Tag Archives: composition

C’est la vie

Many of you have written to me wondering where I am (or was) across the last month or thereabouts; to most I have replied, but for those who wrote in the past few days.  I’ve been out for four weeks and more – much of it on work, but some for photography. I’d headed to Jaipur, followed by Lucknow and then Benares as I prefer to call the city (or Varanasi, as it is contemporarily known). After this this was the Kumbh Mela at Allahabad, then Jodhpur and finally Jaisalmer in Rajasthan.

I’ll write about each of those places by and by, but for now I just thought I’d write a few lines on how I feel at this moment as I type. Not so good really – in fact, dejected. I’ve been going through my photographs of the Kumbh Mela and I have managed to mess up quite a few. Not because I couldn’t be in the right place at the right time (the “decisive moment” in other words, was right there in front of me) but because I completely messed up my camera settings, and yes, I messed those up on both days at the Kumbh.

It has never happened to me before this. This time was different. I was distracted.  I wasn’t quite there. I didn’t enter the zone. I forgot to see my camera settings before starting to photograph. I can’t believe I did this. And guess what – no one will be able to figure that out from the photographs I post here now. But I am writing this. Why? Because my blog for me is my confession, my diary – a place where I am completely honest, naked in thought and expression. Because this post will remind me that along with these photographs, there are many more which I should have got, but didn’t.  Because these words will tell me that I don’t photograph for anyone else but for myself. And only I know the truth as it exists, as it really is, and not how it appears to be.

And it gets even better – I don’t wear my glasses when photographing. I don’t see my images on the camera (I might later at some point of time, but it is much after the point of no return when I have walked away from the scene), I don’t look at the histogram; most times I don’t even see the settings in the viewfinder. My entire focus is on what is within that frame. I am actually lost in another world. I set the aperture and approximate shutter speed, which I then change while paying attention to the sound of the shutter (but this time at Kumbh the ambient noise far overwhelmed the sound of the shutter). Yes, I know it is a strange way to photograph. I know that. But I photograph with instinct. I photograph from my heart and my soul. The camera ceases to exist when I photograph. I mean that.

So now at this point of time, I want nothing to do with either my camera or photography, but here I am writing this blog, again from my heart. I am not perfect, and I admit it openly. Even to those who believe that I know how to photograph, here is my confession – I don’t. Not at this moment anyway.

But yet I know, I’ll be at it again. I’ll again not see the photograph on the camera or the histogram for that matter; I’ll again use the sound of the shutter as a guide. Yes, I’ll do it all over again because that is the only way I know how to photograph – with instinct and my heart and soul. With love.

You see, it is love, when you return even as it pains and hurts.

C’est la vie.

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On logos, on perfection

This is my first post of 2013. I’ve had writers block – quite literally so. Across the last few weeks I have been meaning to write, but even the opening line has been difficult. So I said to myself: “Why not just say it as it is?” Isn’t it so strange that I don’t know what to write, yet here I am typing away on my keyboard, whispering to myself, hoping that some words will come to me? And as I think of what I am doing right now, I recognize that much of my photography is the same way – there isn’t conscious thought involved. Only the pressing need, just the burning desire, to tell a story.

I’m not stopping to think and ponder now; I’ve done that across weeks. This is the time to write, and because I don’t know what I have to say or want to say, I am going through some recent photographs in Delhi. As I see my photography of late, I realize it has changed a lot. My subjects, the people I photograph, my composition, pretty much everything – nothing seems like what it was when I started. The same is the case with me. I am no longer the same.

I’ve got it. Change. That is what this will be about. This blog I mean. Change always reminds me of the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said that change was central to the Universe, and he came up with the term logos in Western philosophy, which meant both the source and the fundamental order of the Cosmos. Interestingly, in ordinary Greek, the meaning of logos went beyond this to notions such as language, statement, conversation, principle etc.  And you see, there are no coincidences in life; logos to me also means what my photography is about – my language, the words I want to say but which elude me, and so I let my photographs be those words.

