Nasir Ali Mamun shares the philosophy behind his lifetime of portraiture.
I first encountered S.M. Sultan’s work through his paintings – immense canvases where villagers defy their own reality, their muscles bulging with a power that feels more symbolic than real. It is a vision of strength, a beautiful myth about the human spirit. Years later, however, in the very same gallery where those canvases first moved me, I encountered portraits of the maestro himself, captured through the lens of a legend in his own right.
To mark the birth centenary of the legendary artist S.M. Sultan (1924–1994), the Bengal Foundation, in collaboration with HSBC Bangladesh, presented the show titled ‘Shotoborshe Sultan,’ featuring the works of photographer Nasir Ali Mamun. Running from August 22 to September 27, the exhibition presented 108 portraits, some displayed for the first time, together with original negatives and handwritten letters. The portraits showed us the artist himself: a man often frail and surrounded not by vibrant paintings, but by the quiet stillness of his humble abode. He lived a simple life, a recluse surrounded by his pet cats, parrots and mongoose, but he created a body of work so full of life and defiance. While most visitors left with a greater appreciation for the legendary artist, I became more curious about the man who photographed him. This contrast – between the powerful art and the quiet, unassuming artist – is the heart of Mamun’s work, and it reveals a side of Sultan that few ever saw.
Nasir Ali Mamun, rightly known as ‘Camerar Kobi,’ (lit. Poet of the Lens) is a man who has, for over five decades, peered deep into life. His work, which has earned him the nation’s highest honours, is a quiet rebellion against the fleeting nature of our world. He is a pioneer of portrait photography, yes, but more importantly, he is also a cartographer of the soul.
As a man of quiet observation, Mamun’s philosophy came to life not in grand statements, but in his own subtle, profound words. To truly understand the man behind the camera, one must simply listen. What follows is our conversation, where he shares his insights on art, life, and the quiet light he finds in the world.
Q: Could you speak about the role of light, both physical and metaphorical, in your work, particularly in capturing the inner world of a subject like S.M. Sultan?
A: My goal, from the very beginning, was to make the invisible visible. When I started out in the 70’s, portrait photography was unheard of in Bangladesh. Most of my contemporaries were focused on nature. Anwar Shah, among others, also photographed cityscapes – but I wanted to capture a different kind of landscape: the soul of a person. With Sultan, this was especially true. Everyone saw the myth of the artist, but I wanted to show the person. I followed him into his home, a space defined by the humble and the elemental, where light itself seemed to enter with a certain reverence. I felt it was in this quiet light that the truth of his life would reveal itself.
Q: You have photographed numerous iconic figures in South Asian. What is your process for establishing a connection with them and gaining their trust, and in doing so, have you discovered a common thread or a shared quality among those that you aim to capture?
A: There is no single process for a connection like that. Trust is not something you can manufacture; it must be earned with time. When I began, people were obsessed with studio photography. They were used to artificial, retouched photographs. I found that these images did not match reality. I believe that a photograph must capture the unique face of each person (I feel every individual is different, even twins have different finger prints). I began chasing the fleeting movements and the drama of light and shadow that one finds in a portrait. The truth is, great portraiture is a dialogue between two souls. My subjects and I become one, and in that moment, I can see through their eyes.
I believe that all of the great figures I have photographed, regardless of their field of interest, share a similar trait: a deep, quiet yearning that fuels their work, and I tried to capture that longing.
Q: Having dedicated so much of your life to depicting these individuals, what do you believe is the most important exchange that occurs between the photographer and the photographed in the creation of a powerful portrait?
A: The most important exchange is the moment of complete surrender. When I am with a subject, I don’t just see a person; I see their life story, their struggles, their joy. For instance, Sultan was the most educated and modern person I knew, yet he lived a simple life. The art world was clamouring for a Sultan painting, but he was struggling to make his ends meet. It was a contradiction I had to capture. I didn’t rely on any technical skills. I relied on my heart. I believe that my camera, in that exchange, becomes a tool for empathy. It is an extension of my own desire to understand. My subjects give me their vulnerability, and I give them my reverence. It is a quiet, sacred moment that produces the most powerful work.
Q: In an age of instantaneous images, what do you believe is the enduring power of a single, well-crafted portrait?
A: My photographs, you see, are no longer just for me. They are for the next generation, in the very same spirit that guided a great soul like Sultan. I still work with black and white film – it is my first love. In an age where every moment is a fleeting image, black and white forces you to look for a more profound truth. It strips away the distractions of colour, leaving only the essential play of light and shadow. The enduring power of a well-crafted portrait lies in its refusal to be hurried. A portrait, for me, is an act of stillness, and in that stillness, the future generation can look into the eyes of a person and glimpse a timeless truth.