After living in London for nearly 30 years, Kavi Pujara “re-started a lapsed conversation” with his native Leicester. In his introductory text, he notes: “while I may no longer be part of this neighborhood, I am of it.” In fact, his relationship to community has been inextricable from his photography practice, reflecting a fond familiarity. Kavi honors his renewed affiliation with the city by featuring residences and in-between street corners in a bilingual book, This Golden Mile (published Setanta) and an eponymous exhibition at the Martin Parr Foundation in Bristol, on view through December 18. The spectrum of portraits and landscapes mix UK symbols with totems of South Asian migration. “Communities like this are not an erosion of British values or its culture, but a vital artery in our intertwined and tangled colonial histories,” he affirms. And yet, the pleasure of reconnecting with his South Asian identity in the city he grew up in is offset by the larger, ugly legislative reality in which ‘The Nationality and Borders Act of 2022’ has, officially, implemented cultural othering in the UK.
We spoke with Kavi about the intricacies of assimilation, and the way attentive listening allows for more perceptive looking.
I loved this idea you articulate about restarting a “lapsed conversation” with your origins. Could talk about that rekindling? What does it mean to engage with something that you’re familiar with, but have to approach afresh?
When I moved back, I wanted to reconnect with people I’d been in touch with when growing up here. I visited my parents’ friends and neighbors, and I’d always bring my camera and take photographs. But… I’d been away from the city for 27 years. I knew it wasn’t the same place I’d grown up in. I realized that a lot of my feelings for the place from when I had been young, I’d buried somewhere deep. It wasn’t until I was passing by a wall where I used to hang out with friends or a bus stop where I once had my nose broken that I realized I’d not really processed everything somehow. So this is an opportunity for me to do that.
Coming back, I wanted to redefine the city. I moved back with Brexit — all of that new bigotry and prejudice that was being expressed openly. There was this underlying kind of nationalistic fervor around. To do this project, I wanted to show that this experiment in multiculturalism had worked.
I felt that the best way of doing that was by documenting the neighborhood I’d grown up in: one synonymous with migration. I wasn’t expecting how one generation of migrants felt about the new generation that arrived since 2010. Some of that was uncomfortable to hear… there was a feeling that they were drawing up the ladder from underneath, that they were somehow valorizing their own generation of migrants as being ‘good,’ while this new generation of migrants weren’t the same.
That is troubling. Were the portraits you were taking going directly hand-in-hand with these loaded conversations?
Absolutely. When I arrived in 2016, I spent the first two years getting to know the area. I took some photographs, but there was something missing. I wasn’t asking for permission — I was quite a timorous person, and the way in which I was photographing didn’t allow for those types of conversations to occur. One day, I came back to my car to find two policemen waiting: someone had called them! And I thought, Okay, the vibe I was giving off was that I’m not from there. And it was partly true, because I’ve lived in London 27 years, and I suppose I’m wearing my London-ness, you know? You could spot me from across the street, probably.
I switched up formats after about two years. I put the camera — a much bigger camera — on a tripod. I was clearly, obviously taking photographs. That was crucial: I changed the way I was working. It marked me as someone who’s benignly moving through the area and documenting it. People would approach me out of curiosity more than suspicion, and would ask me what I was doing. Then it was just a small leap, really, to ask if they wanted a portrait. What was incredible was — and this was a revelation to me — that I was spending more time listening than I was looking. That was a sea change in my approach to working, relative to the way I had been. I was learning; I was connecting with people. I was drinking a lot of chai in people’s homes [laughs]. And it was wonderful.
By the end of the project — which I stopped shooting in the early part of this year, around March — I could knock on doors and people would already know who I was. They’d be like, Oh, come in. My daughter has shown me your photographs on Instagram. This neighbor opposite said you gave them a portrait. I went back and gave everyone a portrait that I photographed. I now felt sure that the community were happy about the way they were being represented, and that was important to me.
Learning about people’s own migration histories… they’re so varied and split between economic migrants and refugees. My parents, despite having British passports, were classified as refugees when they came here. It’s really, really important to resist those simplified stories about immigrants. Everyone’s looking to better their own lives and the lives of their families. In doing so, they will naturally contribute to society.
To go back to what you were saying about being invited into people’s homes: You have an interesting balance of interiors as well as street shots, in addition to portraits. These totemic moments without people still show their presence and their references. How do those different choices of what to feature come together?
I can’t overstate how important it is for minority communities to be seen. To have your own experience reflected back at you on a gallery wall, or within a book: it affirms your place in society, and how much confidence you have when you move through it. It gives the viewer enough space to put themselves into that place as well.
I would often walk into someone’s home and almost see parts of my grandmother’s house in the homes of others… polystyrene ceiling tiles or a collection of really well-used Indian pots and pans in the kitchen. I tried to give those little details the same importance as the portraits, and those shared references almost would come out unsaid between myself and the sitter. I consume the same set of cultural references and have the same set of cultural assets as many of the residents. Although we may not speak about those moments, I recognize them from my own parents. Like picture hooks on the walls in odd places, with pictures up at odd angles not symmetrical to the wall or at eye-level — because they were existing holes. The residents don’t want to make new holes, because they’re in rented accommodation. I hate the term “second generation” but… with the children of migrants, we’re all like, Oh yeah, my mom and dad’s house was just like that.
Yes — you can unquestionably feel that the gaze has real warmth to it. On a more formal note, can you talk about your relationship to color?
