journey led me to Street Photo Thailand, where I first began to understand the essence of street photography. Since then, my fascination with the streets has continued to grow, leading me on a journey that still defines who I am today.
You describe photography as something that brings you joy. Did you ever experience a moment when that joy felt at risk of disappearing? If so, what did you do to bring it back?
First, I think we have to consider the nature of happiness. As I have said before, photography brings me joy, but joy, like any other emotion, is not something we can force ourselves to hold on to.
In the early days of my journey, my happiness came from the thrill of the “decisive moment”: the exhilaration of capturing one perfect, fleeting instant. As I have grown older, that joy has evolved.
Today, I find it in the stillness of mindfulness, in the rhythm of walking, in conversation and in the patience of waiting. It is about going out into the world, encountering life and learning from the stories of other people.
The source of my happiness has shifted from the result to the process. As I grow older, I expect that this joy will continue to change, evolving alongside my own lived experience.
Street photography is often associated with speed and instinct, yet your photographs feel imbued with patience and anticipation. How long are you willing to wait for an image?
In truth, if we were out photographing together, you would see that my patience has its limits. I usually give a place about ten or fifteen minutes and, if it does not draw me in, I move on.
However, when the right elements—the people, the light and the narrative—strike a chord with me, I forget the clock entirely. I become so immersed in the frame that I lose all sense of time.
Colour plays a central role in your work. You have described it as a way of expressing emotion, carrying psychological weight rather than functioning as a purely decorative element. When you compose an image, are you thinking first in terms of colour, or does the meaning emerge afterwards?
In those moments, I am focused on the structure within the frame—the composition, the light and the narrative—and everything seems to come together at once.
Colour might be the first thing that catches my eye, but it means very little without substance and a strong composition. It is like cooking: you need to have the finest ingredients available and be ready to use them at exactly the right moment.
As you know, I have a deep love of cinema, and I study the ways films use colour to evoke emotion. That becomes my personal pantry of ingredients, allowing me to translate those feelings into my photography.
Coming from a background in cinema, where colour grading can completely alter the mood of a scene, how has your experience in the film industry influenced your understanding of colour in photography?
For me, colour is never simply decoration. Coming from a film background, I see colour grading as a storytelling tool. In cinema, the right tone can completely change the way a scene feels. It can make you feel cold, anxious or deeply in love without a single word being spoken.
I have always studied the masters. I have spent countless hours looking at the way Akira Kurosawa used bold primary colours to express tension and power. Zhang Yimou taught me that colour can become a character in itself; look at the way he uses deep reds and vibrant yellows to represent different emotional truths.
A major influence has been Krzysztof Kieślowski and his Three Colours trilogy. From him, I learnt the poetry of colour. He showed me that Blue is not simply a colour; it can carry the weight of sadness and isolation. White can appear pure and yet remain ironic, while Red becomes the invisible thread of fate connecting us all.
When I edit a photograph, I am not simply looking for something “pretty”. I ask myself, “What is the story here?” I try to bring that cinematic weight into my still images. I want my photographs to feel like single frames taken from a much larger film, in which every hue has been chosen to communicate something beneath the surface.
Running a restaurant and working as a chef may appear very different from photography, yet both seem to involve timing and intuition. Do you see a connection between the two?
To be honest, the kitchen and the street are not so different. Both are about timing and intuition.
In the kitchen, you do not always look at the clock. You listen to the sizzle of the pan or smell the ingredients to know the exact moment a dish is ready. Photography is the same for me. You are waiting for the decisive moment when everything—the light, the people and the emotion—comes together.
Running a restaurant also teaches you how to handle chaos. Whether it is a busy dinner service or a crowded street corner, you have to remain calm and trust your instincts.
At the end of the day, whether I am serving a plate or making a photograph, I am trying to share a story and create a connection with people.
You have begun teaching photography workshops as a way of sharing your passion for photography. Is there anything you try to help your students “unlearn”, rather than teach them?
Actually, I do not believe in “unlearning” or casting away the past. For me, it is not about discarding old beliefs to make room for new ones; it is about evolution.
When a student joins my workshop, the first things I ask are, “What did you study?” and “What is your profession?” This is not simply small talk. I want to understand how they see the world through the lens of their own life experiences.
An engineer might perceive structure and symmetry differently from a chef or a musician. Our education and daily lives shape our visual DNA. I use this information to understand how a student constructs an image. Your past is not a hurdle to overcome; it is the foundation of your eye.
In my view, we do not have to discard what we have learnt in order to begin again. Instead, we take every year of our lives, every mistake and every previous skill, and use them as stepping stones. We build on the past to inform the next step we take. It is about continuity, rather than replacement.
Who are your mentors? Who has inspired you during this journey?
My journey in photography has been shaped both by the masters of the past and by the community I am part of today.
I owe a great deal to the Loopers Collective. Through their support and the opportunities they have provided, I have had the privilege of attending workshops with street photographers including Matt Stuart, Jesse Marlow, Maciej Dakowicz and David Solomons. Learning directly from them changed the way I approach the craft.
In terms of artistic philosophy, I am deeply inspired by the legacy of Magnum Photos. I continually study Henri Cartier-Bresson for his mastery of the decisive moment and Alex Webb for his use of complex layering and light.
These influences, combined with the energy I receive from my students—the “Nong-Nong” community—continue to motivate me. Every day, I try to become a better photographer and a better teacher than I was the day before.
Silvia Donà