This change in me is evident in the images I create. I photograph now from within my soul. Not with my eyes. I photograph because it is spiritual to me. It no longer is just a passion. And what better way to see the change within than use my photographs as milestones along this journey. I have slowly begun to minimize what I have in my photographs.  Be it the subject, or even perhaps what is captured within the frame. This is how my life has been of late. As Leonardo da Vinci said: “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” My attempt is now to lead a simple, uncluttered life. I don’t want to be fettered with much. I have started giving away much of what I have, with the notable exceptions of my books and my music, and of course my camera. I have started sharing. And the more I give, the more I receive…

I used to be unapologetically self-centered in many ways. I always wanted to receive – giving (or even sharing) was the toughest call of all. Whatever I earned was mine and mine alone. I had everything and more. But did I do things for people who weren’t as fortunate as me? Unequivocally no.  If I were in a relationship, I wanted everything my way. I’ve changed all that. At least I think so. And guess what – I think the biggest hurdle to change was the thought that always held me back: “What will people say? They’ll say, he can’t ever change. He has always been this way. So why should I change?” 

But I needed to change. I had to see the difference between ebony and ivory.

So then there came a time in my life where everything changed. It has been called by many names – watershed moment, turning point, epiphany etc. To me it was the time when I finally started believing deep within that there was a Power far greater than me. Someday, maybe someday, I will write about this also. Don’t get me wrong – I am not religious – far from it actually. I am just a believer. And that changes how the game is played. The game is played where He wants me to play, not where I want. The game is played when He wants me to play, not when I want to play. And the game is played according to His rules, not mine. And when I understand all of this, I sleep better at night. Because I did it, the best way that I could.

I also had this desire to be perfect, the best at everything that I did. It isn’t possible. I couldn’t see my own flaws even though the reflection in the mirror said it all. Today I realize how profound and deep the words of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in the Airman’s Odyssey are: “Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”  And we all know that day when there will be nothing left to take away, will be when I will stand on Judgment before my Master, my Creator. And that day I pray, I am able to say staring into His eyes: Yes, I changed.

These are just some thoughts:

On logos, on perfection.

Posted in General, Philosophy Also tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |

I believe in magic

I am out traveling, but even then I wanted to write a short blog (yes, different from my oh-so-long ones). As I see more places, more people, more things, I see how beautiful this world truly is. And I believe in much more today than I did yesterday.

I believe in dreams. I believe in soulmates. I believe in love at first sight, candlelight dinners and roses. I believe in unkempt flower beds. I believe in sunsets. I believe in running barefoot on a sandy beach. I believe in a walk in the rain. I believe in dancing in the rain.  I believe that the smell of babies is the best in the world. I believe the fragrance of the first rain is the second best in the world. I believe that it is ok for real men to cry. I believe that tough men do dance.  I believe that gentlemen open doors for ladies. I believe in past life connections.  I believe in life after death. I believe that it is fine to be a child at heart and never grow up. I believe in what Robert McCammon said. I believe in magic.

“You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present and into the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it. See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves.


After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little sad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.”

That’s what I believe in.

I believe in magic.

Posted in General, Philosophy Also tagged , , , , , , , , , , |

November Rain

At the sum of it all, photography is a matter of perception – yours and mine. I see something which arouses my sensibilities, I photograph it with the intention of capturing the feeling within me – that is my perception, and you see the same photograph with your perception. And of course, our individual perceptions are a function of our environs. But then this post is not a polymath’s thesis of such things.

I was actually thinking of what I’d mentioned in my last blog about failing many times in the past. Yes, I confess that there were occasions after such instances of failure when I would be despondent and dejected, all the while wondering how and why I failed and thought it to be the end of the world. For much time after that would linger the “wrong-side-of-the-bed” syndrome, feeling blue without realizing in the least that the world continued to be a wonderful place to be, resplendent in all its beauty and opportunity. I should have just remembered Richard Bach when he wrote in Illusions: “What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.” All a matter of perception.

