Sometimes I fidget with my camera. I get distracted, distanced from a concert I’m listening to, or a conversation I’m a part of. And then I pull out my camera, or phone, and take photos. These low light photos have very little chance of coming out well, but I can spend some pleasant hours of my life trying to edit them.
This was taken at a pub. I’ve forgotten who we’d gone with. A single photo remained on my old phone from that day. That lens could hardly get any colour in that light, so I decided to convert it to black and white, and then try to balance the illumination. Which version do you like? With the amount of noise in the image, I don’t think it makes sense to push the level up.
I don’t remember why I was bored when I listened to this concert. Apart from a few photos, my memory of the concert was that it was very good. Maybe I just had my camera in my hand and fidgeted with it. Again, I can’t decide whether it is worthwhile pushing up the level. After all, this is not a photo taken for a newspaper.
The featured photo could have been. It was taken at the Gateway of India on the first anniversary of the infamous terrorist attack. The two street children make some money by selling memorial candles to the largely middle class mourners. The texture of life in Mumbai is so complex.
Monsoon in Goa: an advertising catchline from the 80s and 90s, when the hoteliers decided to fill up the empty rooms left after the party crowd disappeared. Winter is a washout with all the music and booze on the beach, so you might as well try to see the other Goa in the magical months of monsoon. This is one time when there is a truth beyond the lies of advertising.
The year I took these photos I realized that Goa is a wonderful place to observe the monsoon as it comes in to the Western Ghats. The wonderful plants and insects, the frogs and the moths, straggle down to Goa, to meet the birds and crabs of the coast. You can go for long walks, or drive to lonely spots, with your camera and catch some of the beauties that you might otherwise see on treks through the Ghats. You can lead a solitary life if you wish, broken by exchanging passing greetings with the fisherfolk who are the original inhabitants of this place, or long conversations with the university types over a strongly Portuguese-influenced lunch.
Or you could just stay at home on rainy days, reading, eating the sausages or dried fish in boiled rice, stepping out into the garden on the beach between spells of rain to capture the play of rain and sun on vegetation. It is a life to dream about in these constrained years.
You are not safe out in the middle of the lake; a determined ambusher like me will get you quite easily. Continuing my practice of shooting photographers in the act of photography, I caught these two groups. The couple were in the middle of one of the Sat Tals, the family in Bhim Tal. They say that hunters begin to enter the minds of their prey. I find that interesting statement is contaminated by a tinge of truth.
As I ambush more, I begin to see two kinds of selfie takers. One kind has arranged their lives so that they can easily say to others, “that happy me in the photo you see is the real me”. Others have not been so systematic. Their selfies take a small slice of the reality, edit out large portions of the world. These ambush photos appear to have the selfie-taker saying “the person in this photo is the me I wish I am”. Are either of them correct about themselves? We change every moment, after all.
What is truth? I can’t pretend to answer this in its complex philosophical entirety, but I could try to talk about my memories of a walk at sunset. I did this walk alone. I did not meet anyone at all. I carried a camera. If I hadn’t used it, the only truth would be my memory of the walk. The core of that truth is that my mind was roiling when I started, and at peace when I finished. The truth of the images from my camera should then capture the events that changed my mind. It was the sunset and my attempt to capture that fading light. The deliberate concentration on a problem I could solve was what settled my mind.
The mind is very fickle, turbulent, strong, and obstinate. It is like the wind, impossible to control. … When all desires vanish in a state of thoughtfulness, when the inner self is satisfied within itself, then one is a master of a stable mind.
Dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna, Bhagwat Gita
If you had little time, you could be satisfied with the simplest part of the truth, that a walk during a nice sunset put my mind at rest. The featured image would be enough. Nice lake, wooded path, colourful sunset. Restful. But that story hides a further truth. The image did not appear by itself. I worked at it. First, by selecting a viewpoint: have I got enough of the water? No, move a few steps. Now? Yes. But the colours in the camera are not what I see. So I’ll have to recreate them in post-processing. The featured photo is both memory and process. That is a larger truth.
But there is more to it, of course. The idea of capturing the reflection of the sunset in the lake came out of an idea which would not work. I took a photo of the fiery sky, the one which you see above. I meant to bring out the details from the darkness in software. That works often enough, but I realized that might not work here. So I would need the back up that you saw. I was right, and my earlier experiences taught me the necessity of the backup. I was completely immersed in the sunset I was participating in. So much so that I had dragged a part of my past into this sunset, forced the larger me to take part in that.
The truth that capturing what my eye saw required more than the software in the camera came a little earlier. As the sun set, the last lights fell on leaves high above me. My camera could not capture what I saw. If I zoomed into the leaves, the background became black. If I took a wider shot, then the dazzle of backlit leaves disappeared. So I decided to take the wider shot (the one on the right), then crop and edit it to get what I really saw (the shot on the left). The truth is the entirety of these photos: that it was concentration on what I saw, being in the moment, while being anchored in the continuity of myself that settled my mind.
But why was my mind unsettled to begin with? Because I had spent the golden hour of the day looking out on a brilliant landscape through the windows of a moving car. Separated from the world around me in this way, being able to connect only through random shots taken with my phone, I had been reduced to the role of an automaton. Was I merely a CCTV camera, programmed to record what came into view? A photograph is not just a record of what is in front of you, but a result of constant evaluation of many possibilities, discarding most, and capturing what is the truth in the mind’s eye. A photo requires a still mind in knowledge of itself, and a seeking towards an expression of that knowledge. That’s a zen truth, isn’t it?
