I get asked about equipment constantly. What camera I use, which gimbal holds up on a windy rooftop, whether that new lens is worth the money. After years of hauling gear through unfinished construction sites and furnished penthouses alike, I’ve learned that the right tool isn’t always the most expensive one — it’s the one that disappears in your hands so you can focus on the light falling across a room.
This page isn’t a shopping list. It’s a reflection on what actually works when you’re filming architecture and interiors, where spaces are tight, light is unpredictable, and you need to move quietly through someone’s home or a building that’s been standing for a century. I update this periodically as my kit evolves, but the principles behind the choices stay consistent.
Cameras that see what I see
I’ve shot on everything from cinema rigs to mirrorless bodies small enough to fit in a coat pocket. For architectural work, I keep coming back to systems that offer strong dynamic range and clean low-light performance — because you can’t always control the sun slicing through a window at golden hour, and you don’t want to blow out the view of the city beyond the glass.
My current primary body is the Sony FX6. The internal ND filters alone save me minutes on every setup, and the form factor lets me strip it down for gimbal work or build it up for interviews with architects and homeowners. For tighter spaces — powder rooms, narrow staircases, elevator lobbies — I pair it with a Sony A7S III. The image profiles match well enough that intercutting between the two is seamless in the edit.
I’ve also held onto a Blackmagic Pocket Cinema Camera 6K Pro. It’s heavier than I’d like for all-day handheld shooting, but the color science is beautiful when I’m filming historic properties with rich wood tones and textured plaster walls. Some buildings just feel right through that sensor.
Lenses that shape space
Wide angles are the obvious choice for interiors, but there’s a trap: go too wide and you distort the proportions of a room, making it feel cavernous and dishonest. I try to stay in the 16–24mm range on full-frame, which gives context without exaggeration. The Sony 16-35mm f/2.8 GM II lives on my camera for walkthroughs and establishing shots.
For detail work — the grain of a walnut handrail, the patina on brass fixtures, the way morning light hits a kitchen backsplash — I reach for a 90mm macro. These shots are the punctuation in a film. They slow the viewer down and remind them that someone built this place with their hands.
I also carry a 24-70mm f/2.8 for versatility when I’m moving between interior and exterior, and a fast 35mm prime for low-light situations where I want a more natural, documentary feel. That lens in particular has a way of rendering space that feels honest — not clinical, not romanticized, just present.
Stabilization that doesn’t distract
Handheld movement has its place. A slight breath in the frame can make a space feel lived-in rather than sterile. But for the smooth, floating camera work that lets architecture speak without calling attention to itself, I rely on a DJI RS 3 Pro. It handles the payload of a cinema body with a zoom lens, and the automated calibration saves me from fiddling with balance when I’m losing daylight.
For quick setups or when I’m filming a real estate property and need to move fast through a dozen rooms, I switch to the smaller DJI RS 3 Mini. It’s light enough that I can shoot for hours without fatigue, and the footage holds up even when I’m walking backward down a hallway, describing a feature to a client over my shoulder.
I also keep a set of sliders in the van — a compact 2-foot carbon fiber model for tabletops and countertops, and a longer 4-foot rail for slow reveals across facades or through doorways. There’s a rhythm to a good slider shot that a gimbal can’t replicate. It’s controlled, deliberate, almost meditative.
Lighting that respects the space
I rarely blast a room with artificial light. Architecture already has a light source — windows, skylights, the glow of a lamp left on in a study. My job is often to supplement, not replace. A panel LED like the Aputure 60x gives me enough output to lift shadows in a dark corner or add a kiss of warmth to a neutral interior, but it’s small enough to hide behind furniture.
For larger spaces — a double-height living room or a restaurant interior — I’ll bring in a 300-watt COB light with a softbox, positioned outside a window to mimic natural daylight when the real sun isn’t cooperating. I’ve spent entire mornings waiting for clouds to clear, and sometimes the schedule doesn’t allow for that kind of patience. Good tools give you options.
I also carry a set of practical bulbs with adjustable color temperature. Swapping out a cool white bulb in a bedside lamp for something warmer, around 2700K, changes the entire mood of a bedroom scene without any visible lighting gear in the shot.
Audio that captures atmosphere
Sound design is half the experience of a cinematic space, even if viewers don’t consciously notice it. I record room tone in every location — the hum of a refrigerator, the distant traffic through double-pane windows, the creak of floorboards underfoot. For this, a Sennheiser MKH 416 shotgun mic mounted on-camera catches more than you’d expect, and it rejects enough off-axis noise to isolate what matters.
When I’m interviewing an architect or homeowner, I switch to a lavalier system — the Sennheiser G4 wireless kit has been reliable for years. I also carry a compact Zoom H6 recorder with an X/Y capsule for capturing ambient soundscapes: birdsong in a courtyard garden, the echo of footsteps in a marble foyer, rain against a skylight. These sounds become texture in the edit, layering beneath the visuals to place the viewer inside the building, not just looking at it.
The small things that matter
Beyond the obvious kit, a few items have saved me more times than I can count. Variable ND filters for shooting wide open in bright exteriors without losing the cinematic motion blur. A color checker card for matching paint tones accurately — especially important when a designer has spent weeks selecting the perfect shade of white for a gallery wall. Gaffer tape, because cables in a furnished home are a liability and a tripping hazard. A laser measure for scouting, so I know whether my slider will fit between a sofa and a fireplace before I carry everything inside.
I also keep a notebook and pen in my bag. Before I power on a single light or mount a lens, I walk through the space and write down what I notice — the way a staircase curves, the sound of a door latch, the view from a particular window at a particular time of day. Gear captures images, but attention captures feeling. The notebook reminds me to pay attention.
What I’d tell my younger self
You don’t need everything at once. My first architectural shoot was filmed on a borrowed DSLR with a kit lens and natural window light, and the client loved it because the framing was thoughtful and the pace let the house breathe. Gear amplifies your vision — it doesn’t create it. Start with what teaches you to see, then add tools as you outgrow them.
If you’re building a kit for this kind of work, prioritize dynamic range, stabilization, and a versatile wide zoom. Everything else is refinement. The goal isn’t to own the most equipment — it’s to walk into a space and know, with whatever you have in your hands, that you can do the place justice.
Last updated a few months back. Some of these tools have stayed in the rotation for years; others come and go as the work evolves. I’ll keep this page current as things change.