“Digital is better. If there’s an issue, we can edit it digitally. With film, we could only apologise for mistakes.”
by Lukas Birk
Lukas Birk and Matthieu Paley are recipients of the Eidolon Grant in 2024 with their project investigating the collage-making process of photographers in often makeshift studios in Pakistan. The base of this investigation is a collection of client photographs and composition elements like landscapes, interior design, flowers, clothing, animals, cars, furniture, weapons, movie posters, religious symbols, and more. These images, some of them discarded prints, others digital files, were collected by National Geographic photographer Matthieu Paley on one of his numerous research trips. In the following essay Lukas Birk shines a light on the unique aspects of this everyday photography image heritage.
Photography can be a powerful medium for fantasy and aspiration, a mirror that allows for self-transformation, going beyond and becoming. This story brings us to the small city of Sehwan in Sindh, Pakistan, on the west bank of the Indus River. We will follow the paths of photographers who facilitate and craft dreams with Photoshop, dust and fading ink. Their work is treasured, yet amusing, and allows for aspiration, at least to some and for a moment.
This research started with photographer Matthieu Paley working at the annual Urs (death-anniversary festival)(1) of Lal Shahbaz (the red falcon) Qalandar (2), a Sufi Saint in Sehwan. In the frantic set-up of this very frequented festival, Matthieu was fascinated by the work and presence of photographers who set up shop for the numerous pilgrims who visit Sehwan during the commemoration. He acquired a large archive of digital montages purely out of curiosity.
Two montages from the Zeeshan Studio collection
Pakistan’s photographic culture has not been well researched or documented yet. There are hardly any resources available that allow for a deeper understanding of photographic development, practices, and how these influence and interconnect with society. A rare exception is Saima Zaidi’s Mazaar, Bazaar: Design and Visual Culture in Pakistan (3) with a collection of thirty-three essays on contemporary Pakistani visual and material culture. I published a small research on photographic culture in the Pakistani city of Peshawar with my colleague Sean Foley titled Photo Peshawar (4) in 2018. The book gives insight into photographic practices, historic development, and personal stories of photographers and their trade, collected between 2012 and 2016. It was through this publication that Matthieu and I got connected, not only through communication but in the spirit of a unique aesthetic. A visual expression that can at times feel incredible or incomprehensible to the Western-trained eye. Yet, as both Matthieu and I have worked and researched in South and Central Asia for two decades, it was only a matter of time for us to join-faces.
Across South Asia, clients of photographic studios and itinerant photographers embraced the medium as portals into imagined lives that transcend the constraints of daily existence. The sitter can pose as a dashing film hero or modern sophisticate, crafting an image of “who I wish to be” rather than who one actually is. These image-making spaces “show men as they wish to be seen – as heroes of their own big-screen fantasies and dreams”. (5) The camera, in this sense, becomes a tool not just of documentation but of speculative self-fashioning, a technology for visualising alternate identities, glamorous futures, or idealised selves.
Such uses of photography thrive especially in vernacular and popular contexts where strict realism is often happily bent or broken. Anthropologist Christopher Pinney, one of the early academic enthusiasts of photographic culture in South Asia, notes that in India a certain “realm of allegory or montage” emerged in photographic practices – images that do not “aspire to represent any phenomenological experience of the ready-made world” but instead delight in a creative denial of ordinary time and place. (6) From painted backdrops in village studios to digital cut-and-paste collages, photographers and their subjects collectively indulge in make-believe. By inserting a client’s likeness into a luxurious mansion or alongside a movie star, a humble photo can enact a small escape from reality, a tactile form of dreaming. These whimsical pictures speak to a universal impulse: to see oneself in a better world, if only within the borders of a 10x15 cm print.
