While going up from the foothills into the Kanchenjunga Conservation Area in Nepal, you witness shifting terrains, vegetation, temperatures, and cultures. It feels like an amalgamation of landscapes: Fiordland National Park of New Zealand (without the sea, of course) and the alpine Himalaya. A place so mystical (and mythical), so high, so intimidating, so treacherous, so dangerous, that it feels like no place for mortals like us. The air is thin, and these massive, massive giants stand all around you. Photographing them feels like a futile process.

What draws me into these high places, I ask myself, when I know these are not places for mortals? I consider it like a penance — a spiritual undertaking, a pilgrimage. The peaks decide whether to reward me for my efforts: the reward being their almighty darshan (a Sanskrit word denoting the moment in Hinduism when a devotee both sees and is blessed by the divine entity). Lessons in slow gratification and patience. It’s a vicious cycle of hope, elation, despair, and humility. Also a journey inwards: a test of mental fortitude, a review of my personal state — growth, maturity, and understanding. And a report card of my health: physical and mental alike. More often than not, these journeys have set the stage for the upcoming milestones of my life: some large, some small yet deeply effective.

During the planning phase of this trek, viewing Jannu (also called Kumbhakarna) peak up close was high on my priority list. Notoriously difficult to climb, the north face of this intimidating mountain presents the ultimate test for alpine climbers. As I was ascending at around 4,500m, I spotted a sign reading “Jannu Viewpoint,” with an arrow pointing to the right. I assumed there was a path to a base camp nearby — but what truly struck me was when I looked up in that direction. There it was: the formidable mountain standing high into the sky, shaped like a dark, brooding deity — batman-esque, if you will (not the right comparison, I know; you don’t mix mythology with American superheroes). A god nevertheless. An acclimatisation hike to the Jannu Base Camp the next day was a huge highlight of my trek. I got the opportunity to sit in the lap — barring the Jannu Glacier — of three giants: Jannu (7710m), Sobithonge (6645m), and Kabur (6294m).

Now, about the weather — which has a huge say in these places. I was fortunate to have clear skies and plenty of sun in the first half of every day, followed by snowfall on every afternoon at higher altitudes. This meant navigating through fresh snow the next morning, despite clear views of the mountain peaks. Hiking in snow and ice requires double the time and effort. It snowed relentlessly at the camp before Kanchenjunga North Base Camp. The direct sun on ice triggered rockfalls, making conditions increasingly tricky. Having to cover around 900m hopping over boulders and navigating through landslide debris in severe rockfall zones — without pause — was both hair-raising and treacherous.

The background: The reason I chose Kanchenjunga North Base Camp (from the Nepal side) is that I wanted to complete a circle — a circle I started way back in 2009, when I attempted to trek to the Kanchenjunga valley from the Indian side. Had I completed it back then, it would have been the southeast face of Kanchenjunga. But I was a novice then, on my very first Himalayan trek. As a student with no income, coming off a difficult year, I had to borrow the ill-fitting jackets from my cousins with no experience of layering for high-altitude conditions. My hope was that, given where I am in life now, I would finally be able to close this circle and complete this unfinished pilgrimage.

The final part: THE KANCHENJUNGA. This was the day I found myself unusually disciplined — not clicking a single photo despite having my camera lugged around my neck. The only reason: I had to get to the base camp to catch a glimpse of Kanchenjunga before the clouds rolled in. It was a clear sky, but you never know in the mountains. Kanchenjunga, like all gods, would only reveal itself from the end point of the hike — emerging from behind other great peaks at a certain point along the trail. From a distance, I could see a patch of clouds rolling in behind me from down the valley. It felt almost like a race against them. Given the conditions described above, I was of course defeated. I was so close to the base camp, but the clouds engulfed the entire valley. It was a dagger to my heart. The trail kept going into the mist, feeling almost never-ending. I was close to tears, knowing I had hiked nearly five hours — and yet would not get to witness Kanchenjunga.

From my experience of hiking in the Himalaya so far, I’ve never had clouds clear mid-way through the day. But this almost felt like a miracle. Through the mist, I could see a pointed peak high up; surely Kanchenjunga. At this point, I would have been content with just this view as it felt like the reward for all the months of planning, preparation, and effort. It was unforgettable, and I clicked my first photo of the day. But it just got better! The entirety of the mist cleared and there they stood. Kanchenjunga Main (8,586m) and Yalung Kang (Kanchenjunga West, 8,505m). So did the panorama views of other peaks; like an amphitheatre.

When it comes to projects and ideas, methods are many and thoughts can be never-ending. This is a small list for myself to bring structure to the beautiful chaos. It is intentionally concise and opinionated.

1. The basic concept needs to be a simple one, understood by (almost) everyone.
2. The process (analog or digital) is just a means to achieve the desired expression. Just like tools, it cannot be the primary focus. If it ends up being the focus, it could be a signal that the work does not have sufficient substance.
3. The beauty and fascination is fundamental. The art discipline started with these two characteristics. The contemporary art scene has moved in many directions in search of novelty but the beauty in anything (and everything) can never be out of focus figuratively.
4. It should feel like a journey, and never like the destination. Preferably like the start of a journey; for the fascination, excitement, and nervousness it brings.
5. Emotions are everything. If the work doesn't invoke feelings, it is not there yet.
6. If a project doesn't make me learn more about myself, and the world, then it is not worth anything.

Six months have passed. The excitement of owning, clicking, and revisiting the photos taken from the Voigtlander 27mm Ultron has still not faded. Taking this lens out every time has been a joy. Moving the focus ring ever so slightly to focus (or sometimes just short to create the soft look), and the outcome has been ASMR-stuff. As always, this comes with a caveat. Photos taken with other lenses have started to feel flat, or even boring. 'It could be the focal length', I kept convincing myself.

