Under the Stars at Narikala
Perched above the city of Tbilisi, the Narikala Fortress has long stood watch over centuries of upheaval, renewal, and quiet resilience. But it was not the bustle of the Old Town or the steep streets below that drew me here one clear night. It was something quieter, something timeless—the fortress not as a relic of the past, but as a witness to eternity. And on this particular evening, it felt like the sky conspired with the earth to reveal that truth.
Narikala is usually framed through a lens of conquest. Built in the 4th century as a Persian citadel, later expanded by the Umayyads, the Georgians, and the Mongols, it has absorbed wave after wave of empire. But to reduce it to a list of rulers and renovations is to miss its essence. What is more interesting, perhaps, is how it feels.
It doesn't dominate the skyline like a boast; it leans into the hill, open to the elements, part of the rock. The walls crumble not from neglect, but from a kind of age that doesn’t mind being seen. At night, without the foot traffic and souvenir stalls, the place exhales. And on this night, with the Milky Way stretching wide above it, Narikala seemed less like a fortress and more like a threshold—between the seen and the unseen, the past and the permanent.
The Photograph: A Collaboration with the Cosmos
I knew I wanted to capture this scene in a way that wasn’t documentary. This image is not about recording what was there, but about showing what it felt like to be there.
Technically, the photo is a composite—a blend of multiple exposures taken from the same vantage point over a series of hours. The long exposure for the sky revealed a depth of starlight the human eye can’t quite hold in real time, while shorter exposures preserved the rich detail in the fortress walls and church tower, softly illuminated by the amber streetlights of the city below.
What made the final image work, however, wasn’t just technical layering—it was color harmony and mood.
In post-processing, I worked to build a conversation between warmth and coolness. The fortress glows in golden tones, rooted and grounded, while the sky pulses with deep blues and silvers, light-years away but intensely present. A subtle gradient map unified the tones, pulling the sky gently into the earth without overpowering the warm stone texture. I applied a slight Orton glow effect on the highlights—enough to give a sense of stillness and dream, but not so much as to lose the structure. The final adjustment was a hand-built LUT (look-up table) to subtly shift the color palette into something just a little surreal, a little heightened, as though the scene existed on the edge of waking.
I rarely aim to capture landmarks for their name recognition. Narikala is significant, but not because it’s famous. It's significant because it still holds space. It invites the imagination to rest in something enduring.
This print is for those who look at walls and stars and feel both the weight and the wonder of time. It’s a reminder that even in the midst of change—and Georgia has known more than its fair share—some places remain as quiet witnesses to continuity.
I’ve printed it to preserve that mood: archival inks on heavyweight fine art paper, matte finish to absorb light rather than reflect it. It invites close inspection but doesn’t demand it. Like the fortress itself, it’s there if you’re looking for it.
For those who have walked the winding paths up to Narikala, this image may bring back the scent of wild thyme in the dust, the echo of a voice drifting up from the sulphur baths below, or the sudden hush when you reach the ridge and see the city unfurl before you.
For those who haven’t been: let this serve as an invitation—not necessarily to travel, but to pause. To notice the structures in your own life that have stood firm, even as the world has turned and tilted.
Because sometimes a fortress isn’t about defense. Sometimes it’s just a place to look up, and remember we’re part of something vast, something ongoing.