This journey into photographic fantasy is not frivolous. It carries real emotional weight for those who craft and consume these images. To pose for an aspirational photograph is to momentarily inhabit an alternate persona – to perform a wish. The resulting image then becomes a tangible token of that wish, a private icon of hope or memory. In societies where opportunities for social mobility or travel are limited, such photographs may be a jugaar, a clever improvised fix for the imagination, an ingenious workaround (jugaar (Urdu جگاڑ), jugaad (Hindi जुगाड़), but also offer opportunities to create a new co-existence.
Itinerant Photography in South Asia and Vernacular Practices
Before diving into our journey of the festival photo-wallahs of Sehwan, I would like to expand our gaze across the region and consider how photographic practices are connected. These photographers belong to a lineage of itinerant photographers in South Asia. Long before the digital era, and even before colour film became common, enterprising photographers carried their craft to pilgrimage sights and remote villages. (7) They roamed from town to town with portable cameras and makeshift darkrooms, offering portraits to ordinary folk. Before that, in colonial-era bazaars, they made photography accessible beyond the wealthy elite, allowing “ordinary citizens to have their portraits taken relatively cheaply”. (8) A large part of mobile photographers prior to the 1970s and the early availability of film used Box Cameras. An often carpenter-built camera that served as camera and darkroom, allowing for relatively quick results and on-the-spot image production. These cameras and their photographers had many names: minit-camera (minute camera) in parts of India, Ruh Khitch (spirit pulling) in Pakistan’s Punjab, and karma-e-faoree (instant camera) in parts of Afghanistan (9), as examples.
Manawar Shah building a Box Camera in Kabul, 2011. Afghan Box Camera Project (Foley/Birk)
The mid-20th century was the heyday of such photographers. Professional studios dominated cities, but itinerant photographers served small towns and melas (fair or religious festival), adapting creatively to customers’ desires. At Hindu pilgrimage sites, for example, some photographers superimposed clients into temple scenes, allowing those unable to enter sacred spaces to still “pose” with their deities. In rural Pakistan and India, painted backdrops of luxury interiors or vehicles allowed the economically less fortunate to step into a dream.iii Montage and manipulation have long been part of this vernacular tradition. “Vernacular does not mean unskilled or naïve. It means embedded in the everyday, social world, rather than standing outside it, claiming a supposedly 'neutral' artistic or documentary position”, as scholar Geoffrey Batchen wrote (10). In the analogue studios, negatives were painstakingly combined to create fantastical scenes, later hand-tinted to vivid effect. Tricks like double exposures, where a person might appear twice in one frame, were common precursors to digital collages. Yet, despite the visual creativity, itinerant photographers were often neglected in formal histories of photography, which favoured studio elites and photojournalists.
Popular montages might combine political leaders with Hindu gods or Islamic prayers, weaving together spiritual, national and aspirational symbolism.iii These exuberant, imaginative images better captured “popular messianism” than the sober realism of official portraits. Comparable traditions exist elsewhere. Iranian photographers heavily retouched portraits, Latin America’s los ambulantes offered illusionistic backdrops to campesinos (11). Across cultures, the travelling photographer was a creative entrepreneur, responding flexibly to precarious economies. Many itinerant South Asian photographers came from modest backgrounds, learning their craft through apprenticeship and survival instinct, a trade commonly shared with itinerant photographers globally.
However, the practice faces existential threats thanks to the mobile phone camera. In cities like Kabul, Karachi and Delhi, the once-ubiquitous street photographer in front of administrative buildings to furnish forms with photographs has disappeared. Yet, as we will see in Sehwan Sharif, vernacular traditions have proven adaptable. Photographers have incorporated digital tools, laptops, Photoshop templates and instant printers into their mobile studios, enabling faster, more elaborate outputs. As Zahid, our protagonist further down the text, puts it, “Digital is better. If there’s an issue, we can edit it digitally. With film, we could only apologise for mistakes”. (12)
The Urs at Sehwan Sharif: Devotion, Performance, and Spectacle
Sehwan Sharif (Sharif is an honorary title meaning noble often used to show respect) is ordinarily a quiet town, but each year it undergoes a miraculous transformation during the Urs of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar. For three days and nights, the town swells with a human tide: an estimated half a million pilgrims crowd into the shrine and its surroundings on one day alone in 2024 (13), with total attendance sometimes exceeding two (14) or even three million. Pilgrims come from all corners of Pakistan and beyond, reflecting Qalandar’s inclusive spirit. Sunni and Shia Muslims mingle with Hindus, Christians and Sikhs. (15) The crowd is a vivid mix: men with matted dreadlocks, women in bright chadors, farmers, travellers and urban visitors alike, all drawn to the saint’s legend.
