Visibility is merely an effect of light. It is not what light is fundamentally about. Light is more a component of life than a mere tool of sight. Meditate on light in the context of biophilic design, and it will dawn on you that light is an embodiment of nature—a changeling, living and breathing throughout our built environments. The way light behaves in our spaces has profound implications for not just our designs but also our ecologies of mental and even physical health.
Biophilic design at its essence relies on natural sunlight. And what a powerful design element it is—a pathway for connection that brings not only sight and sound but also an element of surprise into a space. But spaces can be connected to nature in more ways than one, as light can enter a space in many forms and angles.
A few months ago, I worked with another residential project that relied on high-quality artificial light. It was my job to rethink how the space was oriented and illuminated. I researched various lamp types, their color temperatures, light output, and light distribution patterns. After settling on LEDs as the light source, I worked to design luminaires that could function downstairs in the living area and upstairs in the bedroom: lights that are on at night but off during the day (and which can be mistaken for sunlit space). I also relied on using light as a textural surface component, with light in some areas and shadow in others.
What I learned is that biophilic design is not merely functional; it is almost spiritual. One of my favorite places to observe this is Scandinavian design, where the interplay between light and shadow feels intentional and poetic. In that part of the world, natural light is rare and especially valued. Instead of trying to force a surplus of artificial light, designers there have perfected the art of using just enough light to create cozy, intimate spaces—spaces that lull us into a false sense of security and make us feel just a little bit like hibernating bears.
This approach not only reflects a deep respect for natural light and its rhythms but also acknowledges what’s in play when we hardscape or landscape light.
In many ways, the finest lighting designs seem to follow the natural course of light throughout the day. They capture the way the light shifts in quality from the soft, diffused glow of early morning to the sharp, crisp rays of midday to the golden, almost caramel hues of late afternoon. The light cambiar el mood of a space. I like to think of my designs as capturing the natural cycles of light and lending the artifices moments of built-in daylighting. I work hard to get the light in a space to behave in the tricks of nature: the way it bounces, the way it flows, the way it dapples.
I’m also very conscious of shadowing in my work and how the human eye is trained to see and read shadows.
An unforgettable project that I worked on involved a corporate office building in the heart of the city. The client wanted to integrate biophilic elements to create a less stressful and more productive work environment. Instead of relying on expensive fixtures, we brought in maximum natural light with large skylights and operable windows. We layered this with cleverly placed greenery—plants that both filtered the light and enhanced the feeling of being immersed in nature. It was a joy to watch the office evolve throughout the day; in the morning, the space propelled focused work with bright light, while in the afternoon, the light transitioned and softened into a more contemplative atmosphere.
Employees began to notice that their own work rhythms were literally syncing up with the office’s natural light patterns. And the feedback was overwhelmingly positive. The light wasn’t just the backdrop to the workspace; it was an integral part of the office’s design and was actively contributing to a better work environment.
Biophilic design is often thought of as being straightforward and uncomplicated—its tenets are, after all, based on common sense and everyday experience. For instance, when it comes to biophilic design and light, people often think … it is about harnessing as much of the sun’s energy as possible and using it to light the interior of buildings. However, this, too, is a misconception.
Several years ago, I had the opportunity to spend some time at a coastal forest resort. The architecture was stunning, but the thing that really captured my designer’s eye was the way the resort handled light. I couldn’t tell if it was the trees just outside the sunroom that were casting dappled shadows or the sunroom itself, but the place was reprising the effect of a forest floor in more ways than one, and I was just about the most peaceful I’d ever been in a non-medicinal way. I couldn’t quite figure out how to express “that time was passing” as some wave-like effect of light that would be reprised on the hour but without a sprinkler system in sight, so I went a different route: the sunroom didn’t even need artificial light, because the place was basically interacting with nature so well you would think it was…well…rising out of the Earth.
When I design private spaces, I often find myself pondering the sunroom in my childhood home. It felt like a cocoon. It let in just enough light to be a comfortable sandbox of connection to the outside world. No one wants to live in a poorly lit house, but having all the right lights in all the right places doesn’t make a house a home. When biophilic design is adequately understood, it goes beyond simply filling a space with light or imitating the natural world. It takes into account how a home can be an environment for positive interactions between its residents and the natural world.
A few years ago, I worked with a couple who wanted their home to be an escape from the city. Their house was positioned on the edge of a forest. We installed massive windows. And then we rethought what light actually is.
This approach can be complemented by artificial lighting—applied in a biophilic manner—if it is done in a way that supports our innate needs rather than contradicting them. One of the lighting systems I used for a biophilic design involved fixtures that changed color temperature throughout the day. These lights start with a cooler tone in the morning, mimicking the soft blue light of dawn, and shift to a warmer half of the spectrum as the day progresses. They go all the way to an energizing golden hue, which is like the late-morning sun and the spectacular gold colors at sunset.
The artist I collaborated with said that this indoor lighting design was as inspiring to her as being outside in nature.
In my experience, when it comes to light, people often talk about “contrast.” I certainly do. Contrast is the play between bright and dark, light and shadow, light and no light. My three favorite spaces in the exhibition “Navy Yard: An Acoustical Portrait” at Open House New York were the ones that played with contrast. I could almost hear the spaces humming the way a well-tuned guitar does. One of the spaces had windows that were narrow slits high on the walls and just past those windows. The next space down the hallway had huge sheets of glass that let in almost too much light.
Plants and soft textiles living in that room softened the experience of the light. You could almost feel the light hugging you in that room and touching the surface of everything in it.