I would be entrapped in a maze of doubt, thinking, feeling, believing that my failures, my problems, my sorrows were unique – but nothing could be farther than the truth. We all go through ups and downs.  What I never realized at that point of time is that what goes up must come down – so neither the good times nor the bad times last forever. Not any longer. I have now learnt that the path to success is strewn with failure. Before that singular amazing photograph, thousands will be iffy. Churchill said: “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” Just keep the faith. And so along with perception, it is also a matter of attitude.

Quick example. Just the other day, I was driving to someplace in Delhi in peak traffic and those of you familiar with the traffic here would agree that rush-hour (or any hour) is not the right time to be on these roads. When I got back home, all of a sudden to my absolute surprise I realized that nothing had bothered me all that while on the road. I didn’t even notice the traffic. Not once did I cuss the driver in the adjacent lane, no one had affected me. Where I was had had no effect on me. I had great music going in the car and all the while I was thinking of the beautiful places I need to photograph, all the lost corners I have to travel to, all these yet unwritten words. I was effusive and buoyant and nothing else mattered. And in another post, I will write about where I am in life today for a QED to this point. You see it is, and always has been my choice to see things either as half-empty or half-full. My perception. My attitude.

We all are free to make choices of our own volition. Now these are all photographs made a few hundred yards of each other, within half-an-hour or thereabouts which I feel show how we can see the same sunset in many ways. All different perceptions of the same environment. 

As I photographed this, I remembered what Ansel Adams, the brilliant landscape photographer said: “Sometimes I arrive just when God is ready to have someone click the shutter.”

And my thoughts as I saw the sun go down: it is our choice to remember that the light of day will always be followed by the darkness of the night, surely as it in turn will be followed by the dawn – a new beginning. It is what we call the circle of life, the light at the end of the tunnel, when winter turns to spring.

It is just what Axl Rose sings:

So never mind the darkness,
We still can find a way,
‘Cause nothin’ lasts forever,
Even cold November rain.

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The Ultimate Truth

As photographers we’re always searching for the next subject, the award-winning photograph, as writers for the next word that follows, the elusive bestseller, as scientists for the God Particle, the “reason” we exist. There is nothing new in this. Our forefathers, the hunter-gatherers searched for the next morsel of food. And the legacy of search continued. But before this quest even begins, we need to figure out what is it that we search for?

As for me I chased my dreams, almost all of them. Whatever I wanted to do, or thought I should do, I went for it. Some came true, some didn’t. But even dreams change with time, what we desire (or want or need) changes with time. It’s the process of evolution. My experience tells me that though change isn’t easy in itself, it’s still relatively easier to change than for people to accept that you’ve changed. Isn’t that ironic?

Of course I failed along the way, and failed miserably at that, many times across many years. I believed that I had the Midas touch, unfounded arrogance at that, I chased rainbows for that pot of gold, till enough hard knocks proved otherwise. And each time I failed, I wondered what had happened to my touch, where was that rainbow, little realizing that Midas was mythical, the real one and the pot of gold is here and in such.

With time (and I don’t mean to sound old and gone, but age does make a difference), I realized that failure is good, failure is humbling. It teaches me. As Michael Jordan said, “I’ve missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. 26 times, I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.” I believe him. Now I dream without fear of failure, so what if I fail? No big deal.

Coming to the search, the quest – of course, I have a dream. Maybe not as big as Martin Luther King’s was, but as important to me as his was to him. I have been thinking for quite a while now of something, someone to photograph which hasn’t ever been done before and do it in a way that is different. Quite a tall order isn’t it? Almost everything seems to have been photographed. But then why not dream big? In the words of Salman Rushdie: ““Go for broke. Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Take a deep breath before you begin talking. Aim for the stars. Keep grinning. Be bloody-minded. Argue with the world. And never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things – childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves – that go on slipping , like sand, through our fingers.” I’d only add photography to writing.

 I feel the need, the perhaps inexplicable desire to walk this path. 

