Satyajit Ray jokingly described Nemai Ghosh as “the bug” on his windowsill. Since 1968, when the duo first met, Ghosh was Ray’s unofficial photographer until the director’s death in 1992. In the last decade, the public has seen dozens of these iconic black-and-white images from Ghosh’s archive. An ongoing show at DAG in Delhi now brings together a less-familiar aspect of the photographer’s oeuvre—a selection of colour prints of Ray from over the years, also reproduced in a handsome volume, introduced by Ray’s biographer, Andrew Robinson.

Faces and Facets, on the second floor of the gallery, has images interspersed with Ray’s handwritten screenplays and other paraphernalia kept in vitrines. Apart from large-format prints, contact sheets appear on the wall, forcing the eye to peer into the finer details. But, ultimately, it’s the towering figure of the man himself that looms over the visitor—engrossed in writing and sketching at his study in his Kolkata home, composing music, operating the camera and, of course, directing his cast.

Apart from some moments of levity, most of the portraits convey a profound immersion in the life of the mind, even as the world keeps turning around. In one poignant moment, Ray stands alone, in the middle of a field underneath an azure sky, consulting his famous kheror khata—the hardbound red notebooks in which he recorded every conceivable information about works in progress. From screenplay to costume design, expenses to scheduling, every last detail about his movies was noted in these pages.

Ghosh’s work remains alive and agile because of the immediacy with which he took most of them. Be it Ray doodling, practising his calligraphy, whispering instructions to child actors, or taking a moment out with his stars, the images have the quality of existing in medias res—in the middle of things. It is as though a moment, as evanescent as the blink of an eye, has been frozen, before the rush of reality overwhelms it yet again. These photographs say as much about the artist Ray was, as about the ethos of filmmaking he cultivated through his practice.

Ghosh’s use of colour film coincided with Ray moving into the same medium starting with Kanchenjungha (1962). He went on to use colour in several documentaries—Sikkim (1971), The Inner Eye (1972), Bala (1976)—and feature films like Sonar Kella (1971), Shatranj ki Khiladi (1977), and Ghare Baire (1984). There are Ray loyalists—and I count myself among them—who find his black-and-white work more moving than the colour era. But Robinson makes an astute point: “He took advantage of colour particularly in designing the costumes… so as to reveal a great deal about… social positions, personal tastes and clashing mental attitudes even before (his characters) opened their mouths.” No wonder Ghosh’s archive remains a treasure trove.

On till 4 July at DAG Delhi.

Satyajit Ray jokingly described Nemai Ghosh as “the bug” on his windowsill. Since 1968, when the duo first met, Ghosh was Ray’s unofficial photographer until the director’s death in 1992. In the last decade, the public has seen dozens of these iconic black-and-white images from Ghosh’s archive. An ongoing show at DAG in Delhi now brings together a less-familiar aspect of the photographer’s oeuvre—a selection of colour prints of Ray from over the years, also reproduced in a handsome volume, introduced by Ray’s biographer, Andrew Robinson.

Faces and Facets, on the second floor of the gallery, has images interspersed with Ray’s handwritten screenplays and other paraphernalia kept in vitrines. Apart from large-format prints, contact sheets appear on the wall, forcing the eye to peer into the finer details. But, ultimately, it’s the towering figure of the man himself that looms over the visitor—engrossed in writing and sketching at his study in his Kolkata home, composing music, operating the camera and, of course, directing his cast.

Apart from some moments of levity, most of the portraits convey a profound immersion in the life of the mind, even as the world keeps turning around. In one poignant moment, Ray stands alone, in the middle of a field underneath an azure sky, consulting his famous kheror khata—the hardbound red notebooks in which he recorded every conceivable information about works in progress. From screenplay to costume design, expenses to scheduling, every last detail about his movies was noted in these pages.

Ghosh’s work remains alive and agile because of the immediacy with which he took most of them. Be it Ray doodling, practising his calligraphy, whispering instructions to child actors, or taking a moment out with his stars, the images have the quality of existing in medias res—in the middle of things. It is as though a moment, as evanescent as the blink of an eye, has been frozen, before the rush of reality overwhelms it yet again. These photographs say as much about the artist Ray was, as about the ethos of filmmaking he cultivated through his practice.

Ghosh’s use of colour film coincided with Ray moving into the same medium starting with Kanchenjungha (1962). He went on to use colour in several documentaries—Sikkim (1971), The Inner Eye (1972), Bala (1976)—and feature films like Sonar Kella (1971), Shatranj ki Khiladi (1977), and Ghare Baire (1984). There are Ray loyalists—and I count myself among them—who find his black-and-white work more moving than the colour era. But Robinson makes an astute point: “He took advantage of colour particularly in designing the costumes… so as to reveal a great deal about… social positions, personal tastes and clashing mental attitudes even before (his characters) opened their mouths.” No wonder Ghosh’s archive remains a treasure trove.

On till 4 July at DAG Delhi.