The choice of equipment I was using, this medium format camera, meant that I had to slow down and really consider the frame. And that dictated the look: very much so. I’m not a [professional] photographer; I work as a film editor for my living. Prior to this project, I’d taken lots of single images, and I was trying to find a way of making a set, to establish an artistic practice that would give the images some kind of cohesion. I knew it had to be simple and honest. Residents in the area have these incredibly bright-colored walls in their interiors. And outside is this very red brick, everywhere in the city; it’s very much known for that.
I love that This Golden Mile is a bilingual book. There’s a tangible sense of duality, and an opening to two sets of readers.
When I showed the book to my parents, my mom turned to the Gujarati pages — that’s just where she’s more comfortable. I’m sure it’s the same for most of the community that I photographed, for the older generation, and the newer migrants as well. Perhaps not second-generation or third-generation. But it just allows them a sense of ownership and what I was saying about being seen. To have that in your own language was really crucial. No community is a monolith, so I have to try and be as broadly appealing as I can. There’s this one photograph of a Sikh gentleman on his sofa with some union jacks in the background. He was sitting underneath this picture of his wife; she passed away in 2019, and he was living alone in sheltered housing. I don’t speak Hindi or Punjabi; he doesn’t speak Gujarati or English. I pointed to the flags and he just clasped his chest and smiled — there’s this pride attached to living in Britain.
I love that photo! Another wonderful photo that I wanted to talk about features two men against a red wall. Their garments are wrapped around their shoulders in a mirror-like way, and their hands are intertwined.
I made the image at 9:30pm in the height of the summer — the last light. I was outside an Asian supermarket that had closed, and I just got to chatting with these two guys. They were old friends and they’d only been in the country a few months. They told me about what it was like being new; they were still finding their feet. I asked them if they’d like to pose for a photograph, which they were more than happy to do, I’m glad to say. They just casually held hands in that platonic way and I just thought it was so lovely. They were still learning that that may perhaps mean something else.
I wish there was a cross-pollination of cultures, but there’s a balance between leaning into the dominant culture and holding on to what you left behind. That’s what that photograph represents for me: that they were still learning. I think it’s a shame that we can’t look at that and go, Maybe we should do that over here. Sadly, assimilating is more of a one-way street.
When I left at age 18, I let go of what I left behind. That culture that my parents had clung on to so tightly… in my immature mind, it was somehow stopping me from being my whole self. Returning, I now know how rich it’s made my life and my worldview. It needs to be an exchange.
My wife and I have been told in the past, Oh, you speak English so well — despite the fact that we were both born here! For some people, we will always be foreign, and it doesn’t matter how much you assimilate — we will never really be British. Doesn’t matter about my accent. I’m still unpacking a lot of this stuff myself, to be honest with you.
In terms of this explicit othering: You situate the book within a concrete socio-political landscape. The world feels so extremely polarized between, on the one hand, the sense of insularity that people are clutching to and on the other hand, a broadening of identities. The extremes are happening at the same time. Do you feel like you’re also encountering this broadening? Or not really?
It’s hard for me to answer that. In putting this work out there, I feel like I’ve been given an opportunity to contribute to the conversation — the visual conversation — on what British life represents. One of the reasons I wanted to do this project is because I wanted to walk into a bookshop and see myself reflected back. I want to feel that sense of being seen, and it’s not until you have your own experience reflected back at you on a gallery wall, or within a book, that it affirms your place in society, and how much confidence you have moving through it.
To answer your question: we could go further. A lot seems to have come from the awful tragedy of the murder of George Floyd, and that whole year when the global movement of BLM coalesced in 2020, and the reaction of those conversations that were happening about representation. But we shouldn’t end here. We can develop that more — and more opportunities could be given.
No question. In terms of the exhibition, are there certain things it will communicate differently than the book can, or vice versa?
I’ve used the exhibition to try and express some of those ideas of home, to use the architecture of the space playfully, like adding ‘For Sale’ signs all over the place in the area. We’ve mounted four of those, with images placed traditionally on the wall on each side.
Two windows that face onto an alleyway at the back of the gallery, normally their shutters are closed: we opened up those shutters and put exterior portraits outside, mounted against the alley wall. So you have to look through the window to see these huge portrait landscapes outside. This was an architectural way of making that really fun.
For the opening party, we got a Kathak performer coming to do a North Indian classical dance; we shipped samosas from Leicester to Bristol for everyone to enjoy. And the show’s actually coming to Leicester next year.
Do you consider this project complete, with the book being published, or is it ongoing?
Leicester is really well known for its hosiery and knitwear factories. The old Victorian advertising slogan was: Leicester clothes the world. The whole area is very much centered on production for fast fashion outlets… They’re able to respond quickly to trends. I’ve been trying to get into these factories. My mom worked in these factories, and many of the residents in the area work in similar factories. I’ve not been able to gain access until the book was done — and then out of the blue, I got an email saying, Hey, do you still want to come and photograph here? So I’m like, Yeah, of course! Now I’ve got access to two places. We’ll see where that goes.
In recent events, trouble between the Muslim community and the Hindu community has mostly come from external forces: it seems social media posts generated in India from right-wing Hindus are spreading disinformation into Leicester and causing social disunity. I’ve met a few artists from Leicester, and we’re going to try and bring about a group that can find ways of working together to help dialogue and understanding.
There is this traffic between the two communities – my parents will go over to ‘that’ part of town if the price of okra is cheaper than here – and vice versa. But we could go deeper. There are so many stories to tell, so much to look into. Assimilation is something I’m really interested in, as is exploring communities that are just off to the side. Eventually, something will resonate beyond this specific locale into the greater world. I’ll just keep exploring.
This Golden Mile is on view at the Martin Parr Foundation through December 18th.
Credits
All images courtesy of the artist and Martin Parr Foundation.
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