The main street in Sehwan Sharif during the Urs. Photo: Matthieu Paley
The Urs transforms Sehwan into an immersive landscape of devotion. Each evening, as the call to prayer fades, a battery of dhol drums ignites the courtyard of Qalandar’s shrine. (16) The mass dhamaal begins: a trance-like dance where men, women and transgender participants stamp their feet,xiii roll their heads and lift their arms skyward in ecstatic unison. It is a rare moment of social boundary dissolution. “Men, women, and transgender, all in unison, are expressing their devotion to their Sufi saint”.xiii
The sensory experience of the Urs is overwhelming. Daytime temperatures often surpass 40°C, testing pilgrims camping under tents or open skies, and tragically, some elderly devotees succumb to the heat every year. The air is dense with the scent of sandalwood, sweat and wood-smoke from communal kitchens. Hawkers, drummers, singers and spontaneous dance circles fill every alley. Loudspeakers blare qawwali and Sindhi folk music from every direction. Night offers little respite, as floodlights and neon displays illuminate processions and performances that continue until dawn. One reporter captured the spirit: “amid the rituals, festivity, dance, music and fête, the devotees defied both barbaric terrorism and blazing heat”. He refers to a suicide attack in 2017, carried out by ISIS, killing 90 people in the shrine during dhamaal. Amid this chaos, humanity gathers “with only love and happiness to share” (17), responds the ancestral caretaker of one of the neighbouring mausoleums. “Photography was created by Allah, why should there be an issue with religion,” he continued. But this sentiment is not shared by all. Long have there been decrees that an image of anything animated is haram (forbidden).
The openness of Sehwan Sharif’s shrine and the Urs, long a sanctuary for marginalised groups, including the transgender and intersex community hijras/khwaja saras and low-caste communities,xiv extends into the photography tents. Anyone with a 100 rupees (30 Euro cents) can temporarily inhabit a fantasy. Scholar Shehram Mokhtar notes that shrines like Qalandar’s create spaces where behaviours usually policed by patriarchal norms — dance, music, gender mixing — are tolerated and even celebrated. The festival photography, offering ordinary people a chance to reinvent themselves visually, fits perfectly into this ethos. It is another moment where aspiration, devotion and improvisation come together.
A khwaja sara person posing in front of one of the backdrops at the Zeeshan Studio in Sehwan. Photo: Matthieu Paley
Zahid and Zeeshan – Father and Son Production
To understand the labour behind the magic, we spent time with Zahid and Zeeshan,x a father-son duo who run a travelling photo studio all across Pakistan. Zahid, in his early forties, has the weathered, resolute look of someone who has spent decades doing hard work under the sun. His son Zeeshan, in his late teens, has been working with his father for three years. He is the editor, meaning he operates Photoshop and handles the printing. Together, they form the core of Zeeshan Studio, which they set up at major melas across the region. Their base is a village called Peer Jo Goth, but for much of the year they are on the road, carting their tent, cameras, printer and computers from one festival to the next.
