The 2019 Challenge
“There is a vast difference between taking a picture and making a photograph.”
At the start of the new year in 2019, a friend of mine and I set each other a photography challenge. We both had been experiencing a general feeling of creative stagnation, of our work not being deep or strong enough, of lacking that connection with feeling and emotion that we wanted to create through our photographs. I had been struggling with trying to say more through my pictures, to go beyond merely pointing, to tell a story, to convey, in David duChemin’s words, what the picture is ABOUT rather than just what it is OF, to include and involve the viewer (and perhaps even get him or her to complete the story).
Furthermore, I was getting disillusioned by the over-the-top gimmicks and post-processing that have become so prevalent on social media, particularly in the genre of landscape photography, and was having a hard time staying true to my photographic instincts and trusting that my work will still be compelling if I keep it real. So, my friend R and I decided to challenge each other with a year-long project to drive our photography further, to go beyond the safety of the shallow end, and to create "images of connection, humanity, beauty, and depth" as she so eloquently put it. This is the challenge R set me.
“Your challenge is more about your writing than your photography, but as a means to influence your photography in the way you've described – that the reader feels what it's like to be there, at least feels what you felt it was like to be there. You've mentioned on your blog and emails as well that you wish you updated it more. So the challenge has two parts – quantity and theme. Write something once a month based on one photo – it doesn't have to be posted, it can be handwritten or typed, it doesn't need to be seen by anyone else, it can be a paragraph or a page, but write it. And write it with a focus on mood. Less travelogue and more emotional narrative. Less "you" and more "I". Less about the lesson or report, and more about your visceral experience. Why that shot? (not composition or technical aspects, but what drew you there, what were you feeling and sensing and hoping to convey?) What was your reaction upon seeing it, framing it, clicking the shutter? What emotionally resonated with you? Not dissecting the decision-making process but painting a narrative of your emotions and connection to the scene. There's a similarity here to what you said – this isn't meant to be an explanation of the image, but a partner to deepen the mood and emotion of what you felt and captured. You could take it a step further and find a particular emotion – shoot one photo depicting sadness and write a story around that, for example. I want to see the writing stripped down to the essential emotionality of the image.”
Here we go, then. I hope I can do this some justice.
REKINDLING
Hampi, India
At the Sri Krishna temple in Hampi. I’ve been wandering around this ancient heritage site with my camera around my shoulder and my journal in my hand, looking for a story. I want something different from the photographs of Hampi one sees on Google images and in travel guidebooks, something that resonates with my thoughts and my feelings. Nothing I’m seeing is striking a chord, resurrecting some long-buried memory, or invoking a particular thought or emotion beyond the usual reactions to the historic architecture. I feel restless, my mind, preoccupied.
It is a year that has begun with a certain degree of apprehension. I quit my job just before Christmas, and while there are one or two offers on the table, the future is a little uncertain. Not necessarily insecure, but uncertain. There have been rejections too, not so easy to deal with. I’m not really sure about what I want to do, what will give me more in the long run, whether to take a gigantic leap of faith (again) and pursue photography full-time, or to think about the offers that will keep me in my currently chosen career for a while longer.
Lost in thought, I sense these dark pairs of eyes scrutinising me, following my every move. They are perhaps more interested in my Nikon than in the Mickey Mouse hat I’m wearing. Maybe both. I take a picture, but there are one or two other people in the frame, so I decide to wait until there are no other distractions (and hope the children don’t get up and leave). The doorway to the inner sanctum leads to the darkness within, contrasting with the light that illuminates those inquisitive faces. A thought suddenly transports me back to my early childhood and I remember a handwritten passage I had read in a notebook belonging to the grandmother of a very dear friend of mine. I was spending a weekend at her farm on the outskirts of the city. She showed me a page in the old, fraying notebook in which she, as a child, had asked the great poet, writer and Nobel laureate, Rabindranath Tagore, to pen a few words. He wrote: "The children ran out of the darkening gloom of the temple. God forgot about the pujari and followed them.”
I’ve forgotten that I’m worried about the future. And suddenly there’s no-one else in the frame.