For months, I obsessed over the subject of a dream so big and just a few days back, I was lying in bed tossing and turning and finally when the answer came to me at 03:00 AM, I jumped out of bed, switched on my laptop and said let me figure out if this has ever been done before. I researched extensively. And no it hadn’t. I wondered why though? Why hadn’t someone yet photographed what I am thinking about and in the way I’ve thought of? The closest I can get to the answer is maybe no one ever believed they could do it. You see we give up before we even start because we think something is really difficult. I won’t give up, I never give up. This is something I’ll do. And God be my witness, I’m not doing it for all the “wrong reasons” of fame and fortune, but because I know that this is what I’m meant to do someday, sometime, somewhere – when I do not know really, the how I know. What I do know also is that this will bring me happiness. I might fail, but I’ll still try. My photographs and words might not find their way to National Geographic, the Holy Grail for most photographers and  some writers, but I’ll still photograph and write. And I also am aware that there will be naysayers along the way to whom I could say just as Clark Gable did: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn”, but I’d much rather use Mother Teresa’s words:

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; Be honest and frank anyway.
What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; Build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God; It was never between you and them anyway.

So that really is: The Ultimate Truth.

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In the empty moments

I’ve often wondered what is it about mountains that calls me there. I’ve thought about why is the lure of the wild irresistible to me. I’ve reflected on why do I yearn for solitude, why is it that I choose to be alone. I’ll write about that soon.

But what I want to share this time are just some words from Oriah, and my photographs from the Himalayas. Eloquent. Expressive. Emotional. At least I think so.

“It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

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It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

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It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”

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Which is why I go to the mountains. These answers come to me. In the empty moments.

Posted in General, Philosophy, Travel Also tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , |

No Man Is An Island

A few days back I stepped out to photograph one of those ubiquitous construction sites mushrooming all around Delhi to make a few B&W portraits. I had crossed this particular site quite a few times and for some strange reason I wanted to go there even though there wasn’t anything really “special” about it. Just before this I’d gone to Nizamuddin Dargah at Delhi when I made this photograph of an old man, a shopkeeper just outside the mosque there.

And I made this other photograph there as well, of a butcher with gentle eyes. It reminded me of a paradox – blood-stained hands and kohl-lined eyes…

Now getting back to the construction site – I spent a few hours there chatting with the workers and laborers and doing some photography. I photographed children. And then when I got back home and as I started processing my photographs, I began to think, why did I go there almost mechanically without much thought? Why not elsewhere, some other place classically beautiful? Why am I so intrigued and fascinated by people whom we call poor? I do it ever so often, as I did at Nizamuddin and then here. Here is one of the photographs I made of a young child who was washing his clothes in barely a trickle of water…

And here is another one of a baby in arms whose mother dutifully rubbed her face with powder just before I photographed her (just as I’m sure my mother got me ready for a photograph too)…

The answer to why I go to such places kept eluding me till I had my Eureka moment this morning when my aunt commented on a photograph that it made her cry. And someone else wrote to me and said that my images were Steve McCurry-esque. Now don’t misunderstand me, this is not self-adulation, I’m just stating what happened. I’ve also had people tell me what I write is tripe and trash which too is fine. And of course, I’ve had someone say to me (without knowing me) that I am being hypocritical when I write. That also is fine. Unfortunately these aren’t comments, but emails – if they were comments, I’d approve those too.

So yes, the answer came to me. I do it because these people have affected me within the deepest recesses of my heart. If I were unmoved by them, I wouldn’t ever have been able to create a photograph than can move someone to tears or for that matter compare my photographs to Steve McCurry, however distant a dream his art and craft is for me. These are people I am attracted to; they move me within, they affect a part of me which somewhere along the way had accepted that I will never be able to make a difference in their lives – how wrong I was! I love the stories that I hear from them – of trials and tribulations, of their daily grind, of how they treasure what we take for granted. I put my arms around them because they are no different from me and they need to know I care. I love sharing a meal with them sitting in the dust. I spend time with them because I would rather be there than with superficial people who can only discuss how comfortable the spring-collection Ferragamo loafers or Jimmy Choo’s are, while being blind to those walking barefoot on a tar road on an Indian summer day. I photograph them because this keeps me in touch with reality as it exists, not how I would wish it to be. I create images of them because it makes me more sensitive to their angst and pain, something we tend to ignore.