Zeeshan Studio located in the Lal Bagh area in Sehwan during the Urs. Photo: Matthieu Paley
Through Zahid’s story, we gain a deeper understanding of how this niche profession has evolved. “I started in 1992 when photography was done using negatives,” he recounts. In those days, he was a teenager with a bicycle and a simple analogue camera, riding out to distant villages to take people’s portraits. “I travelled by bicycle within a 20–30 km radius to take pictures,” he says. “Then I would go to Hyderabad to get them developed and return them to customers.” It was an arduous cycle (literally) of delayed gratification: shoot a roll of film, develop it in the city, deliver prints days or weeks later, but villagers valued the service. He would arrive with a decorated bicycle, streamers and floral designs festooned on it, serving both as transport and advertising for his photo service. Zahid was not the first in his family to take up the camera; his elder brother, Habibullah, had pioneered the trade for them. By the early 1990s, they saw an opportunity to expand into the lively network of melas that dot rural Pakistan. “At melas, we were the ones who introduced the culture of photography. We are part of the pioneers of mela photography,” Zahid claims with pride. They brought along backdrops and props even then, perhaps a garland to drape on a client or a painted scenery to hang on a wall, essentially creating a mobile studio.
In those early years, everything was analogue and resembling straight photography. They did not manipulate the images beyond some in-camera techniques. “If someone’s eyes were closed in the real photo, they remained closed in the print,” laughs Zahid. “We did no cutting, no editing – just straight photography.” However, even within the analogue format, they found creative tricks to satisfy customers. Zahid recalls doing double exposures to achieve certain effects: “If something was missing in the original photo, we modified it ourselves.
Double exposure of Costumer. Capri Studio, Peshawar Pakistan. Collection Lukas Birk
We could even join hands together in photos by covering half of the lens,” he explains. This technique allowed, for example, two images of the same person to appear in one frame holding hands, a simple form of montage done in-camera. At most, he says, they would create a composite of two shots on one print. Such artistry was limited by the medium and by cost, because every experiment burned expensive film. Most customers were content with a well-composed straight portrait. Zahid learned to be a careful, patient craftsman in those analogue years: “We adjusted people’s clothes and posture to make sure the photo was perfect,” and handled all the chemical development by hand when needed. His brother even maintained a portable darkroom setup, “washing prints by hand in a glass container” on-site when labs were too far. This was photography as a manual trade, almost an artisanal pursuit. Habibullah, before Zahid joined the trade, was using a Box Camera with a mobile darkroom inside. This was in the 1980s. In the 1990s, they would also use Polaroid once in a while if the printing labs were too far from the melas, but the material was very expensive and only for a limited clientele.
The digital revolution in the 2000s changed everything for Zahid’s business. He first witnessed digital printers around 2006, and by 2010 he had saved enough to purchase a new photo printer in Hyderabad. The investment was significant, but it eliminated the dependency on outside labs and made instant delivery possible. Now Zahid and his team could shoot, edit and print on-site within minutes, a huge draw for mela customers who could take home their fantasy portraits the same day. Digital also enabled a new era of image manipulation that was previously unimaginable. By around 2013, Zahid ventured into making what they call “face-join” photographs, their local term for digital montages or collages. Some others call it “cutting”. “We started around 2013 or 2014, after gaining two years of [digital] experience,” Zahid recalls. “We started by adding our own faces to templates.” This revelation is telling: lacking a library of ready-made client photos, the photographers initially used images of themselves to prototype the montages. Indeed, if one looks closely at template designs, the random actors and models populating those scenes often included the creator’s face. Most templates used by Zahid and other studios we came across at the Urs in Sehwan were the same. Often the same template face was montaged into the scene. These are the so-called “master-editors” who post hundreds of their creations online, and these templates are then reused by all the photographers. Zahid said, “We share them amongst each other. There is no competition.” He also handed us a USB stick with all their templates, frame and decoration libraries.
A selection of face-joins by one of the “master-editors”.
Over time, they amassed a large collection of flashy backgrounds: from Bollywood and Lollywood (18) movie stills and Pakistani pop culture imagery to generic scenes of opulence such as fancy cars, glittering stages and exotic locales. Every year, they try to introduce new templates to keep customers excited. But some classics remain: “Many themes are popular, such as models, actors and celebrities.”
