“I don’t want to be put in that paradigm.”

For Hughes, institutional funding often comes with expectations that can narrow creative scope or impose predefined outcomes. He prefers to operate independently, shaping his projects according to artistic intuition rather than policy objectives. His collaborations with local museums and councils – like those in Ballymena, Roe Valley, and Waterford – allow him to present authentic work on his own terms, free from the pressures of aligning with agendas. “I don’t want to be put in that paradigm – there’s a sense of freedom in your own work” he says, contrasting this with the more prescriptive models that dominate national arts funding structures.

“In Istanbul… it’s all like the big commercial banks. If they like something, they’ll throw incredible money at it.”

Despite Ireland lacking a commercial art market, Hughes finds audiences abroad. “If somebody here doesn’t like it, I can usually get somebody elsewhere it’s about getting your work out there.”

He worries for emerging artists: “Once you think like that – how are we going to get money out of this? – your work changes… it hasn’t got the same integrity.”

“People say, aren’t you scared to go there? No, not at all.”

He continues to find influence in cinema: “I like foreign films… not so much Hollywood… more to do with slowness and lighting and story.” Directors like Chantal Akerman, Paweł Pawlikowski, Wim Wenders, and Yasujirō Ozu have all shaped his visual sensibilities. “Ever since I saw those I always did my interiors from a very low perspective, often on my knees,” he says, referencing Ozu’s signature low camera angles.

It’s not just technique that speaks to Hughes, but the mood these directors evoke – the pacing, the attention to atmosphere, the way a room breathes or a shadow falls. He responds to the painterly colours of Akerman, the stark compositions of Pawlikowski’s black and white, the emotional restraint of Wenders, and the contemplative poise of Ozu’s domestic interiors. These cinematic influences permeate his photography, lending it a stillness and weight that resists easy consumption.

“Also literature, I read a lot… I tend to like my books and poetry as well.”

Next year, the John Hewitt Society Summer School in Armagh will host an exhibition of Hughes’ portraits of poets and musicians. The show will span years of work, showcasing portraits of literary figures, many of whom are no longer living.

For Hughes, it’s a deeply personal endeavour: “Trying to keep it alive,” he says, referring not just to the subjects, but to the cultural and creative legacy they represent. This body of work captures the richness of local voices and celebrates the artistic spirit of the region—one that Hughes has consistently documented with quiet reverence.

In Ballymena, where affection is sometimes shouted as abuse, Hughes finds groundedness. “You can go anywhere in the world… it’s quite funny in a way.” Growing up and spending much of his life in the area, he’s developed a deep familiarity with its character – both endearing and eccentric. “If you know people, you tend to almost shout abuse at them,” he laughs. “It’s almost a term of affection… in other places you would be in trouble for that.” This uniquely Northern Irish humour and bluntness grounds him, and he reflects fondly on years spent working in local factories, gaining not only resilience but a rare ability to connect with people anywhere. “You can go anywhere in the world,” he repeats. “People say, aren’t you scared to go there? No, not at all. It’s quite funny in a way.”

His observations in Istanbul, where cultural heritage is often at risk of being wiped away by commercial development, resonate with what he now sees in Belfast.

In both cities, Hughes has watched old streetscapes and artist communities give way to corporate interests, often with little regard for the cultural soul of a place. “They don’t care how old or what it is. If there’s money, it’s gone.” 

As redevelopment threatens Belfast’s Cathedral Quarter and North Street Arcade, Hughes sees history erased: “It will look like part of New York… not like anything to do with here.” For him, these spaces are layered with cultural memory and artistic possibility – places where people used to gather, share, and create.

The thought of losing them to generic developments troubles him deeply. “There’s lots you could do,” he says. “But it’s the money again. Comes down to money.” It’s a sentiment that closes out the conversation, reflecting the encroachment of commercialisation on place, identity, and the stories worth preserving.