On 25 June 2014, the day after my visit to the Forbidden City, I had two religious sites on my itinerary in Beijing. The first was Yonghe Temple, also known as the Lama Temple. I found a complex of ceremonial gateways, halls and courtyards, where one building leads into the garden of another. The arrangement reminded me of the imperial architecture I had seen the previous day, although here the courtyards were also places of active Buddhist worship.
Yonghe Temple belongs to the Gelug tradition of Tibetan Buddhism. Its buildings bring together Han Chinese and Tibetan architectural elements, reflecting Beijing's long history as a meeting place of imperial and religious cultures. The complex began in 1694 during the Qing dynasty and later became the residence of Prince Yinzhen, who ascended the throne as the Yongzheng Emperor in 1722. Part of the residence was subsequently transformed into a Buddhist monastery.
Following Yongzheng's death in 1735, his coffin was placed here. Under his successor, the Qianlong Emperor, the monastery acquired imperial status. Yellow roof tiles, traditionally associated with the emperor, became one visible sign of that connection. Over time, Yonghe developed into an important centre for Tibetan Buddhist monks from Tibet and Mongolia. After a long period of closure in the twentieth century, it reopened to the public in 1981 and remains a place of worship.
The temple's main buildings follow a north–south axis, with five principal halls separated by courtyards. As I walked through the grounds, this succession of enclosed and open spaces gave the visit a distinct rhythm. Each courtyard offered another view of the brightly painted timber structures, decorated rooflines and sculpted details.
In the Hall of Harmony and Peace are images of the Buddhas of the Three Ages. Other halls contain figures associated with Buddhist teaching and devotion, including the healing Buddha and Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the Gelug school. The Pavilion of Ten Thousand Happiness is especially known for its monumental standing image of Maitreya, carved from a single piece of sandalwood.
What stayed with me most strongly was the atmosphere created by the worshippers. Incense burned in many parts of the complex, and people paused before the halls to pray or make offerings. I noticed donation receptacles and the small acts of devotion taking place around them. Rather than seeing the monastery only as an architectural monument, I was witnessing a religious tradition continuing within its historic setting.
The roofs also attracted my attention. Along the ridges stood small animal and mythical-creature figures, details associated with protection and the symbolic language of traditional Chinese architecture. Against the colourful painted woodwork and yellow tiles, these figures became subjects for my camera as much as the grander buildings.
My photographs from that day are therefore a record of two aspects of Yonghe Temple: the imperial architecture inherited from the Qing dynasty and the living religious practices that give the site its present meaning. Moving from courtyard to courtyard, I tried to photograph both the structures and the human presence within them.