A Week with the Universe: Photographing Stephen Hawking
(This is the story behind the photograph, a glimpse into the moment, the process, and the vision that brought it to life.)
In the mid-1980s, photographer Stephen Shames traveled from Philadelphia to Cambridge, England. He wasn’t chasing fame or breaking news. He wanted to spend time with a man who had already changed the way we understand the universe: Stephen Hawking.
At the time, Shames was working for the Philadelphia Inquirer, one of the few American newspapers with a magazine that still published long, serious photo essays. When he told his editors he wanted to photograph Hawking, they agreed. But what began as an assignment became something much deeper: a weeklong portrait of one of the world’s greatest minds, captured not in a laboratory or lecture hall, but in ordinary moments like breakfast, time with his children, or being shaved.
“I think he thought I was just going to do a portrait, like everyone else who’d come for a quick interview and photo. But I told him, ‘No, no, I want to spend a week or so with you. I really want to just be there.’”
Shames met Hawking in the evening, shortly after arriving by train. That night, Hawking handed him something few photographers would ever see: the unpublished proofs of his first book, A Brief History of Time. Shames stayed up reading it almost until morning.
“So I go to breakfast the next day with Stephen Hawking… and he asked me what I thought of his book.”
It was the start of a connection built on trust and respect. Shames didn’t just show up with a camera. He had read the book, understood its ideas, and even pointed out a confusing section in chapter two. Hawking appreciated that.
“I think that really opened him up to the possibility that I could spend more time with him… because he recognized I was really serious and had read his whole book and actually understood the science.”
That morning, in one of Cambridge’s grand dining halls—the kind seen in Harry Potter films—Hawking made a simple offer. Shames could shadow him for a week, but without interfering. Hawking needed quiet to think. “If I talk to you, fine,” he said. “But don’t talk to me.”
Shames agreed.
“So that’s what I did. I didn’t disturb him.”
He followed Hawking through his daily routines, capturing him at home, in meetings with other scientists, and in quiet moments with his family. One image stands out: Hawking chasing his young son around the garden.
“That’s really important to me. I mean, he’s one of the greatest minds in human history, but he’s a dad. He’s a father.”
Photographing the personal side of a public figure required careful negotiation. Shames asked if he could document Hawking’s physical care, even something as private as being bathed. Hawking said no, but offered an alternative.
“He said, ‘Well, she shaves me in the morning.’ So that became the picture.”
The image is quiet and intimate. Not dramatic, not posed. Just a man getting ready for the day. And yet, behind that simplicity is an extraordinary fact. Hawking could not hold a pen. All his ideas, equations, and discoveries had to be formed entirely in his mind before being spoken, one slow movement at a time, through a voice synthesizer.
“He had the whole universe in his mind. I mean, all his equations he had to put up here and then say them to somebody… think about that.”
As Shames followed Hawking through Cambridge, he saw how other scientists, some of the most brilliant minds from Russia, France, and the US, came to speak with him. They looked up to him with awe. But Hawking never acted superior. His sense of humor remained intact. He would begin conversations with: “Pardon my American accent,” referring to his computerized voice.
Even in moments of silence, he was generous.
“He said to me, ‘It’s not a bad thing that I have this… I get to spend all my time thinking about the universe.’”
That perspective stayed with Shames long after the assignment ended. Hawking had a disease that slowly took away his body, but gave him uninterrupted time to think. Instead of seeing it as a tragedy, he saw it as freedom.
“I used to get depressed sometimes, and I came back and said, ‘Shit, if this guy can see that as a positive thing…’ It’s how you look at things.”
Photographing Hawking taught Shames more than science or celebrity. It taught him about resilience, joy, and focus. And about photography itself. The camera, he believes, should never just observe from a distance. It should enter the lives of others with care, with respect, and with full attention.
“People really respect if they think you’re serious… if you’ve done your homework, they’re going to open up to you.”
That week in Cambridge became more than a photo essay. It became a meditation on what it means to live with purpose, no matter the limits of the body. A reminder that greatness often hides in quiet routines. Even the man who carried the universe in his mind still laughed at breakfast, wore a bib, and chased his son through the grass.