Zeeshan, being younger and digitally savvy, has become the primary computer operator of the studio, while Zahid handles the camera and the clients. Observing their workflow during the Urs, one sees a well-practised assembly line. A group of friends approaches the tent, drawn by the sample collages hanging outside. All of the studios in Sehwan create catalogue curtains with templates that visually separate the inside and outside world. The group of friends choose a humorous template of a superhero body and a romantic one with a famous actress. Zahid positions each of them for a headshot, directing them to strike a particular expression that will match the chosen scenario (a macho glare for an action scene, or a smile for a wedding scene). With a click, the raw image is captured. Zeeshan immediately gets to work on the dusty laptop: he opens the template. Most of these have the actual file number written on the image, for example C120 or DF12. He then expertly cuts out the client’s head from the fresh photo and pastes it onto the body in the template, blending skin tones and adjusting sizes. His fingers type shortcut commands so fast as if taking dictation. If the client’s clothing is visible and does not match the scene, he might even erase it or overlay a different costume digitally. Within a few minutes, a composite image appears on the screen. At times out of proportion, sometimes with precision, but always with a touch of magic. Assuming all is well, the image is printed on glossy paper. “If someone isn’t happy, we reprint another one to ensure they are satisfied. Customer service is important.” By the time the group steps out of the tent, they are holding a freshly minted fantasy in their hands, giggling with delight.
Display style of templates on the outside of the Zeeshan Studio tent. Photo: Matthieu Paley
Through this process, Zahid and Zeeshan can produce astonishing numbers of photos during a big festival. “At Sehwan Mela, we produce around 1,600 to 1,700 prints” over the course of the event, Zahid estimates, at a price of 100 Pakistani rupees each. And at an even larger gathering, the Hinglaj Mata Mela (a famous Hindu pilgrimage in Baluchistan) (19), their single shop can churn out 2,500–3,000 prints. These figures speak to the demand that still exists for their work. Despite living in an age of smartphone selfies, thousands of people at the melas still opt to pay for a print. “Inflation and mobile photography have affected business. But people still come for prints because phone cameras can’t replace professional photography at melas.” Most of the clients come from very rural areas where printing a photo is not easily accessible and smartphone cameras are not yet the norm for everyone. There is also a social aspect: getting a portrait taken at the Urs has become something of a ritual or memento, much like buying a souvenir. It’s an experience, stepping into the tent, seeing the trickery done, and walking away with a tangible keepsake that spontaneous phone snapshots do not replicate.
Pilgrims posing in front of a collaged backdrop of Sufi Saints. Photos: Matthieu Paley
Working these melas is intense, and Zahid runs his operation with a mix of enthusiasm and pragmatism. He has to be an entrepreneur and a logistician. For the Sehwan Urs, he rents a good spot in Lal Bagh (the red gardens), which costs him about 30,000 rupees (100 euro) for the three days, and he brings his own tent structure and equipment by his three-wheeled motorcycle. A team, including his son, at times brother, and other family members travel with him: they erect the tent, set up the generator and battery system (generator for daytime power, batteries for night, to keep everything running reliably), and arrange the interior studio. The team sleeps in their tent, often working late and starting at sunrise. The investment in each festival is significant, but the earnings, if all goes well, make it worthwhile. Zahid has adapted to rising costs by raising his prices over time: “Before, one print was 30 rupees, and now it’s 100 rupees,” he notes – still cheap by global standards, but a necessary adjustment to sustain the business. He also knows to tailor his offerings to the context: they carry different backdrops for different events. “We change the background based on the event. For example, we use a Hindu-themed background for Hindu melas.”
