How Photography Project Evolved into Jhoole

I had an idea completely inspired by and dependent on Indian textiles; it led me to pursue a collaborative photography project, funded by the Royal Society of Asian Affairs, that would reflect weavers’ lives and literally embody their craft: I spent time working with female weavers in Maheshwar, Madhya Pradesh who were not only the subjects of my photographs, but also wove the specific textiles that have been incorporated into them. The resulting images present a portrait of their lives and livelihoods. My technique involves overlapping transparent and opaque surfaces and inlaying fabric in order to create a striking contrast: the images of the weavers wearing the saris that they wove themselves are black and white except for the colorful saris that shine inexplicably when held at different angles like a holograph appearing and vanishing with the incidence of light.

 Before pursuing this photography project in Maheshwar, I had already spent a year in Varanasi, India one of the world’s oldest living cities, and one of the most photogenic, situated on the banks of the Ganges and constantly flooded with eager pilgrims from across the subcontinent. Surprisingly, it had actually taken me about eight months to get my camera out. Initially, I had been afraid of being an intrusive presence; in the end, however, it was more often my photos that were forcibly invaded. Taking photographs in Varanasi is, it was almost impossible to get an image devoid of a person: when I would frame an alleyway animated by a mural of Hanuman lifting Mount Sanjivini or a red bicycle propped up against a rusty blue gate most often someone would appear within the frame from who-knows-where, cross their arms and strike a dignified pose before I could even snap my shutter. It was like they had crossed an invisible border; I felt like exclaiming: “Welcome to my photograph.”

 Though any given subject of a photograph is spoken of in the passive as “having their photo taken”, they are often, as demonstrated by my experience in Vanarasi, the ones who pursue being photographed in certain contrived contexts and thus actively “give” a particular image. It was with this concept in mind that I departed for Maheshwar eager to do a photography project anchored in a particular place where the subjects being photographed, or rather “giving” photographs, would be actively involved beyond the fleeting moment of posing. What I seemed to have taken for granted is the power of what I theoretically knew going into the project: cameras are not objective recorders, but also catalysts—people not only “give” images, but sometimes transform themselves in the process.

The photography project would be based in Maheshwar, a village on the banks of Narmada, that, like Varanasi, is recognized as one of Shiva’s sacred riverfront abodes. The stone buildings embroidering the riverbank are engraved with intricate decorative motifs: the heart of the city embodies the same subtle elegance of the Maheshwari saris it is known for. The famous Maheshwari saris consist of checks and stripes that merge into two-sided decorative borders known as bugdi and feature classic designs such as badam, baila ankhi, muthda and gom katari. 

Only after going into the project did I come to realize that many of my preconceptions were really very naive. The first weaver who expressed enthusiastic interest in being one of the subjects in my photography was Maya, a vivacious woman, who works from home in order to look after her three kids between winding the warp and weaving. I explained to her that I would just like to take some photographs of her wearing a sari that she had woven. Her reply shocked me: “I do not own any of the sairs I have woven myself”. It turns out that Maya, like many other female weavers in the unorganized sector, cannot even afford to own the saris that she weaves. She does not have the money to invest in her own product and is thus reliant on middlemen to provide raw materials. She weaves what they tell her to and hands over the saris for 100 rupees apiece, making an average wage of about $1 a day. I decided that I would pay for raw materials which would not only give her a chance to weave a sari for herself, but also to actually make all the vital decisions regarding materials, colors, designs. Slowly, other female weavers from the neighbourhood began to join in. They toured the village together looking for innovative designs for their saris, something they had never done before. They went on to choose the threads and dyes for themselves for the very first time. Because materials must be purchased in bulk, there were enough threads that they were all able to weave their own saris on Maya’s loom.

 In the end, they choose to weave unbelievably, light, airy saris with fine-count cotton and mulberry silk in creamy shades of sherbet orange, pink and yellow with golden brocaded borders in the Narmada Lahir, or waves of Narmada, motif. They were absolutely stunning, glowing, as they wrapped themselves in their own creations for the first time. I wanted them to direct the photos and they had plenty of ideas about the contexts in which they wanted to be photographed; they were ready to take me out, not only to photograph them performing one of their favorite monsoon rituals, but also to participate: “You should also swing during the monsoon season”, Maya told me excitedly. I asked her why and she replied, “Because you should swing during the monsoon season”.

I thought only of the iconic image of dreamy-eyed Krishna and Radha pictured embracing and swinging during the monsoon season in rural Vrindaban, lost in an innocent and meditative love. Krishna is one of the most important gods in the Hindu pantheon. As god in human form, he outwardly led the life of a simple cow herder. He fell in love with Radha, a milk maid, or gopi, who became so consumed by her love that she attained meditative powers greater than any yogi.

  It is easy to see why the monsoon season is considered the most romantic in India.  When I arrived in Maheshwar, I examined the terrain outside of my window: dry twiggy trees poked violently out of cracked ground; with the arrival of the rain season however, as June drifted into July, the scorched landscape transformed amazingly quickly into a fecund river valley. But how does it feel to swing in this newly rejuvenated air? I experienced it and let me tell you, it is beyond words… it is only worth saying that you should swing during the monsoon season.

 The feeling of newness and transformation in the air seemed to be emanating not only from the landscape, but also, from the weavers themselves. The image of Maya and Deepa swinging high in the air encapsulates this feeling for me. They stand holding hands and facing one another. Maya propels them both forward by squatting down to her knees and then thrusting herself up repeatedly into a standing position generating enough momentum to move them higher and higher up into the shade of the giant tree. They laugh and laugh. I could not believe how beautiful they looked, both in creamy, iridescent shades of orange and pink fabric that billowed in the breeze. I was transfixed by the remarkable sheen of these hand-woven textiles and the soft ethereal glow of the women wearing them. 

 I have always admired the beauty of fine textiles, but this was the first time I was seeing the material along with the hands that wove it: these were hands that create art, feed children, sweep rooms, wash clothes, and make roti—hands that are diligent, powerful, feminine. They were able to take ownership of their craft with this project which is more than I could have anticipated. They told me they felt liberated and wanted to know: how can we keep this creative control and how can we stop being exploited by a market where we are invisible? 

 I began to wonder… maybe I could help them to do more. That is how these photographs you are seeing, went from being the “final product” I intended them to be, to becoming a reminder to me of how this new project began. We created a fair trade label Jhoole (swings) which reflects our collective passion for beautiful hand-woven textiles, along with respect for hands that are not disembodied, but hands that are part of a vibrant and independent life. In this respect this project has become what I have learned an “anchored” photography project will inevitably become; these photos are neither an end nor a beginning, but mark out a space in-between, a place where subjects and photographers both gave and took much more than either one of them had anticipated.