As I was photographing them, someone said about my camera that these are rich people’s toys. Well, yes I am rich in compare, but more often I think that those who don’t have what we possess in material terms are far richer than us. Can you see his toys?

But beyond his toys, what he has in his eyes are happiness and contentment – these really can’t be bought with cash in a shopping mall.

I repeat their stories to myself almost each day without fail, I relive those times whenever I see these photographs. What they want is recognition. What they need is empathy, not sympathy. What they desire is dignity. What they treasure is respect. These are the mantras I remember. And if in all of this, you hear their stories from me and you pause even for a moment and reflect and feel, then my photographs mean something else, and take on a different dimension entirely. Because then I am not only a photographer, but also a storyteller. And to complete this story that I am narrating now, let me use these words of John Donne:

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own,
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know,
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

The world will be a much better place if you remember that those bells toll for thee as:

No man is an island.

Posted in General, Philosophy Also tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , |

A wayside sacrament

I must confess I have some other thoughts in my mind which I’m going to write about later, but as I was trying to place everything buzzing around in my head into some semblance of coherent order, I thought about beauty. And this blog isn’t so much about what I have to say, but on what I’m thinking at the moment. Why is it so difficult for us to find beauty? Why do we need to look in all those hidden corners other than right in front of our eyes to see beauty? Why is it impossible to recognize beauty in all that we call “ordinary”?

I don’t ever remember opening a dictionary to see the meaning of beauty – well, I did just now. I don’t even remember ever using the words and “ugly” and “hate”. And before you think I’m being holier-than-thou, I can use language that would make a salty sailor blush.

beau·ty n. pl. beau·ties

– The quality that gives pleasure to the mind or senses and is associated with such properties as harmony of form or color, excellence of artistry, truthfulness, and originality.

– A quality or feature that is most effective, gratifying, or telling.

– An outstanding or conspicuous example.

With photography an indelible focus of mine, I have learnt that the only way to recognize beauty in each and every form is to slow down in life, pause and stare unabashedly. What other people find boring, I find interesting, what other people ignore, I find intriguing, what other people pass by, I stop at. Because now I see beauty in truthfulness, a representation of what really exists, as the Lord created. For that you have to scratch the surface, sometimes deep below. And it works the same way in relationships – we hasten to judge. I have. Think about it.

I discovered beauty in these trees as I walked the Himalayas, and I was reminded of Thomas Carlyle’s words when he said: “When the oak is felled the whole forest echoes with it fall, but a hundred acorns are sown in silence by an unnoticed breeze.” So the obvious isn’t necessarily the most important. Sometimes what lies beneath is even more so. 

As those other thoughts of what I should actually be writing on overwhelm my mind, all I want to remind myself is to slow down. And listen carefully to Ralph Waldo Emerson words: “Never lose the opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful; for beauty is God’s handwriting – a wayside sacrament.”

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The Perfect Exposure

I never expected my photography and blog to be in the shape and form in which they are today. When I started writing here a few months back, I didn’t expect such heartfelt and honest comments and notes and emails from people. Those took me by surprise and continue to do so. Just a few days back, someone wrote a really nice mail to me and requested me to write every day. It touched me for sure, it made me happy and I said so as well to the person who wrote to me. Apropos the request to write each day,  I could have easily said “yes, I’ll do it”, but in all honesty I said, “I can’t because then it won’t be from my heart, it won’t be the real me, it’ll only be perfunctory.” I’ll then be doing it for all the wrong reasons – I’ll be writing for someone else, and not writing for myself which is what I always do. I photograph and write for myself because then they give me serenity and peace, and those feelings are then what I can reflect in turn. Is this being selfish? There is no easy answer to this, and it all depends on how you look at it, which is what this blog is about – what is the truth?

My writing has changed across the last three months since I started here – you can see the earlier posts if you want. And I’ll confess that some don’t really touch me the way they did when I wrote them. Sure I can edit them and make those “better” by any standards or even delete them but I don’t. On similar lines all my photographs are on Facebook, not just the better ones. I can’t, I won’t, I don’t even want to wish them away. But I let them just be there. They happened because of me. I am the cause. I am the reason.  This is just the way I can’t wish my past away, all the mistakes that I made, all the people I hurt. Is every photograph and word embarrassing, everything of my past regrettable? Not at all in the least – but we tend to live with the guilt of our follies and foibles carrying this burdensome crucifix for ages. So you see, we need to let it be, but we also need to let it go. The past “was” real, the present “is” the reality, the truth.