Two purdas (backdrop) examples from different mobile Studios. Photos: Matthieu Paley
It is also illuminating to see the intergenerational dynamics between Zahid and Zeeshan. Zahid speaks proudly of training his son: “My son is less educated, but I have taught him all about photography. He even knows how to operate a computer and install Windows despite his limited education.” The two clearly share a camaraderie in the tent, an understanding formed by long hours working side by side. Yet, Zahid harbours no romantic illusions about the future. When asked if he sees a long-term future for his son in this line, Zahid frankly says that he does not: “My son, Zeeshan, has learned how to drive. I recommend he move to Saudi Arabia or Dubai for a driving job. I don’t see long-term stability in this business.” This underscores the economic precarity of the itinerant photographer today. Zahid himself appreciates working the way they do. He is sceptical when we mention Artificial Intelligence image-generation possibly automating their work. Zahid chuckles and says if machines did everything, “we’ll get bored… Working by hand is more joyful.” He adds, “in the 1990s we lived in tents, now we have a house and small land. All thanks to mela photography!”
Zahid and Zeeshan inside their studio (left) and at their work station in front of the studio. Photos: Matthieu Paley
Face-Join Fantasies
While Zahid and Zeeshan bring specially themed backdrops for people to take pictures in front of, this serves primarily families and couples. The mostly young male audiences opt for face-jointed montages. These images are exuberant, sometimes absurd, often endearing composites that speak volumes about aspiration in contemporary Pakistan. In each “face-join” photo, a client’s face finds itself transplanted into a new world, a world usually more luxurious, heroic, or romantically gratifying than the one they inhabit. The genres of these montages are diverse, but a few recurring themes stand out:
Cinema and Celebrity: Perhaps the most popular category is posing with or as famous actors and models. A young man might choose to appear standing arm-in-arm with a Lollywood actress or a Pakistani TV starlet. These images let clients momentarily participate in celebrity culture, placing them on equal visual footing with the stars they adore. This was already practised in studios and even with box cameras.vii Today’s digital collages continue that tradition with even flashier realism.
Hyper-masculine Heroism: Many montages play on tropes of masculine power and adventure. Men love to picture themselves as action heroes, brandishing guns, riding expensive motorcycles, or wearing military uniforms. Zahid’s template collection includes images of muscular bodies, police or army officer settings, and sports cars. The appeal of these is obvious: for a person whose real life might be constrained by poverty, the photo offers a fantasy of strength, authority and daring. The gun is symbolic: it signifies control and bravado. Depending on the region, there is a very large gun culture in Pakistan.
Romance and Duplicated Selves: Another frequent motif is the romantic tableau, often featuring a man and a woman in a posed scene of affection. If a client comes alone, he can have the photographer provide a generic female image to be his companion in the picture (usually a film actress or model is used, essentially making the client a co-star in an imagined love story). With digital cloning, a man can appear twice in the same frame, perhaps one version of him dressed in a Western suit and another in traditional clothes, or one sitting and one standing, creating a playful “double” portrait. One striking collage from Zahid’s collection shows the client appearing in at least five incarnations: once as the central hero in a couple, and four more times as inset portraits in frames around the scene. The result is a visual chorus of himself, as if to multiply his presence and importance in the image’s universe. The self, the ego and the I are seemingly perceived differently. I am not sure if in all parts of the world one can accept two versions of oneself.
Luxury and Modernity: Many collages are foreground symbols of wealth and modern life. Clients can pose as if in an opulent mansion’s living room, or beside a gleaming new car, or in a posed studio shot with flashy graphic designs. The subtext is aspiration for upward mobility. For instance, a labourer from a small village might cherish a photo of himself in a slick suit standing next to a Lamborghini – it is a jugaar way to grasp an experience of affluence.
Devotional and Patriotic Fantasy: Although less common than the playful themes, there are montage backgrounds that tap into religious or national pride. These cases show that aspiration is not only about individual social status – it can be about belonging to something greater, whether faith or nation.
