Dhaka needs days to begin to be understood, and everyone will make their own opinion.
I think it's important to roam around its chaotic streets in rickshaw. Not just for exoticism, but because this allows you to see in a wide range in all directions. This is how I started to make up my mind; overcome the initial shock of traffic, pollution, the sound of horns that never stops, the human tide that walks in every millimeter of the ground.
I see Dhaka as a city divided in two levels. The upper level is that of the buildings, the sky, the elevated section of the metropolitan train under construction—all completely gray, gloomy, oppressive. Then you look down and see, in the dusty gray, a continuous stream of stunning vibrant colors, in the colorful clothes of the women. And those colors seem to acquire a symbolic value, as if color could win its daily battle with the poverty and darkness of the gray buildings and the sky that seems to crush all Dhaka, like the lid of a boiling pot.
I had a feeling—that was only a suggestion in Rome, which later became a certainty in Dhaka—that the hope of these people resides in the colors, that the colors are the extreme attempt not to give in to the misery of dirt and pollution. That beauty is still possible, like hope.
Daily reality is the absence of color, but its humanity is a rainbow that fights every day.
I believe this is the anomalous charm of the city. And this is my homage: what I have seen, with the black inside the nose and under the nails, but with colored watery eyes. This is my Dhaka, its unforgettable faces, its routine, the wealth of the privileged, and the extreme poverty of the slums.
And above all this, my biggest praise goes to the historical district of Old Dhaka and its market by the river. It fascinates you with its narrow alleys, attracts you between the scents of spices and garbage, the red lips of the paan chewers: you enter green like its leaves and then it spits you out red like the sap. It is an incredible feeling to be chewed from one place. I also spit out my pictures for you.
I will choose ten photos, out of hundreds, to tell the story behind each of them. Let the journey begins!
I think it's important to roam around its chaotic streets in rickshaw. Not just for exoticism, but because this allows you to see in a wide range in all directions. This is how I started to make up my mind; overcome the initial shock of traffic, pollution, the sound of horns that never stops, the human tide that walks in every millimeter of the ground.
I see Dhaka as a city divided in two levels. The upper level is that of the buildings, the sky, the elevated section of the metropolitan train under construction—all completely gray, gloomy, oppressive. Then you look down and see, in the dusty gray, a continuous stream of stunning vibrant colors, in the colorful clothes of the women. And those colors seem to acquire a symbolic value, as if color could win its daily battle with the poverty and darkness of the gray buildings and the sky that seems to crush all Dhaka, like the lid of a boiling pot.
I had a feeling—that was only a suggestion in Rome, which later became a certainty in Dhaka—that the hope of these people resides in the colors, that the colors are the extreme attempt not to give in to the misery of dirt and pollution. That beauty is still possible, like hope.
Daily reality is the absence of color, but its humanity is a rainbow that fights every day.
I believe this is the anomalous charm of the city. And this is my homage: what I have seen, with the black inside the nose and under the nails, but with colored watery eyes. This is my Dhaka, its unforgettable faces, its routine, the wealth of the privileged, and the extreme poverty of the slums.
And above all this, my biggest praise goes to the historical district of Old Dhaka and its market by the river. It fascinates you with its narrow alleys, attracts you between the scents of spices and garbage, the red lips of the paan chewers: you enter green like its leaves and then it spits you out red like the sap. It is an incredible feeling to be chewed from one place. I also spit out my pictures for you.
I will choose ten photos, out of hundreds, to tell the story behind each of them. Let the journey begins!
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| Dhaka, 20 February 2020 |
Good writing
ReplyDeleteThe earth is art and photographer is the witness.
ReplyDeleteYou walk look see and stop to photograph...and I enjoy seeing all those...thanks a lot.