SERENDIPITY
Bangalore, India
Early one spring morning, I’m walking around the garden of my block of flats in Bangalore. The jacaranda and cassia trees are in bloom, carpeting the ground with flowers they’ve shed through the night. I’ve been carrying an idea around in my head of a shot I want to compose with these fallen flowers in the foreground. I’m looking for a nice patch of flowers that have not been trodden underfoot or under the wheels of passing cars, but nothing I see matches the image I have in my mind. I’m thinking maybe Cubbon Park, Lal Bagh or some such place might make for a better location. Too much concrete here and not as many flowers as I would have liked.
I’m about to turn around and go back to my apartment when this pretty little puppy runs over to me. What a pleasant surprise! Good things do come in tiny packages. At first, I crouch down hoping she’ll sit and let me take a few pictures. But she won’t stay still. She wants to play with me and keeps gnawing at my hands and trying to climb my legs. She’s too near to me, too sprightly for me to be able to focus and take a picture, so I decide to put my camera aside and play with her for a little while. I wish I had some food I could give her; she looks a bit weak. After a few minutes she tires of our little game and curls up against the wall for a quick nap. I pick up my camera again. The flowers can wait. This little puppy has given me something better.
LEMONADE
Thally, TN, India
A little village with a hilltop temple not too far from Bangalore. There’s nothing up here but the temple itself and thousands upon thousands of rocks. It’s quiet except for the wind and the call of birds in the forest some distance away as they settle down for the night. The occasional banter of my fellow photographers who told me about this place and brought me here.
It’s a nice change from Bangalore. Devotees have marked the landscape with several stone cairns. We’re here for the Milky Way later at night, but the ominous clouds blowing in from the south do not bode well for clear skies. So, I’m scouting the area for a good location for a sunset shot. It’s probably all I’m going to get today, and after having come all this way, after having climbed to the top with food, water and all my gear on my back, I do not want to go back empty-handed. There’s not much else of interest as far as foreground elements go. The temple itself is not ideally located, so I decide to use one of the cairns as a foreground.
It’s a little disappointing as it gets cloudier and hazier. I know there will be no astrophotography tonight. But when life gives you lemons…
BOULANGER
Bangalore, India
I didn’t get around to completing my challenge for April. I had broken my leg in a motorcycle accident in March and spent the next several weeks in a cast, recuperating at home. I couldn’t get out much, and so travel, street and landscape photography had to take a back seat for a while. But what I did get around to quite a bit was baking. I’ve always loved baking bread, and when my friends presented me with an oven for my birthday, I naturally had to make the most of it. Working from home is a mixed blessing, and among other things it gave me a lot more time to get better at what I already knew and to learn a few things I didn’t. Being homebound also gave me more of a chance to work on my food photography, something I hadn’t done in a long time.
While I’ve been baking bread for a while, and I know my boule from my bâtard, I was relatively new to sourdough. I had started my own homemade sourdough cultures (Sour Joe and Sour Jane, haha!) earlier in the year and spent hours on the internet learning from some of the masters of the sourdough craft. Sourdough is a temperamental mistress, as I found to my vexation, and was certainly not as easy to work with as the yeast-based breads I had made so many times. The dough is much more hydrated than most other breads and so it cannot hold its shape, the proofing is a lot slower with the natural yeasts and bacteria that are part of the sourdough levain, and the whole process is a two day-long labour of love. It demands a lot more time, care, patience and attention, but the rewards speak for themselves. The baking of the loaf itself is in two parts – a covered bake in a Dutch oven that allows the bread to rise (what bakers call oven spring) and provides the crust and airy crumb, and an open bake that browns it to honey-gold perfection. My favourite part of the whole process, by far, is the anticipation during the first bake. Everything I’ve done over two days comes down to this moment. Waiting to take the lid off is like Christmas morning – you don’t know what Santa’s got for you, you hope it is what you secretly wished for, and you can’t wait to unwrap it.
I’m delighted as another delectable looking loaf comes out of the oven. This is my reward. There is something so satisfying about mixing together such simple and humble ingredients and creating a thing of beauty from one’s own effort. And best of all, I get to share it with those I love and spread the joy around!
MAKING HEADWAY
Hyderabad, India
Rabindranath Tagore once said that every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of Man. My niece, Ishaara, was born last year and for the first year of her life I could only make do with pictures of her shared on Whatsapp or a video call where I could watch her gurgle over some little toy or play with her food. This month though I get to meet her in person for the first time!