How can we define a meaning or cultural logic to these fantastical images? On one level, they are clearly commodities of entertainment, souvenirs that amuse. But the consistency of the themes (glamour, power, wealth, devotion) suggests they fulfil deeper psychological desires. Anthropologist Arjun Appadurai famously wrote about the “capacity to aspire” (20) in developing societies, how envisioning a better life is a navigational tool for the economically less fortunate. These photographs are literally visualisations of aspirations. They allow people to see themselves in a life they covet, be it starring in a film or enjoying riches. In a society stratified by class and plagued by economic uncertainty, such visual make-believe can be comforting, even empowering. A young man might carry his montage photo in his wallet or post it on social media, presenting a sort of augmented identity to the world. It is a form of self-expression and self-construction. As scholar Karen Strassler observed in another context, vernacular photos can operate as a kind of “visual speculation” (21), a way of experimenting with who or what one might become, through the idiom of images. In the face-join photos, the speculative element is front and centre: What if I were as handsome and desirable as that actor? What if I lived in a villa? What if I were a fearless rebel? The photograph momentarily answers.
Of course, there is also a rich vein of humour and irony in these images. They are not necessarily meant to fool anyone; often, the obvious fakeness is part of the fun. The clients know their friends will recognise the collage as a playful fantasy. In that sense, the montage can be seen as a folk art of satire and wish-fulfilment combined. There is also a subtle point about agency and control. In these montage sessions, the clients are co-directors of their image. They choose the backdrop and scenario that speak to them; they actively decide how they want to be seen (or more accurately, how they want to see themselves). For many who have little control over their life circumstances, this act of authoring one’s own image can be meaningful. It is a participatory art.
For Now the Fantasy is Alive
From the perspective of Zahid and his colleagues, these montages have become the lifeblood of their business and a point of pride. “Face-join photography is more popular now” than regular portraits, Zahid notes. It commands the most attention and money at the melas. Over the years, the photographers themselves have become adept at predicting what new backdrops will appeal to their clientele. They are, in a sense, grassroots visual researchers of aspiration. If a new Lollywood blockbuster releases, they know to grab some stills and incorporate those images into next season’s offerings. If societal trends shift (for example, a wave of Turkish TV dramas becoming popular in Pakistan), they might incorporate costumes or characters inspired by those. In this way, the montage catalogues maintained by itinerant studios form an index of collective desires. By studying which images get the most takers, one could gauge what dreams or values are currently resonant among the people who attend these melas.
A still frame from the Turkish series Diriliş: Ertuğrul (left). One of the most chosen templates at Zeeshan Studio in 2025 (right).
Finally, it is worth reflecting on how these “vernacular” montages relate to the broader world of images that inundate us today. In an era of deep fakes and slick advertising Photoshop, one might think these crude collages would lose their charm. Yet they persist, perhaps because they are so transparently earnest. They are not trying to deceive maliciously or sell a product; they are openly a kind of folk Photoshop, serving humble users. In some ways, they invert the usual power dynamic of image-making. Instead of professionals using Photoshop to impose unattainable ideals on consumers (like in many advertisements), here the consumers enlist the professionals to create images of their own chosen ideal.
As we conclude our journey through this world of jugaar and aspiration, we see that a simple festival photo tent in Sehwan Sharif connects to many larger themes: the enduring human need for fantasy, the role of technology in self-representation, the economic creativity of those at society’s margins, and the ways cultures adapt visual practices across time. Zahid and Zeeshan’s story in particular highlights a poignant balancing act, embracing new digital tools to keep a traditional business alive, satisfying the desires of their customers, all while grappling with the uncertainties of a changing world. Their photographs might be playful illusions, but the enterprise and emotion behind them are very real.
In the end, jugaar is about exactly that: how people invent and improvise pathways to reach for their dreams and needs, using whatever tools are at hand, be it a wooden Box Camera or a pirated copy of Photoshop. In a face-joint photo, we witness a spark of that inventive reach: a person momentarily located in the world where they wish to belong. And that, perhaps, is the greatest gift these itinerant photographers give their clients – not merely a picture, but a glimpse of another self.
This research was supported by the Eidolon Grant programme of Eidolon Centre for Everyday Photography and conducted by Matthieu Palay and Lukas Birk with the help of Pir Faraz Ali, in February 2025.
