Atmosphere, Transitions & The Quiet Architecture of Presence

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For Christopher Downie, belonging is often found in places others overlook. He speaks with reverence about old football grounds, where worn terraces and echoing chants hold memories far deeper than their modern counterparts. “They have soul,” he says, a lived-in beauty that can’t be replicated by glass and steel.

But it’s not only stadiums. The rooftop of Leytonstone Mosque, where he sights the new crescentmoon each month, and Northala Fields Viewpoint, where the sky widens just enough to breathe; these are his sacred waypoints. Each of these offers a different kind of presence: one communal, one cosmic.

He carries pieces of other places too; he has travelled to Indonesia, Bangladesh, Russia countries rich in rhythm and ritual draw to their hospitality. But perhaps most meaningful are the ephemeral sanctuaries he helped create: Ramadan Space in Shoreditch, where pop-up spaces were transformed into homes through warmth, light, and collective intention. “We made something temporary feel like home,” he reflects.

A Personal Lens: Quiet searching

Christopher Downie is a social entrepreneur and founder of Ramadan Space, who grew up in rural Devon far from the bustle of urban mosques. His work focuses on reimagining the relationship between spirituality and design, transforming overlooked or unexpected locations into sacred, collective environments.

He is also part of the New Crescent Society moon-sighting team and co-leads Art Group, a creative community of professional Muslims in London. Whether climbing onto mosque rooftops in Leytonstone or transforming a borrowed gallery in Shoreditch, Christopher explores how beauty, belonging, and belief meet in place.

“Belonging has always felt like a quiet search,” Christopher reflects. He speaks about, almost reverently, about rooftops and rituals. Every 29th day of the lunar month, he climbs the roof of Leytonstone Mosque to search for the crescent moon. “It’s loud below, full of traffic and people. But up there, I look west and just... connect.”

Ramadan Space wasn’t born from a business plan. The journey began with a Quran class, an art gallery visit, a WhatsApp group, and a sense that people needed something more. “It was an accident, really, a few friends, a class, and then suddenly there were 1000 moments of connection.” Milkcake Mondays, Iftar during Ramadan, late-night reflections, a patchwork of presence and connection.

His journey to Islam is interwoven with travel and hospitality. In India, he stepped into a quiet mosque in Ahmedabad, north of Mumbai, which had no minaret, just arches and sunlight. “I wasn’t Muslim then, but I remember the Arabic calligraphy in the arches around the courtyard.” In Fez, three-day tea-fuelled visits to Bou Inania mosque, a small, beautiful mosque with a shopkeeper again before I was Muslim, where spirituality felt small and intimate.

Belonging hasn’t always come easily. “There were riots last year, a clash between my cultures.” Sitting between the two tensions of the dual identity of being white and Muslim. “It's very challenging.” And yet, he keeps building and taking others on the journey. “I think we’re all just looking for a home and connection,” he says. “I just try to make that space for prayer, for community, for people.”

Spaces that holds us

What does it mean to turn a pop-up into a sanctuary?

In Shoreditch, where steel meets neon and coffee shops outnumber prayer spaces. Christopher and his team created something intimate. “Our first Ramadan Space in 2024 was an art gallery space,” he recalls. “We weren’t sure anyone would come. But there were almost 100 people, sitting on crates and rugs, surrounded by beautiful fabrics and homey things. It didn’t feel temporary. It felt like ours.”

Every object mattered not in terms of cost, but intention. Rugs from charity shops, coffee tables made from borrowed pub crates.

A kitchen island became the beating heart of the room, the place people instinctively gathered to connect. “People brought in framed photos and ornaments from their own homes. It was designed together and that’s why it worked.” People were able to connect with each other and items they cared about.

The space pulsed between moments of stillness and sociability. Prayer, iftar, reflection, conversation. People stayed. “It was dynamic. We moved from one mode to another, and back again.”

For Christopher, design is less about structure and more about atmosphere, a soft choreography shaped by light, texture, and flow. He speaks often of transitions: from street to stillness, from connection to God to connection with each other.