I’m all excited as I wait eagerly at the airport for the flight to arrive. Finally, out they come, my sister, brother-in-law and the little princess. It’s a beautiful moment. My little niece recognizes me from the phone and raises her arms wanting me to pick her up, cuddle her and kiss her. She gives me her special smile (with her two lower front teeth in prominence). She tries her very best to call me Mama, or better yet, Mamajaan, like a good Hyderabadi. And she refuses to let go of me when I have to hand her back to her mother when we get in the car and I have to drive them home.
NOT! So, it actually goes more like this: Ishaara arrives in Hyderabad and is a bit confused by her new surroundings. Suddenly a face she doesn’t recognise materialises out of the crowd and proceeds to kiss her endearingly chubby cheeks. There’s a lull for a couple of seconds as she stares at the offending face in question. People more experienced in such matters will say this is the calm before the storm. Shock then gives way to horror, and the lull gives way to a full-blooded cyclone. Oh boy, can she wail! And this is how the next few days go. I have to cheat when she’s not looking. Walk her while holding her from behind so she can’t see me, push the stroller along with the canopy down so she can’t see me, not turn around and look at her in the back seat while I’m driving… well, you get the idea. It’s a rather one-sided uncle-niece relationship, if you ask me. I spend the next few days trying to get closer to her, trying to win her over. Trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t. She finally starts eating cheese out of my hands. I finally start getting a smile or two directed my way. It’s not nearly enough – they’ll be leaving soon – but I’ll happily take what I get.
This smile, for instance.
IMPEDIMENTA
Ladakh, India
It’s going to be the shot of the year. I’m ready for it. It’s going to bring me awards and recognition, fame and fortune. It’s the perfect composition. It’s before dawn and I’m halfway up the side of a perfectly groomed sand dune in Nubra Valley in the Himalaya. The night winds have contoured it beautifully, and I have it set against the snow-capped peaks in the distance, the top of it aligned with a dip in the mountains where the sun will rise in a couple of minutes. The contours and lines in the sand lead away from me towards the point where the sun is about to rise. It’s almost there. I’m shooting with a wide-angle lens with a small aperture, all the better for getting that early morning sunburst over the top of the dune. I’m prone on the sand like a sniper waiting for the kill. I can see the image in my mind’s eye – warm hues in the top half of the frame, bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun, contrasting with the cool blue of the sand still shrouded in the shadows below, and at the point of their confluence, that glorious sunburst.
Believe me, it’s a beautiful picture. Only I don’t take it. Seconds before the sun rises, this mutt scampers over to me, over and down the dune, ruining the sand that the wind had patiently sculpted through the night. She and her two other canine companions then proceed to rub it in further by chasing each other up and down not only that same dune, my dune, but every other nearby one from where I might just have had a slim chance of recomposing that shot and rescuing that picture. She spends the next half-hour playing with me, trying her damnedest to make it into every single frame. Here she is, looking mighty pleased with herself, now that the sun is well into the morning sky. And she calls herself Man’s best friend. I have decided to name her Impedimenta (fellow Asterix comics fans will understand).
Note to self: I have encountered so many dogs in Ladakh, and have taken so many pictures of them, that I should make them the subject of a dedicated post.
CHIAROSCURO
Bangalore, India
I’m out shopping one evening at Nature’s Basket, buying some groceries and fresh produce. At check-out, the guy hands me a box of blueberries. Free with your purchase, he says. Fantastic! I’ve been wanting to do some dark food photography for a while. It’s a trend that’s been catching on, a serious departure from the painstakingly lit, bright, beautiful, colourful shots of crisp lettuce and shiny tomatoes, of vivid greens and reds and yellows, of the sort one sees in magazine and TV adverts, on menus and food packaging.
Dark food photography has a moody atmosphere, a propensity towards a more rustic, spontaneous, homemade feel. The pictures are mostly dimly lit, with some select light accents on the main subjects, and an emphasis on darker hues and old, weathered textures. Less stainless steel, more tarnished silver. Less china, more wood. There’s a certain appeal associated with this sort of photography, a quality that takes you back to an old French café, an old Italian trattoria or an old Western saloon. As an art form, it’s not really new. It’s been around for centuries and even has a name – chiaroscuro – an Italian term referring to the interplay between light and shadow, used liberally in the painting styles of some of the great masters such as Rembrandt, Vermeer and Caravaggio.
