Rachna Singh, Editor, The Wise Owl talks to Gautam Kadian, documentary and portrait photographer, about his inspiration and creativity.

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Thank you Gautam, for taking time out to speak with The Wise Owl.

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RS: Your earliest encounters with photography were shaped by the staged and theatrical world of studio portraiture. What drew you to the medium despite that rigidity, and what made you take it on as a lifelong pursuit?

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GK: The paraphernalia, the novelty of it I suppose. I remember getting so excited by the whole experience that I inevitably received a scolding from my father — there are some excellent pictures of me looking miserable in studio photographs. When he eventually bought a camera though, he showed us how it worked and let us play with it, take as many pictures as we wanted. He was never precious about it. It was pleasurable, to take pictures and then look at them later. What drew me in was that simple act: looking at the world through a viewfinder, and then staring at the photographs afterwards.

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I didn't have a strong sense of ambition — that I need to do this or that. But something happened much later that, in retrospect, put an important thought in my head. This was the early 2000s. There was an exhibition of Raghu Rai's photos at the NGMA, or some museum in Delhi. Stunning photographs, and I stared at them the whole day. But one in particular stuck with me. I may not remember the blurb correctly, but it was from an early assignment — he had roamed around all day trying to take pictures worthy of publication, and in the end, in fading light, he took a picture of a donkey. I loved that picture. I can see it clearly in my mind now. And I remember thinking: that's not a bad way to spend your day. Stumble around in the outskirts, in dusty fields and fading light, wanting to take pictures. Fail constantly, and then accidentally find that one photograph. I remember thinking I would be happy to spend every day like this.

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RS: Do you have any creative mentors or photographers who have influenced your work? What is it about their practice that resonates with you?

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GK: I am terrible at remembering names — there are so many. Raghu Rai, Raghubir Singh, so many great masters who revealed India to me. A book about the Indian Circus that Dayanita Singh helped make. It's a living daydream, a mundane nightmare, the country I was born and grew up in. I love it deeply. I can't say I consciously learned anything from them, except how beautiful it is to be able to “see.”

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My real mentor, though he may be unaware that he is my mentor, is Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche. It's a one-sided relationship, in the tradition of Eklavya. From him I learned how to relate to myself and the reality around me — or at least began to — and not just chase beauty. In Bodhgaya, he once asked me to take pictures of a wall that had folk art murals depicting scenes from the Buddha's life, by some unknown artist. That wall deserves to be in a museum, it is so beautiful. But I'm glad it's just a nondescript street in Bodhgaya. Fool that I am, I wanted to take really beautiful photos of it. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to get there before the street turned into its usual chaos, and I left when people started getting in the way. When I looked at the photographs later, I realised the most interesting ones were the ones where people got in the way.

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RS: Your work feels open and unforced, as if you're letting moments happen rather than directing them. Do you think of photography as stepping back and letting go, or are you still guiding the image in ways that may not be apparent to the viewer?

 

GK: I try to guide as little as possible. I'd like to disappear, to be invisible, so I can get out of the way of the photograph and whatever is unfolding in front of me. It's challenging — I have some natural limitations. Unfortunately, I'm 6'4”. People notice me right away. But I'm doing my best.

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RS: In your Portraits series, you talk about creating a “dialogue” instead of asking people to pose. How do you help your subjects feel comfortable enough to be themselves, so that the camera doesn't feel like an intrusion?

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GK: It varies, but this was another important lesson from my mentor. We were shooting a film he was directing — I was doing the lighting. The ending sequence was set in a bar, with three very shy teenage Bhutanese singers. A tracking dolly shot, where each of them sings their line as soon as the camera lands on them, frames them in a portrait. The third singer, a young girl, was nervous and kept missing her cue or flubbing her singing as soon as it was her turn. Time was running out. There were maybe a hundred extras and crew standing around, waiting. Rinpoche told her it didn't matter — to sit with her back to the camera, and just sing when she felt the time was right. Somehow, done this way, when the camera landed on a portrait of the back of her head, her breathless husky voice sang her line perfectly, and on cue. Her voice was so beautiful, I cried.

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A ‘dialogue’ can be spoken or unspoken. I have to be completely open and tuned in, and not hung up on what I want from the photograph. It's only a photograph. It's not a big deal. It doesn't even need to be taken.

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RS: Altered States engages with devotion, transcendence, and the many textures of belief in India. When photographing something as internal and intangible as faith, what becomes your anchor — the body, the ritual, the atmosphere, or something more elusive?

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GK: When taking photographs of these altered states, it's easier for me to be invisible — it's a relief. I find photographs to be the ideal mode of expression for these intangible internal states. It's strange: you can only photograph what you “see”, but if the subject forgets you exist, and you forget you exist, you'll end up with a photograph of something that can't be “seen.”

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RS: In The Last Children to Do Nothing, reality seems to take on a slightly surreal edge. When you're photographing in such situations, are you trying to stay true to what you see, or to the atmosphere and feeling of the moment?

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GK: That wall in Bodhgaya set me on my way to the alley in Kolkata. By then I had learned not to worry about making things beautiful. I still haven't gotten over the beauty problem completely, to be honest, but at least I'm aware of it. In that alley, everywhere I pointed the camera there was texture, colour, people, children who were completely and fully themselves, who didn't care if I took a photograph. They were open with me. I don't know what I did to deserve finding that alley — maybe some good karma in a previous life.

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I was there with my friend, a painter, who keeps chasing something and then gets totally distracted by side quests. That alley was a side quest. Neither of us will ever forget being there, or those children and what they gave us. The photographs just happened, as naturally as the sun setting, or rising. I didn't have to try. The only struggle was that I couldn't keep up with all the photographs constantly unfolding.

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RS: Whether it's the fluid identities in your portraits, the immersive pull of devotion, or the fractured, dreamlike quality of that alley in Kolkata, your work often inhabits in-between states. Are you consciously drawn to these thresholds — and what do they allow you to see that more fixed narratives cannot?

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GK: Yes, absolutely. An in-between state is the perfect description. I've taken so many photographs, sometimes with a camera and more often with my mind's eye — because I wasn't quick or skillful enough. I'm not always sure what I'm taking a photograph of. I just see, and try to respond to this threshold, this crossing, this gap, this world pulsing with realities folding into each other constantly. What is unfolding in front of me is unnameable. It is fascinating, and sometimes exhausting. Occasionally, I'm able to fix it into a photograph, or a series of photographs, so I can look at them at leisure.

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RS: As you think about the future, what continues to draw you forward in your work? Are there new ideas or directions you want to explore, and how do you see your photography evolving over the next five years?

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GK: I do have certain directions I want to pursue. I want to work more consistently with places, and with events. I don't want to choose — I want to have the self-knowledge to recognise what comes to me, and to apply what I've learned to those places so I can “see” them better with a camera. Or maybe better is the wrong word. See them more deeply.

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One night I was in a forest in Jharkhand with a friend. We walked near a lake in the dark — pitch dark, a cloudy night. I saw lights glowing in the distance and asked him what they were. He told me they were the gambling dens and night markets of the tribal communities, where they drink and gamble and dance the night away. I'd like to go across that lake, and take photographs. There are many such places. I hope I find my way to them.

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Thank you, Gautam, for talking to The Wise Owl about your art and creativity. We wish you the best in all your future creative endeavours.