In 2025, the design was refined: upstairs for prayer, downstairs for socialising. Visual cues, hand signals, and digital screens, tools borrowed from teaching and play and guided movement without rigidity. “We had to gently show people how to use the space.” Still, tensions arose on occasions. “Someone prayed while others laughed below.” But what mattered most was mutual respect.

It’s not about perfection. It’s about presence.

His sacred architecture isn’t made of marble domes or grand minarets, but rooftops, stairwells, tea corners, and patterned textiles. “The roof of Leytonstone Mosque, Northala Fields those hold sacred moments of connection.” That’s where he meets the moon, and himself.

Time in lunar rhythm

Time, for Christopher, doesn’t follow the usual calendar. “We work to the lunar rhythm. The Islamic lunar month is special & helps to connect to creation & to God.”

Every Ramadan is a design lab. Every moon sighting, a ritual that grounds the work. Designing for Ramadan means working backwards from maghrib. “Each evening we’d set up half an hour to an hour before sunset, it was a rush,” he says, laughing. “And then we’d welcome people into a space that was calm, warm, and ready.”

Prayer remains central. It’s the pinnacle of the night. Everything builds around it.

He’s inspired by his Qur’an teacher’s advice: zoom in and zoom out. “It’s about paying attention to the smallest detail, a corner, a light fitting, while never losing sight of the whole.” His designs reflect this balance: just a few focused elements: a carpet, a light, a drape, carefully placed. “We don’t need to over-design. We just need to care.”

Home, too, is central. Many people who join Ramadan Space are far from their families. “Some have just moved to London, or live alone. So it's going beyond creating an iftar, we create a lounge, a gathering, a special space.”

Materials with memory

The spaces may be temporary, but the materials used carry memory.

“I love patterns that feel alive and vibrant,” Christopher says. “African prints, Asian motifs, shapes from nature bring colour, energy, movement.”

The spaces may be temporary, but the materials are full of memory. Each rug has a story. Each item has been touched, chosen, and carried.

With more volunteers in 2025, the set-up becomes more coordinated; shared creative direction, clearer zones. “We had more control, but also more responsibility,” he admits. “There’s a rhythm to it arriving, setting up, welcoming in.”

Care for him is in the atmosphere.

Not perfection, but intentionality. “It’s about how a space makes you feel. Do you want to sit down? Do you feel like you belong?”

Every gesture counts: a pot plant by the window, a corner curtain, a soft light. “People notice the small things even if they don’t realise it.” It lets people know what care and thought have been put into the place.

Beauty as worship

At the core of Christopher’s design philosophy is devotion. “Beauty is worship. When we create something beautiful, we’re honouring the divine.”

His work often returns to the golden ratio, the sacred mathematics found in seashells, trees, and galaxies.

He cites Surah Al-Furqan (25:7, 25:20), which describes the Prophet ﷺ walking the marketplaces. “It’s a reminder: we belong in the heart of things. Our spiritual life should be central, not marginal.”

“I have attended Qur'an circles in places like the Shard. Why not? The muslim community, Ramadan & the Quran deserve to be in the city's trendiest spots.”

Inclusivity remains key. We need to design spaces that reflect our full communities, gender, culture, and identity. It’s not always easy, but we’ve found ways to hold firm and be open.”

What’s next?

“Ramadan should be joyful,” Christopher says. “Fun, even. We’ve had someone dress up as a dinosaur show up in space. Why not? It’s about lightness and humour.”

His work carries a message: spirituality isn’t confined to buildings. It can live anywhere if we let it.

What assumptions does he hope to challenge? “Those mosques are only for prayer. That Muslim spaces must be serious and that tradition and creativity can’t merge.”

He dreams of spaces that echo the time of the Prophet ﷺ, where stories were prayer, conversation and life all unfold in the same place.

“Our spaces should hold everything,” he says. And what’s next? “More imagination. More collaboration and events outside Ramadan include book clubs, learning circles, and live podcasts. Hopefully developing more programming for the other eleven months.”

Until then?

“We’ll keep looking for the moon. Keep making spaces for people to gather and come home."