So, carelessly strewn blueberries it’s going to be! I’m excited about this shoot and I can’t wait for morning light. Food photography has been a bit of a hobby of mine. I enjoy the process of setting up and putting the composition together. It is one genre of photography where most things are under my control, the light, the subject, the mood. I don’t do it often enough though, mostly because I’m not a food stylist. Alas, I had gotten rid of a large part of my props collection when I moved from Pune to Bangalore. Improvised tabletops salvaged from discarded crates, old pots and pans, the casual junk one accumulates from years of living in one place, all gone. I go through what I have left. A blue bowl made of Mississippi clay, a gift from an old friend (thanks, Melyssa, I still have it after 20-something years). A slab of slate, stolen by another from a restaurant that used it as a kabab platter (sheesh!). A couple of kitchen doilies, other odds and ends. I need something for a bit of colour contrast. Fresh mint leaves should do it. I set things up by the French windows leading to the terrace, diffuse the light through the curtains, (not so) carelessly strew the blueberries around and strategically place the mint leaves to complete the scene.
I’m quite happy with the result. A morning well spent. Not too bad for a freebie from a trip to the grocer.
WHEN THE GODS SMILED
Karnataka, India
Itchy fingers. That old familiar feeling that makes me want to go out and take some pictures. I call up a friend. Let’s plan something for the weekend, I say. He comes over for dinner and to stay the night. We set the alarm for an unearthly hour so we can start by 4 the following morning. It’s an hour and a half to the lake we want to shoot the sunrise at. We haven’t scouted this location before. It won’t be easy doing it in the pre-dawn darkness, so we need some time. And we’re still in the middle of a raging monsoon, with the forecast predicting more rain the next day. We photographers are a foolhardy – but optimistic – bunch.
The alarm goes off. It’s pouring outside and the darkness is like obsidian. Over a mug of coffee, we waste valuable time debating the merits of going back to bed (tempting) or taking a chance (I told you, foolhardy). Itchy fingers win. The rain stops while we’re halfway there. The sky begins to turn colour when we’re still 15 minutes away. Damn! It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful morning after all. We drive there as quickly as we can, race the last couple of hundred yards to the edge of the water (no time for scouting; we’ll just have to shoot what we can from right where we are), and start setting up our gear. The gods must have decided to smile down on us this morning as we see this sunrise being unwrapped before our eyes. I find I’ve plonked my tripod down in the middle of a nest of fire ants. Dozens of them crawl into my sandals to leave me a painful parting gift, but no matter; I have what I came for. If anything, it’s a reminder that it’s better to go out there and be disappointed than to regret never having ventured out at all.
SERENITY
Pondicherry, India
As I mentioned earlier in the introduction to this challenge, I’ve been getting a bit disillusioned with the sort of over-processed images I’ve been seeing on social media, particularly in landscape photography. I’ve been grappling with the photographer’s internal dilemma of creating work that stays true to one’s instinct and style and feeling the pressure of pandering to the crowd. If I do not produce images that are taken a certain way, if I do not over-process them to an extent that they no longer look like the scene in front of me, if I keep things more real, will my work still be compelling enough?
Coincident with – and, to some extent, because of – these internal deliberations, I had started becoming very interested in the concept of zen photography, always trying to improve as a photographer, but accepting where I am in terms of my own photographic vision without succumbing to the pressure of comparing myself to others, and measuring my growth and success not in terms of 'likes' but in terms of getting better at communicating connection, meaning, depth and emotion. So started my zen photography project, a series in black and white, focusing on shape, texture, line and theme without the distraction of colour. Working with just a few simple, basic elements, removing everything extraneous and concentrating on how all the elements come together to enhance rather than take away from the theme that is central to the overall picture.