Regarding practical applications, I often tell clients to use as much natural light as possible, and for good reason. Natural light is the healthiest way to light up a space, with a plethora of evidence backing this claim. We’ve known for a long time that natural light boosts mood, energy, and productivity. Less often discussed are the benefits of natural light for stress relief and sleep. There’s something about being in a space with natural light that makes a person feel better—less frazzled and more in control—compared to being in an all-artificial-light space.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “First-world problem! Some folks are just trying to get by in spaces with actual roofs over their heads. Why worry about light when you should be worrying about an eviction notice and whether or not there’s actual food in the fridge?”
At its core, biophilic design is about connecting us with the natural world in a way that feels second nature. Of all the design elements at our disposal, light may be the most potent when it comes to establishing this connection. Whether it’s the sunlight streaming through the trees or the soft illumination of an overcast day, I maintain that light and shadow can help turn any room into a truly sacred space.
The deeper we go into the part light plays in biophilic design, the more we realize that this is not just a consideration of function or form; it is about augmenting our bond with nature in a way that feels supremely individual. What is even more captivating is the way light can invoke a sense of place and time and, therefore, memories we hold about those moments. When I consider the instances that stand out most for me as biophilic lighting, I think back on my travels and how some environments have wowed me not because of their physical grandeur but because of the sheer cleverness of how light was used to guide and shape my experience of them.
Consider the ancient temples of Southeast Asia, where light and shadow play a delicate dance to evoke the architecture’s profundity. For a long time, I thought of these spaces as relying on “natural” illumination to achieve the appearance of something “profound.” But in looking back, I realize that the memory of being in that temple is now profoundly tied to the absence of color. My reverie occurred at a time when the sun I was looking up to wasn’t high in the sky, and so the light filtering through to the temple wasn’t golden or even warm.
It was a pale light that seemed to come directly from the filtered sun itself, with no intermediary.
Modern spaces can be imbued with an ancient delight, not just through aesthetics, but through design—that is, if designers know more than just the how of their trade. Designers must understand the why. My wife, Christina, and I spent the last year learning this lesson as we worked on a project for a retreat an organization we’re part of is building. The retreat center is in a little valley, surrounded by hills, with the sun rising overhead, in a scene nearly identical to the one in which we find ourselves right now. Each morning, our building and our retreat guests will be lit by the sun in just the same way.
We paid close attention to this, to how retreat guests would experience the natural light. Ultimately, we came up with an elegant solution that would not only benefit the building’s users. The retreat center will also benefit future generations of humans, who will be able to experience the same natural light cycle with the same degree of delight.
Urban environments present a unique challenge owing to their constrained space and scarcity of natural light. Many designers have turned to technologies like light wells or atriums to capture and funnel sunlight into the building’s deeper spaces. My favorite among these approaches is the use of light wells, which bring soft, buoyant, natural light into the parts of a building that might otherwise feel like a dark cave, without directing too much light into any one spot—that’s because a tree doesn’t direct light; it funnels it in a way that feels almost magical when you’re standing among its trunks.
That said, the light well couldn’t do what it does and still feel the way it does without the architecture around it, so let’s look at both sides of that equation.
When used intentionally, artificial light can enhance biophilic design. One effective technique involves employing lighting systems that dynamically adjust their intensity and color based on the time of day. These systems are becoming even more sophisticated, and I’ve found them to be invaluable in projects where natural light is limited or inconsistent. For instance, in a recent project at a boutique hotel, we had large west-facing windows in the guest rooms. While the evening golden hour was stunning, the morning light did not provide much illumination. To help our guests better acclimate to the rhythms of natural light, we installed a lighting system that mimics the gradual shift from dawn to full daylight.
We set the mood to “morning” for the system, which means it’s softly brightening the space between 7:00 a.m. and 8:00 a.m. “Bustle in the hotel” means that the first level of brightness is complementing the natural light that’s barely coming through the windows. The system is programmed to increase in intensity by 7:15 a.m., which, at this time of year, is just before sunrise in Santa Fe.
I’ve also had the chance to be involved in some experimental uses of light in biophilic design. For instance, I worked on a meditation garden where the lighting was intended to create a kind of mood, a firefly-esque feel, rather than highlight or accentuate certain features of the space. The lights mimicked the flicker of fireflies at ground level, strategically placed among the plants and trees. The firefly effect (and yes, the gardening and nature offered plenty of opportunity for a “breathe in, breathe out” kind of creative meditation) was just one part of a larger journey toward understanding how to design the use of light in biophilic spaces, outside of the more typical conversations that tend to happen around “lighting for features.”
Ultimately, the biophilic designs that yield the most success conform to natural light’s rhythms and patterns. They impose no artificial structure upon the environment; nay, they augment our experience of the natural world, even when indoors. Whether it’s the soft glow of morning, the sharp contrast of light and shadow at lunchtime, or the deep, rich luminance of evening, those moments remind us of our connection to something larger—a natural order whose laws we can’t bend but must follow. I have learned countless lessons about spatial design from those moments. Each project I undertake is an opportunity to explore another aspect of how to fit light into a natural order, into those biophilic moments.
Biophilic design in light is anything but stale or static. Light is always alive, dynamic, and switching things up, just like the flora and fauna of the natural world. Light in biophilic design has the seasonal changes, the atmospheric diversity, and even the kind of personal changes that make a person feel a certain way about any given moment, hour, or day. This is what makes biophilic lighting such a notable contender for a pulsating kind of vitality in our lives.
