When studios shaped memories

A flash decision by our son to have a family photograph clicked by a professional saw the four of us posing inside a photo studio recently. It was a rare visit in present times, triggering fond memories of yesteryears.

In the 1960s and 1970s, personal cameras were a luxury few could afford. For most families, the neighbourhood photo studio was the sole custodian of memories, delivering professionalism and permanence. Nearly every locality had one, typically run by a trained photographer.

The more established studios—such as G K Vale and G G Welling—were located centrally on M G Road. Their clientele ranged from local residents to families travelling across the city for special occasions: weddings, christenings, milestone birthdays, anniversaries and graduations. At times, the visit was for something as ordinary as a black-and-white passport photograph.

Smaller studios served their immediate neighbourhoods and bore a striking resemblance to one another. They were modest spaces with a waiting area whose walls displayed framed portraits. Glass cabinets held albums and boxes of Kodak and Fuji film rolls, while a small counter showcased sample prints in various sizes.

Beyond lay the studio—a dimly lit room furnished with a sofa or a few chairs, a curtain backdrop, and occasionally ornate Victorian-style furniture that lent an air of quiet elegance to photographs. The camera, large and immobile on its tripod, was surrounded by light stands, umbrellas and assorted equipment.

The ritual was efficient and familiar. The photographer offered a mirror, a comb, and sometimes a dab of talcum powder, then instructed you to adjust your chin or tilt your head. Lights were switched on, a smile gently coaxed, and the shutter clicked. In five or ten minutes it was done.

After paying an advance, one returned days later to collect the photographs and negatives—carefully preserved, allowing additional prints if needed. Films were processed manually in darkrooms, a slow and painstaking craft now largely forgotten.

A studio visit was almost obligatory for families. For us, it meant walking to Chandran’s Studio in Cox Town or occasionally Stella or Sujan Studio on Wheeler Road. Dressed in our Sunday best—Father in a suit, Mother in a silk sari—we posed dutifully, urged into smiles.

The arrival of the mounted or framed photograph was eagerly awaited. One picture invariably claimed pride of place in the living room, becoming a talking point for visiting friends and relatives.

Photo studios documented all of life’s milestones, joyful and sombre. Families posed with children displaying medals and trophies. At funerals, photographers recorded solemn gatherings in churches and cemeteries. Some studios even supplied neckties for those wishing to appear formal.

Today, many of these studios have vanished, overtaken by digital photography; others have adapted. The craft of manual film development has nearly disappeared, as have timeless black-and-white portraits. Yet, leafing through old albums, it is the monochrome and sepia-toned images that linger longest.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.