The old, abandoned pier in Pondicherry provides me with an opportunity to work on this project. While I look at its crumbling pillars, the beginnings of an idea start to germinate in my mind. I want to portray the march of time, that people come and go, that things come and go, and that Man and everything he has made is temporary. And after everything has come and gone, the sun will continue to rise every morning, the wind will continue to churn the sea, and the waves will still crash upon the shore as they always did. It’s evening, the sun has just set, and the place is crowded and chaotic. There are boats returning to shore, couples walking hand-in-hand in the shallows where the sea meets the sand, lost in their own private moments in the anonymity that a crowd provides, families picnicking on the beach, trying to rein their kids in, students on holiday, running around, splashing in the water, taking selfies that will be tagged and uploaded to Facebook and Instagram in a few moments to let the world know they were there. I’m interrupted a few times by some teenagers who are curious about my gear, about the pictures I’m taking, even with requests to take pictures of them. How do I reduce all of this to something ‘zen’? I want to distill this down to its most basic components and produce something that shows calm amid the noise, something that shows the eternal passage of time. I see this picture in my mind’s eye. I’m reminded of Shelley’s Ozymandias. I set things up. Tripod, check. Filters, check. Lens, check. Composition, check. Camera settings, check. Click!
SMELLING THE ROSES
Dallas, TX, USA
I’m on a business trip and take a few days off to spend some quality time with my sister and her family. When I last saw my niece, Ishaara, in June, she was a year old, a little wary of people she hadn't met before, and I had trouble bonding with her. Fast forward four and a half months, she's turned into this delightful, happy, engaging bundle of joy, chatting me up, getting me to read to her, trying to impress me with all the new words she's learnt and generally charming the heck out of me.
We are out one evening, taking a walk and exploring the neighbourhood. I’ve just come off a very stressful time at work, I’m unable to unwind and relax, I’m a little unsure about the future, generally troubled about things that are beyond my control. It’s not fair to the little one. I should be enjoying the few days I have with her, giving her all my attention and not thinking about the yorkers that life is trying to bowl at me. I walk a little ahead to keep some distance between her and me to be able to compose and take a shot of her on the sidewalk. She’s so happy, this beautiful child delighting in the magic of nature. As if sensing what I want to do, she pauses, stoops to admire the flowers growing along the path, and in doing so teaches me the value of enjoying the moment, of stopping to smell the roses.
I'm so happy I managed to spend a few days with her during this beautiful stage of her life.
A CHRISTMAS BLESSING
Hyderabad, India
Every Christmas I travel to Hyderabad to spend some time with my mother. For the last several years, our cocker spaniel, Fudge, was in the midst of all our Christmas celebrations, and the subject of several of my pictures. Portraits of Fudge in the red coat that Ma knitted for her or posing reluctantly with reindeer antlers on her head with the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling in the background were standard fare every year. After a brief battle with cancer, Fudge passed away last autumn, leaving a huge void in our lives.
A few weeks later, Ma got Tofu, this fluffy little bundle, from a family who couldn’t look after him anymore. As I drive up to Hyderabad from Bangalore, I think about what Christmas will be without Fudge. I think about Tofu. I’m unsure about how he’ll take to me, about how I’ll take to him. He’s afraid when he first sees me and keeps his distance. I may have reminded him of someone who abused him in his early years, a notion I always find heartbreaking. I’m certainly not greeted with the rousing welcome I was so used to getting from Fudge. He keeps watching me though, with a sort of inquisitiveness and scrutiny that makes me think he’s sizing me up, that he’s beginning to change the initial opinion he had of me. I don’t want to push it, so I’m patient.
A few hours later, Ma takes matters into her hands, picks him up and hands him to me. He doesn’t protest. It doesn’t take too long to win him over, to get him to start trusting me. And from then on, he’s just a joy to be with. He’s so generous with his affection, so good natured, so gentle and kind that, come the new year, I know it will be difficult to part with him. Fudge will always be a part of the family, she will always be irreplaceable, but Tofu needn’t worry about the place he’s made for himself in our lives and hearts.
Merry Christmas!
So, there it is, R. My take on your challenge. Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for the regular correspondence and exchange of photographs and thoughts and ideas. It made me go out more often and think a lot more about every shot I took. It helped me escape, at least temporarily, that all-consuming centripetal vortex where the gravitational pull of work and career draws one inward and makes one blind to everything else. It made me more deliberate in my approach to photography. It made me more conscious of what I was thinking and feeling (it made my note-taking better, for a start, especially when I was travelling), and more attentive to what I was trying to convey through my lens. But, most importantly, it made me want to be a better photographer.
It is with gratitude – and no small measure of vulnerability and trepidation – that I put this together. I look forward to learning what you think of it.