But again what is the truth? I made these two photographs of butter-lamps at Spituk Gompa in Ladakh. I’ve described the scene before, but let me try and recreate it. When I made the images of the lamps, I was standing alone in a darkened sanctum sanctorum, the windows of which were covered in soot, the air heavy with the fragrance of incense and oil, the sound of monks chanting their prayers in my ears. It wasn’t cold but I shivered, and I had goose bumps, as God came to my mind and I felt “faith”. I cannot help but quote Rumi who said: “In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.” 

On a more prosaic note, both these images might “appear” to be the same at the first superficial glance –but they actually aren’t. Appearances are not reality. As Van Gogh wrote in a letter to his brother: “One may have a blazing hearth in his soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney and continue on their way.”

Yes, these were made at the same place, almost the same time, with the same light, yet these are different. Without meaning to get into the technicalities of photography which you know I don’t get into, the difference in them lies in the settings of the shutter speed, aperture (or how much the lens is opened or stopped down) and ISO (or film sensitivity) which form what is called the “exposure triangle”.  I can juggle these into myriad combinations to create different photographs, but as photographers would tell you, only one combination is the “perfect exposure”.  Again perfect for whom?

As an analogy, I’d interpret these terms to be the pace at which we see things around us, how much we open our eyes to observe and not merely see, and how sensitive we are to that which we observe. An imbalance in any of these settings results in a “not so good photograph”, a distortion of reality, a misinterpretation of the truth. So we need to slow down in life, observe deeply and with more sensitivity. Coming back to where we were, again both images are real, you might like one, and I the other.  Having said that, in all these unique combinations of speed, aperture and sensitivity there will be one that comes closest to reality, on which both you and I will agree. The problem lies in reaching that agreement. We are unwilling to let go of our positions, of our dominant (predominant?) ego. Remember how difficult it is to say with absolute brutal honesty: “I’m sorry, I was wrong, I didn’t understand you. Please forgive me.”

I might not agree with you but I must recognize and realize that your perspective is real as well. On my “About” page, I wrote this: “In the continuum of time and space, intermediate finite moments shape our being and our perception, our mental prisms. After passing through our own prisms of perception, each refraction of reality contains only some pure essence of the light, only an incomplete part. So we will always experience some aspect of reality, of the truth, but only from our perspectives. None will see the whole, complete light. These are musings from my own refraction.”

Photography for me is a passion, but it is also spiritual. Just as my writing is. I can’t photograph or write at the speed of my thoughts. So I slow down to think and speak aloud as I type, observing carefully the tumult within me subside, as I become more sensitive to who I really am. And as I’ve said before, I don’t edit, I don’t rearrange. I photograph and write with honesty each time – and by doing that every time with honesty, it becomes easier for me to express the truth, and for me to be me. Rhonda Byrne called it “The Secret” – you can call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, psychologists can call it auto-suggestion, I merely say this is the truth. Or if you’d prefer to, you can just call it:

The Perfect Exposure.

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The Photographer’s Heart

Michael Freeman is a great photographer and also the author of many books including “The Photographer’s Eye”, “The Photographer’s Mind” and “The Photographer’s Vision”. Since he hasn’t copyrighted “The Photographer’s Heart”, I’m using it for this blog.

This will (I think) be a longish blog (and as a caveat, this blog is for everyone, not for photographers only).  I’ll also break my own rule and name people in this – after all, it is my rule and my blog. I just realized that I’ve written about lessons for life that people I’ve met and photographed on my travels have taught me, but I’ve never said a word on the lessons for life I’ve learnt from those who taught (and continue to teach) me photography. This is my attempt to set that right.

