For more than 60 years, Magnum photographers have been giving the world lessons in how to see: from the piles of corpses inside the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp to the effects of Agent Orange in Vietnam, from the burka-clad women of Srinagar to the teddy boys of Southend, their work opened our eyes to what was going on in the world around us like no one and nothing before.
Collectively, randomly, with fierce and fiercely differentiated gifts, they painted the history of the post-war world with their Leicas, Nikons and Pentaxes. The work was so compelling that having seen, say, Vietnam through the lens of Philip Jones Griffiths or James Dean through the lens of Dennis Stock or a starving Bihari peasant through the lens of Werner Bischof, those subjects and the ideas and debates that surrounded them would never be the same again: without resorting to hyperbole, they materially affected the discourse of our times.
All that?s in the past tense, in the same way that one talks of Stalin or Watergate in the past tense: Magnum put its stamp on an era ? a long one ? with such unforgettable gusto that it became part of that era. Yet the founders of Magnum had the foresight to organise themselves in a way that allowed the brand (to use a word many of them would probably cringe at) to survive beyond that long wave of greatness. That is why today we are able to offer? you Young Magnum: four photographers in their late-twenties and early-thirties with the spark of brilliance, the individuality of eye and the ferocious commitment for older members of the co-operative to recognise them as fellow spirits, and haul them inside. Continue reading “Young Magnum: The hotshots ready to take their place in history”
Probably because it was first invented in Europe and probably because it was, for a long time, a rich man?s club, photography has been predominately a western hemisphere preoccupation. For a very long time both its creators ( photographers) and its support ( magazines) have been geolocated in those countries that had fought the second world war. The rest of the world was only involved in photography as a subject but not a participant.
No longer. Cameras have reach affordable pricing while the internet has made publishing extremely easy and cheap. It is the end of the western?s world hegemony on photography. No longer can the so call developed countries can and should impose its photographic vision. Enters?Majority World photo agency. Majority World is a not just a new photo agency but rather, as they call themselves, a social enterprise, that works with very talented photographers from Asia, Africa, Latin America and the Middle East. They bring this vision to the old world, facilitating in the process the emergence of a strong local photographic creative culture. They bridge the gap between photographers from emerging countries and image buyers from developed countries, allowing the third world visual voice to be heard, or rather to be seen. Because they are not tangled in cultural cliches or image saturation like their North American or European peers, the?Majority World photographers bring highly refreshing and extremely talented imagery.
Majority World has just recently relaunched it?s online platform here 😕http://www.majorityworld.com
They are based in the UK and can be reached at : firstname.lastname@example.org
Wasn?t sure how it would work out.? But it was an interesting suggestion from Lino. ?Just do what interests you. Take what grabs your eye? she had said.
The embankment in Rayerbazaar was built to protect the big city from the floods.? Communities have grown around it. Mostly? migrant workers in search of work. Many who have lost their homes to the river.
Majeda, our home help. Lives there too. Her husband suggested we meet at the mosque. We agreed to meet on Monday the 1st November, before sunrise. ?You?ve just ruined your prospects? my partner Rahnuma, reminded me. ?There?ll be a whole crowd, and you won?t be able to work. ?
Well it was done. I had just come back from the Long March and hadn?t really slept the last two nights. Cleaning the lenses. Making sure I had enough memory cards. Recharging batteries. Some money for the day. I was set. Went to bed early. The alarm woke me up. But it was pitch dark, and turning it off I dosed off again, waking up in panic a few minutes later. It didn?t matter. It was a cloudy day and the early morning sun I had wanted to catch was nowhere to be seen.
All geared up, I rode my bicycle in search of the mosque, stopping on the way to take the odd photograph. One picture of the sunlight gleaning on a grilled closed gate, was the only sunlit image I had that day.
The market place was a delight. People setting up shop, fishmongers arranging their fish in neat shapes. Narrow lanes lit by streaks of light leaking through the tarpaulin slits on the roof were newly swept and glistening. I walked up the stairs to the rooftop, which looked more like an unfinished construction site than a bazaar rooftop.? Only later did I learn that it had been a three storied building which was being torn down, to make room for a multistoried modern marketplace. Most of the shops had moved to nearby buildings, Only the ?kacha bazaar? where perishables were sold, was still operating on the ground floor. There were still a few dress and shoe shops on the edges, waiting to move.
The barren cityscape was worlds away from the bustle below. Three boys slept, huddled together, oblivious to the day having started. Crows perched on the rod ends of the concrete slabs. Gaping holes in the roof showed through the bazaar and the streets underneath. Looking up, many saw me and insisted they be photographed. Others busy with work were oblivious to my presence.
The mandir next to the mosque had small banyan trees clinging to the old decaying bricks. Bulbulis had made their homes in the gaps in the bricks. I mused on what I was doing . On the fact that there was no pressure at all on me ?doing? anything. I was doing what I loved to do. Taking pictures of whatever pleased me. It was the loveliest of combinations. A commissioned personal project. Rare in these days of diminishing opportunities. I decided I didn?t need all this gear, and went back to leave the big DSLRs and long lenses behind. I was going to spend the rest of the day with my compact. Not fully sure of my decision, I took one DSLR body with a wide lens with me. Just in case.
By the time I returned, I was a known face. A shopkeeper brought out his pet mouse and insisted it be photographed. Mice are generally hated by shopkeepers and I was struck by how lovingly he stroked the little animal, which was least interested in the photographer!
I took some interviews of shopkeepers getting their take on why the price of rice had escalated. Then went on to the river nearby. There was no rush, and I stopped on the way at the butchers and the blacksmiths. He complained that many had taken photographs but he?d never been given a print. Giving him a card and promising to return next Monday, I rode ahead. Past the sewage pipes, a funeral procession, an entire rooftop being relocated?
A boat full of pots had berthed and I sat fascinated by the careful precision with which the fragile contents were offloaded, packed and taken pile high through the busy traffic. Then, as I was heading back, a deafening thump. A motorbike running at speed had rammed into me. Dazed on the tarmac, I realized I was badly hurt. The bleeding from the ear didn?t bode well. People came rushing. I had enough sense to ensure no one tried to ?help? me in an overenthusiastic manner. ?jate matal tale thik? (might be drunk, but his rhythm?s OK) I thought. Except for a kid who poked his oily finger on my lens, neither of my cameras had been damaged. I?d instinctively shielded them during my fall!
Putting my mangled bike and my mangled body on a rickshaw. With the help of a passerby, who held on to the bike and me as we weaved our way through the bazaar traffic, I made my way home.
My sister and my brother-in-law, both doctors, came to see me. They wanted me to go to the hospital. I wanted guests to leave so I could get on with my work. Pictures needed to be uploaded. Propping myself on the bed, so the laptop could be perched in a manner that would allow me to type with my good left hand, and my right shoulder, arm and leg be propped so it hurt less, I finally got on to the Net and sent a cryptic message to Lino. Later, when the pain had become more manageable, I sent two images to Lino, asking her to upload for me.
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