When I returned from India in a jet-lagged fog at the start of the month, I was uncertain as to whether any of the photos I'd taken were good. The point of the trip was to attend a wedding, so the first week was a blur of stops at sites along the Golden Triangle, with lots of laughter and conversation with friends but not conducive to long, thought-out photo sessions. I'd barely had a chance to review what I'd shot at the end of each day, and gnawing at my subconscious was the underlying notion I hadn't got it: India's colour palette, the dizzying mix of textures, the stark contrast between modern luxury and rustic pastoralism. In fact, I was so discouraged I put-off editing. And put it off. And put it off.
Empty toll booth, Rajasthan, India
Sometime in that haze, my father suggested we watch the Indie flick 'Hell or High Water' on a Friday, family-movie night. A visual artist himself, within ten minutes of screen-time I paused the movie to remark to him about its extraordinarily tight framing, which he agreed on. Stark, wide-angle landscapes are juxtaposed by what reviewer Bill Desowitz calls 'dark, claustrophobic interiors'; interiors made all the more stifling because the visual convention of ensuring your entire subject is 'in-shot' was thrown out the window. Cowboy hats vary between hardly in the frame to cut-off, Chris Pine's knees are visually capped in conversation with his career criminal brother, and during the film's initial getaway scene, each brother has his head alternatingly clipped, door-frames nearly absent. The strategy is predominant in dialogue scenes with the overall effect of intensifying action and portrayed emotions—i.e. you feel as though you occupy the impossible third seat next to Pine's character because ostensibly that is what you would see if you were in the car. I liked it—its an innate, stylistic tendency of my own. And one I've become increasingly aware of as I try to improve my craft because I'd like to be more than a just a one trick pony.
Brick layers at Fatehpur Sikri, Uttar Pradesh, India
When I did finally sit down to edit, the first thing I was drawn to in proofing was a certain quality of India's light, admittedly a consequence at the time of the year we travelled from winter coal-burning and year-round exhaust fumes. It has a warm milkiness like the yogurt-based curries you consume while in-country, or tamarind powder—a perfect contrast to azure skies. But on further editing what I've come to realize is the source of my anxiety is a change in framing: all of a sudden I'm placing my subjects centred and perpendicular to the viewer in a boxed-in, boxy fashion. It's marks a stylistic departure for me, both the unintended consequence of snapping shots through a moving bus window but also something deliberately undertaken at historic sites and on the street. Overall I'm happy with the paradigmatic shift, as I'm hopeful it evokes an emotional response in the viewer not dissimilar to the intensity of Pine's cramped car.
Birds on the roof of a bus, Rajasthan, India