Flashback two years – I’d just purchased my camera and happened to be chatting with Willy Foo (www.willyfoo.com), quite easily among the best photographers in Singapore.  In response to a question of mine on a photograph of his, Willy proceeded to explain to me in absolute depth and complete detail, the story and the technicalities behind it. This was quite surprising for me – the photography equivalent of the “cat out of the bag”. So I said to Willy: “How is it that you’re telling me everything?” I don’t remember his exact words in response, but in effect he said that he was not only a photographer, but also a teacher and this was his duty. In these two years I met many others – I disturbed them at odd hours, all sorts of times, requested unedited files to see how those are prior to processing, compared edited photographs, asked for critiques, wanted them to teach and help me, and not once did I hear a “no” in response. Some, of course, have had significant influence on my craft – Laxmi Kaul showed me the beauty of monochrome and of the portrait, a debt I shall never be able to repay. Recently I’ve connected with many immensely talented photographers because of my photo-blog (in no particular order): Glenn Capers (wingedoracle.1x.com), Heidger Marx (heidgermarx.com), Chris Faust (chrisfaustphoto.com), Bruno Chalifour (brunochalifour.com), Matthew Pace (matthewpace.photoshelter.com), Greg Buck (winkandblinkphotography.com.au), Roy Money (rwmj.smugmug.com), Kim Ayres (kimayres.co.uk) Panta Astiazaran (panta-astiazaran.smugmug.com), Marcus Thomas (marcthomasphotography.com), Laura Kaczmarek (atgimages.zenfolio.com), and many others, none lesser than those named. The reason I’ve added their websites is rather simple – when you see their photographs, you’ll soon realize that in comparison to theirs, my images are a child’s “crayon-on-the-wall” drawing compared to a Matisse. But all of them, without fail, made time for me. So who said the world is different today and we don’t have time for each other? And the amazing bit is that other than Willy and Laxmi, for the rest I am just a LinkedIN or Facebook profile. Yet they showed me the way – for which I am, and shall always be, grateful.

Lesson for life #1: Give. The most precious thing you have is your time – give some of it, more if you can, to another. Sometimes your time is more valuable to them than to you. Lesson for life #2: Help. Help however, with whatever you can. You never know how much of a difference it makes to the other. Lesson for life #3: Teach. The greatest gift you can give someone is knowledge. Sow its seeds and watch people blossom. You will never get a better reward ever. Lesson for life #4: Share. Let your experience and wisdom be free. And here the mathematicians will squirm (or turn in their graves) – when you share, you don’t divide – you multiply.

And to the naysayer mathematicians, let me narrate from the Bible, Matthew 14:15-21 (Jesus Feeds the Five Thousand):

“As evening approached, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away, so they can go to the villages and buy themselves some food.”

Jesus replied, “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.”

“We have here only five loaves of bread and two fish,” they answered.

“Bring them here to me,” he said. And he directed the people to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to Heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the people.  They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over. The number of those who ate was about five thousand men, besides women and children.”

So these are lessons for life that photographers have taught me. But we aren’t any different from anyone else, which is why I said this blog is for everyone.  We have just the same insecurities as any of those I’ve made portraits of, the same pain, the same fear. We’re also just as good as our last image. Perhaps the only difference that I can think of is that we see things with a difference. Therein lies the paradox, the irony – in that difference that we see, is also our likeness.

“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” (Khalil Gibran)

“Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
I do that too,” laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
I know what you mean,” said the little old man.” (Shel Silverstein)

“In times of grief and sorrow I will hold you and rock you and take your grief and make it my own. When you cry I cry and when you hurt I hurt. And together we will try to hold back the floods to tears and despair and make it through the potholed street of life.” (Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook)

Have you never felt these emotions? There is no difference between me and the people I photograph, but for a fraction of a second, and the side of the frame that we’re at.  When I see them up close and personal through my lens, I am reminded that all I can do always is to love, and love unconditionally. Yes, at times it hurts, but that doesn’t mean I stop loving.

Mother Teresa once said: “I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world.” I’ll rephrase that and say: “I am a little pixel in the hand of a creating God who is sending a picture postcard to the world.” This is what I have to say. This is from:

The Photographer’s Heart.

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