Rafiqul Islam Raf possesses the kind of stillness that usually belongs to the eye of a storm. We are in Studio EVF on a random Monday, a rare pocket of calm in a space usually overrun by the controlled chaos of back-to-back shoots. In the absence of hair dryers and camera flashes, the studio reveals itself as a high-end archive of an extraordinary career.
In the early 2000s, the celebrity photographer — as the industry now so affectionately calls Raf — bought a trade license and entered a scene that was still finding its pulse. Through a series of cultural provocations, from Rupashi Bangla (2004) to the industry favourite, Feel the Passion (2009), he dragged fashion photography out of the shadows and into the well-lit hallways of the gallery. By the time he shared Trio (2011), a collaborative tour de force alongside beauty expert Afroza Parveen and fashion expert Shahrukh Amin, he had effectively rewritten the industry’s DNA. Raf is the man who never waits for the curve to arrive; he is the one who bends it. Today, his name, specifically the “Raf’s Click” moniker, is less of a signature and more of a gold standard.
Over a meal that feels more like a mentorship session than an interview, Rafiqul Islam Raf discusses why boredom is the greatest threat to a creative, and why, in an age of algorithms, the most radical thing a photographer can do is stay authentic.
You initially picked up photography to escape the monotony of engineering. Now that photography is your 9 to 5, do you still get the same joy from your work?
When you work in any sector for a long time, a certain boringness can naturally creep in. Since the beginning, I have made a conscious effort to keep my commercial obligations separate from my creative passion. I have found that boredom only really happens when you start thinking about the money first and the work second.
In this industry, you are often dealing with commercial briefs where the client is stuck in a very specific way of thinking. They have their own vision, they are paying for it, and they don’t always trust the creative to stray from that path. You find yourself bound to deliver exactly what’s on the page, and if you do that every day just for the money, you’ll burn out. You will lose that spark that made you pick up a camera in the first place.
That’s why “Raf’s Click” exists. Here I don’t have to answer to a client or a rigid brief; my creativity can just run wild. I am also incredibly selective about the projects I take on. I look for what I call “good data.” If the chemistry between the team and the model is right, the work doesn’t feel like a transaction. Every project is a fresh challenge, and that’s how I find joy in the click every single day.
You come from an engineering background. How does that analytical side of your brain talk to your creative side?
It’s a fascinating connection, really. You have to remember that when I started out in 2004, we were still living in the film era. It was a completely manual world. We couldn’t see the image through the camera like you do now; we had to send the film to a lab, wait two days for the negatives, mark them, and then go through the long process of printing.
When the digital revolution finally hit, many of our seniors found it incredibly difficult to adapt. They were used to the old ways, and suddenly there was this new digital language that didn’t exist in manual cameras. But for me, because of my engineering background, those terms were second nature. While others were confused by things like “Kelvin” or how a sensor works, I could relate to them instantly. I already understood the physics and the character of light.
I was also lucky because my studies meant I was already comfortable with computers and Photoshop at a time when most photographers didn’t even know how to use a digital camera to output their work. That technical edge allowed me to solve problems that they didn’t even know were problems yet. But it wasn’t just about the math of it — my studies in engineering, later in photojournalism, allow me to convince a client or a model of a vision because I can explain the why and the technicality of the shot.
It taught me that education is never a waste; whether it’s your personal life or your professional journey, that analytical foundation always comes to your aid when you are trying to build something.
From film to digital, and now with AI-generated pictures becoming the norm, how do you ensure a “Raf’s Click” still feels human and authentic?
It’s exciting, but also a matter of real concern because technology is so often misused. But I see AI as a necessary challenge. When digital cameras first became accessible, everyone thought the professional photographers were finished. People thought they could just equip an employee with a high-end camera to do the job. But the opposite happened — the value of the expert actually increased because clients realised an amateur couldn’t replicate the creativity and vision of a seasoned professional.
My response to AI is actually to lean into the raw. For years, the industry was obsessed with editing that made everything look buttery smooth — that was the trend for a while. Now, I am moving in the complete opposite direction. I want the human being to be visible in the frame. I want to see the skin textures, the slight wrinkles, and the real character of the person.
Overall, I am not too worried. AI can generate a technically perfect image, but it still requires a human brain to give it a soul and creative direction. I believe that as this trend of artificiality peaks, the demand for original, authentic beauty is going to become even rarer and more expensive. That human touch is what will ultimately separate art from a mere algorithm.
You were recently seen spending time with beach photographers in Cox’s Bazar. What did that interaction remind you about the purest form of photography?
The interaction itself was quite funny. I was there on a family tour, and I was trying to stay low-key, just chatting with them as a tourist. One of the local photographers actually challenged me that he’d take a very good picture of me, and I just went along with it. Eventually, my daughter couldn’t keep the secret anymore and told them, “My father is a photographer.” When they realised I was the one behind the posters for films like Jongli and Toofan, the whole reaction changed. They treated me with so much respect, asking for advice. We ended up sitting down and sharing a meal together.
No matter where they work, those men are my brothers in this profession. I told them that before you press that button, you have to think about what you actually want to capture. I encouraged them to look at magazines and go to exhibitions to develop their eye. It was a powerful reminder that photography, at its purest, is about that shared connection and the responsibility to pass on what you know.
For the newcomers entering this fast-paced, digital-first industry, what is the secret to building a journey that lasts twenty years rather than just twenty seconds?
The secret is understanding that there is no shortcut to real respect. Today, many young talents often go viral in a very short time, but they fade just as quickly. They don’t realise that if you depend on others to build your platform, you lose your individual power.
My advice is to find a mentor. We grew up practising under traditional teachers, but today’s generation learns from YouTube. While YouTube can teach you how a camera operates, it doesn’t teach you the human side, i.e. how to handle a celebrity with grace, how to respect your industry, or how to maintain your lifestyle and commitment to sustain a long-term market.
Relevance requires a bridge between the beautiful and the digital. I believe those of us at the top have a commitment to build a digital footprint that newcomers can actually look up to and learn from. That’s how the industry will sustain itself. If you work in an individual bubble, you might get millions of views, but you won’t have the foundation to survive when the trends change. Build your own authentic track, respect those who came before you, and remember that a star is not made in a season — they are built over a long, steady journey.