Footnotes:
(1) The Urs in Pakistan is a death-anniversary festival celebrated at the shrines of Sufi saints. The word Urs means "wedding" in Arabic, symbolizing the saint's union with the Divine. These festivals are vibrant spiritual gatherings that typically include Qawwali music, prayers, recitation of poetry, distribution of food, and rituals of devotion. Held annually, each Urs reflects local customs and draws large numbers of devotees—often from across the country—who come to seek blessings, pay respects, and participate in communal spiritual expression.
(2) The Urs in Pakistan is a death-anniversary festival celebrated at the shrines of Sufi saints. The word Urs means "wedding" in Arabic, symbolizing the saint's union with the Divine. These festivals are vibrant spiritual gatherings that typically include Qawwali music, prayers, recitation of poetry, distribution of food, and rituals of devotion. Held annually, each Urs reflects local customs and draws large numbers of devotees—often from across the country—who come to seek blessings, pay respects, and participate in communal spiritual expression.
(3) Zaidi Saima. Mazaar Bazaar: Design and Visual Culture in Pakistan. Oxford University Press, 2010.
(4) Birk, Lukas & Sean, Foley. Photo Peshawar. Ahmedabad: Mapin Publishing, 2018.
(5) Rosen Miss. The strange world of Pakistani glamour photography. Huck, Aug 14, 2018. https://www.huckmag.com/article/the-strange-world-of-pakistani-glamour-photography
(6) Pinney, Christopher. “Photos of the Gods”: The Printed Image and Political Struggle in India. London: Reaktion Books, 2004.
(7) Pinney, Christopher. Camera Indica: The Social Life of Indian Photographs. London: Reaktion Books, 1997.
(8) O’Hagan, Sean. Afghan Box Cameras: how street photographers captured a nation. The Guardian, 2014.
(9) Birk, Lukas, and Sean Foley. Afghan Box Camera Project. www.afghanboxcamera.com
(10) Batchen, Geoffrey. "Vernacular Photographies." In Each Wild Idea: Writing, Photography, History. MIT Press, 2001.
(11) Parker Ann and Avon Neal. Los Ambulantes: The Itinerant Photographers of Guatemala. MIT Press, 1982.
(12) Interview with Zahid, Sehwan Sharif, 2025.
(13) Dawn. Sehwan hosts half-a-million pilgrims on second day of Qalandar urs. Dawn, March 2, 2024. Sehwan hosts half-a-million pilgrims on second day of Qalandar urs - Pakistan - DAWN.COM
(14) Express Tribune (Z. Ali). “In all its glory, Qalandar’s urs culminates in Sehwan.” The Express Tribune, May 18, 2017. https://tribune.com.pk/story/1412392/glory-qalandars-urs-culminates-sehwan#
(15) Al Jazeera. Lal Shahbaz Qalandar and Pakistan’s pluralistic history. Al Jazeera, Feb 18, 2017. https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2017/2/18/lal-shahbaz-qalandar-and-pakistans-pluralistic-history#
(16) Mokhtar, Shehram. Sacred Spaces and Expressive Bodies: At the Urs of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar. MA Thesis, University of Oregon, 2012.
(17) Interview with the ancestral caretaker of Darbar Shah Mardan Sikandar Bodla Bahar in Sehwan, 2025.
(18) Lollywood is the nickname for the Pakistani film industry based in Lahore, combining "Lahore" with "Hollywood."
(19) The Hinglaj Mata Mela, also known as the Hinglaj Yatra or Theerth Yatra, is Pakistan’s largest Hindu pilgrimage and a deeply spiritual event for the Hindu community. Held annually in April, it draws over 100,000 devotees to the remote Hinglaj Mata Temple, located in a cave within Hingol National Park in Balochistan’s Lasbela district.
(20) Appadurai Arjun. The Capacity to Aspire: Culture and the Terms of Recognition. 2004.
(21) Strassler Karen. Refracted Visions. Popular Photography and National Modernity in Java. Duke University Press, 2010.