Ambush photography is a name I have for a corner of street photography in which you take photos of other photographers, and their subjects, usually without them being aware of you. (I love the fringe of this area when your subjects become aware of you and your camera, so that you enter the photo through their facial expressions.) Several years of ambush photography taught me that it can tell you of certain universals about human beings. In our times when the world seems both more closely knit together, and more rapidly disintegrating into blocs of us versus them, I like the picture of our common humanity that emerges when I put photos from different countries side by side. The photo here is one such universal. Couples want photos of themselves, and they love to look at the photos.
You may be disappointed that I did not say anything about Nadeem Aslam’s exquisite book, whose title I plagiarized for the title of this post. But the photo does contain an echo of the story of conflicts between human variability and weight of expectations which is at the core of his book. The couple stand next to a poster with a man and a woman posed in the manner of a famous shot from James Cameron’s popcorn movie Titanic. That trifling movie has begun to create a stifling convention of how lovers have to be imagined. I am happy that these couples did their own thing instead. A common humanity does not mean exactly the same ways of doing everything.
Like many others, I went through the usual art classes at school. But even before I took my first such class, someone may have told me that you mix yellow and blue pigments to make green. These joyful discoveries were made systematic in the art classes where we learnt how the primary colours of pigments are red, yellow, and blue. This was so ingrained in my thinking that I completely ignored the writings of Seurat even after I discovered his pointillist techniques later in school.
I could have paid attention when my science teacher tried to tell us that the primary colours of light are different: red, blue, and green. When I did not, it was a steep learning curve for me as I grew interested in the stage during my years in college. I laboured at producing colours of light for plays using a completely wrong model for colours. I remembered the great surprise I had in producing a cold grey light for use in a play by mixing floods and spotlights. It was around then that I discarded the theory which worked for pigments.
Now, of course, as we learn to use software for editing photos, the use of RGB colours has become so widespread that Seurat’s discoveries about colour seem commonplace. Still, when I discovered this spring that leaves use the same method I felt the pleasant tingling of discovery. The underlying colour of many leaves is red. The green colour is due to chloroplasts that the leaves produce to perform photosynthesis. When leaves die and the chloroplasts begin to decay, leaves turn yellow. If they don’t rot quickly you see them turning red as more and more chloroplasts die. In spring you see this in reverse. New leaves start out red, and grow chloroplasts, first turning yellow, and then green in a reversal of the changes that autumn brings. The first two photos in this post are of this transformation in new leaves. The photo above shows the changes in dying leaves.
An old friend, once an artist in his spare time, took a job which involved printers and the design of colours. As he worked with software and printers, trying to reproduce the colours produced in one domain in another, his interest in colour vision and reproduction grew. I listened to him talk about how subtractive schemes like CMY correspond to the print experience better, and what happens if you add on black ink. Now he spends much more of his time on his art, but spared some time to talk about what he found.
Colour vision is a property of human physiology and perception. So the fact that our eyes have receptors, the rods and cones, is part of the story. But behind this is a layer of computational nerves, a neural network, which combines the signals from these, and feeds it to yet other nerve cells which then transmit the information, through our optic nerves, to specialized areas in our brains. It is hard to believe how we see! Birds and insects see the world very differently. Photos of flowers or butterflies’ wings taken at wavelengths invisible to us show incredible patterns. This is an indication that in the ecology in which they exist, markers visible to non-humans are important. It is amazing how much detail the world shows once you zoom in to any part of it.
The golden hour becomes decidedly more golden just before the monsoon. The science behind this is simple; in such humidity, light is scattered by microscopic droplets of water in the air. When the suspended droplets are roughly of the size of the wavelength of visible light, we get this incredibly golden hour at sunset. Far from the coast of India, these golden hours will last through the monsoon. Unfortunately, here, at the coast, the months of monsoon will be mostly overcast and gloomy. If you are not living around the Indian Ocean and its monsoon, you might still get such incredibly golden light on extremely humid days. Let me know if you do, and also if you have a very humid day when you don’t have this golden light.
You never see the same photo twice. I started to carry a camera with me because I wanted to remember the world as I had seen it. But then once the images are on film, or hard disk, your way of looking at it changes. First you crop, then you begin to adjust them in other ways. Eventually you learn that the raw image is an universe that you can explore in its own right. Every time you look at it, the image reveals new aspects.
I went back to photos that I took in the first decade of the century. Today my eye sees patterns hiding inside them. They were not taken then for the shapes and textures that I now found. But those qualities were always there, for you to find, explore, and enjoy. Dead coral, antique car grille, tourists in a fort, a butterfly’s wing, mirror cladding on a building, ancient tiles in a museum, flowers, a fruiting tree, a gargoyle, I saw them differently earlier. When I meet them again ten years later, I might new things in them. Each photo is an individual. You have to get to know it. Again and again.
As the morning’s sun cut through the mists of Neora valley and shone through the tree tops, I took photos of glory around the lichens hanging from the trees around me. The Family looked beyond the glory right at the source of light. When she showed me this photo I found it stunning.