Until until I fought my own reasoning for days and bought a much-expensive 50mm Nokton from Voigtlander. The focus ring is bigger and smooth with the right amount of friction (giving me enough confidence to use it on professional assignment which was never the point anyway). Images? Priceless. It is in the look. Simple, everyday objects made to look romantic. The out-of-focus areas feel poetic (even if my overall composition and work would love to be called that). Fair to say, it wasn't the focal length I was in love with. It is the Voigtlanders, coupled with Fujifilm colour science. I am aware that I would stop noticing all these tiny optical details over time; the usage of these two lenses would soon become the norm in my workflow. But then, it is like a good coffee. You can have it every day and still appreciate each sip of it. You may grow accustomed to the aroma but not the joy the flavor notes bring.

I have long pondered this question. A good four years, to be precise. This question first struck in my head around the time when I was increasingly disillusioned by the term landscape photography and the content within it. I used to (and still do) photograph landscapes (everything that is natural) mainly for the joy of it. If I have to delve deeper, this was always a means to pay homage to the most beautiful thing in this planet, the natural living world. The appreciation for nature is universal, and the qualities it brings to people's lives, physically and emotionally, remain undeniable. (The fact that some people need this to be reminded, is a different story in itself.)

Well then, what constitutes a good landscape photo? Is it the landscape: a scale on how stunning it is, the uniqueness of the view, or the eye of the photographer? While a common answer would be: a combination of all the above, I have come to realise that people get struck by photo of a beautiful landscapes (read scenery) even if it is not captured very well. It is also true that you can create good landscape photographs from anywhere. But if one has to adopt it as a practice, it might be a good idea to be living close to geographically-gifted locations just so that the access to good vistas is always easier. The probability (or frequency) for good landscape photos would be much higher. My question about this has always been: Doesn't it make a few individuals, more privileged than the rest? Does it cease to become an art form?

I think this is where the eye of the photographer matters. The emotion one can bring to the images and the ability to convey the poetry, through representativeness or metaphor. A landscape experienced, or changed, or the associations within it, has a lot of potential to be expressed as a visual narrative.

Some might argue that this would no longer make it a landscape photo. I think that is the whole point of art: blurring the boundaries. Genres and disciplines have been created and differentiated for ease of classification for documentation and commercial purposes. Art has no obligation to fall strictly into any of it. If you are having a hard time explaining a work of art, it is already a good sign; an indication that there is a lot more to it: underlying meanings, subjectivity of one's own perception, and deeper questions raised.

I am a big fan of Fujifilm. It started with my curiosity to find out why Fuji photographers showcased it openly as their gear of choice. Undoubtedly, the 'Fuji look' in their photos was hard to ignore: a certain type of colour rendering, shadow fall-off, aesthetic ready-to-use JPEGs, and, of course, taken from vintage-inspired-stylish camera bodies. Glad I made the switch to Fujifilm six years ago.

Rewinding back to 2016–17, I used to be fond of Carl Zeiss's classic line of lenses: the Planars, Distagons, and Sonnars. A unique character in the colour rendering, coupled with the famous Zeiss 3D pop in their images, convinced me to invest in them over native Nikon lenses; even at the cost of foregoing the convenience of autofocus capabilities. 

Lens: the average, the good, and the special ones

Let's face it. In today's age, it is hard to find a bad lens. The majority of them are decent, which means that they meet the optical requirement to capture a scene as intended. They come at an affordable price tag, like kit zoom lenses or economical primes. I call these average lenses. Then, there are the good ones: better optics, a larger aperture, better build quality, etc., all coming at a higher price. This, if you compare the returns over the long term, might well justify the extra spending. The clinical, no-nonsense lens. I have somehow conveniently managed to bypass this category though.

What I have always been interested in were the special ones. They are manual focus lenses, which exhibits a bit of character in their images, and build quality oozing of precision & cutting-edge engineering. They often have a price tag, which is hard to justify. This is the opposite of sound financial advice. These may not give the desired returns even if you are a professional photographer, because, let's be honest, nobody in their right mind would be shooting professional assignments with manual focus lenses. Maybe the constraints are part of the appeal. 

Voigtlander from Cosina certainly falls into the latter category. I have dreamt of owning Voigtlanders for a long time. The need to adapt it to Fujifilm mount was one of the main reasons why I stop aspiring for one. Using adapters to fit lenses from other mounts, however good those lenses may have been, come with disadvantages. I had to sell some of the Zeiss for this reason. The colour reproduction from native Fujifilm X-mount lenses are on par with many of my Zeiss favourites. Among the good Fuji lenses, there is one that particularly stands out. I still remember fondly how special the 16mm f1.4 Fujinon felt for the first time. This wide angle lens would not leave my camera for many months. Sadly, it has given way to an almost-unusable amount of fungus now.

Enter Voigtlander 27mm f2 with Fujifilm X-mount. Expensive, but it was hard to resist. The focal length seemed like the perfect measure for me. Not too wide, nor the boring image compression found in the crop-sensor 35mm. 27mm for crop sensor feels life-like when shot from waist-level. This makes it a great all-around lens for documentary, street, landscape (albeit with a unique perspective) and portraits (with a difference). Having shot using the first version of Fujinon 27mm f2.8 for the last few years, I have grown to love the perspective but always felt let down by its inability to deliver better optics. Every time I take this lens out, I am always trying to find adjectives for the nature of rendering.

Some sample images from the first few days of the lens.