Chitaranjan Khuman
- Anna Lilli Garai
- 7 days ago
- 7 min read
Chitaranjan Khuman is a filmmaker and photographer based in London, originally from Manipur in northeast India. He came to photography from cinema, drawn to the idea that a single frame can hold the same emotional weight as a scene in a film. Shy as a child and often moving between places, he found it easier to communicate with a camera than with words, and many of the people he photographs today are those closest to him. His images focus on small, quiet moments, on faces, gestures, and the feeling of being present, and they return again and again to questions of home, connection, and what it means to belong.
Q: What first made photography feel like the right way for you to express yourself?
A: Coming from a filmmaking background, I was always surrounded by layers of storytelling—multiple scenes, camera movements, music, sound design, and collaboration. While I loved that complexity, I became deeply fascinated by the idea of telling a story through a single frame, without dialogue, sound, or motion. Photography revealed to me a quieter, more distilled form of storytelling—one that relies purely on emotion, timing, and presence. Unlike film, which unfolds over time and often demands large teams, resources, and long processes, photography felt immediate and intimate. A photograph can be experienced anywhere—on a wall, in a book, or at home—and still carry the same emotional weight. It asks nothing more than attention, yet offers endless interpretations. As someone who works instinctively and independently, photography felt natural. It allowed me to create without waiting, without permission, and without reliance on others.
I could simply pick up a camera and respond to the world around me. In that simplicity, I found freedom—and in a single frame, I discovered limitless stories waiting to be told.
Q: How do you recognize the moments on the street that you want to stop and photograph?
A: Most of the moments I choose to photograph do not announce themselves with clear meaning or intention. Often, I don’t ask why I want to photograph a scene, a person, or a place—I simply listen to my intuition. Anything that pulls my attention carries a story worth telling, even if that story reveals itself only later. When I’m on the street, I don’t chase perfect light, specific colors, or predetermined subjects.
Instead, I try to dissolve into the rhythm of the world around me. I become more observant, more present—witnessing life as it unfolds rather than directing it. I imagine a world reborn after silence, as if an apocalypse had passed and humanity had quietly returned.
In that imagined return, everything feels precious again: people walking freely, birds cutting through the sky, sunlight brushing against skin, the warmth of bodies moving together, the layered sounds of a crowd slowly coming back to life.
Holding this perspective transforms the ordinary into something sacred. A tree swaying in the wind, leaves caught mid-motion, the simple act of breathing, strangers passing by without fear—everything becomes meaningful. In that state of awareness, photography becomes less about capturing moments and more about acknowledging existence itself. I stop and photograph when something reminds me that being here, witnessing life in motion, is already extraordinary.
Q: You often photograph the people closest to you. What keeps bringing you back to them?
A: I am someone who moves through life without holding onto resentment. Even when conflict appears, I forgive easily. I connect deeply with people, and I consider myself fortunate to be surrounded by individuals who have shaped my life in meaningful ways.
Because of this closeness, photographing the people nearest to me feels natural—it is where trust, understanding, and honesty already exist. I return to them because I know them beyond the surface. I understand their silences, their humor, their insecurities, and their strength. That understanding allows me to photograph them not as subjects, but as people. I see these moments as priceless—not in a monetary sense, but as emotional currency that will only grow in value with time. I often photograph them at their best—wearing their favorite clothes, their best hat, their most confident smile. Not to idealize them, but to preserve a fleeting moment of who they are right now. Photography, for me, is a way of freezing time, storing memories carefully for the future. It is a way of saying: this mattered, you mattered, this moment existed. Every photograph becomes a shared experience. It is not just about the person in front of the camera, but also about the unseen presence behind it—the bond between us. When they look at the photograph, they remember who took it. When I look at it, I remember who they were to me at that time.
In a life that moves quickly and unpredictably, these images become anchors. Life is fragile and brief, and we never know when we may see someone for the last time. To have a photograph to return to is not just special—it is a quiet act of love, remembrance, and connection.
Q: Feelings of belonging and not belonging run through your work. How do these show up when you’re making a picture?
A: In “Belongingness,” I place impeccably dressed individuals—suits, elegant dresses—into spaces that feel broken, chaotic, or abandoned. The contrast between their polished appearance and the raw environment sparks a quiet tension, asking why they are here, in a place that seems so out of place.
These settings act as a mirror to their inner lives, revealing vulnerability, isolation, and the silent struggles we rarely see. Behind every smile, every perfectly styled gesture, there is a story of disconnection: the effort to belong, the weight of unhearing family, the emptiness of indifferent friends, the feeling of being unseen in a world that expects performance over truth. While the images are cinematic, with dramatic lighting and beautiful composition, they carry a subtle unrest. The elegance is real, but so is the quiet chaos beneath—a reminder that beauty can exist alongside discomfort, and belonging is never always given, only felt in fleeting, fragile moments.
Q: What helps you decide the mood you want a photograph to carry?
A: The mood of a photograph often emerges from the way I connect with the subject and my perspective of them, with a subtle sensitivity to who they are. I always begin by asking myself, why and what do I feel?—these questions guide my intuition and shape the atmosphere of the image. For example, I photographed a chef who became a friend over the two years I worked alongside him in the same restaurant. It wasn’t that he didn’t allow me to take his portrait; I simply waited until my intuition told me the moment was right.
I noticed him often, especially in the walk-in freezer, searching for ingredients in the −24°C cold. For me, even thirty seconds there was unbearable, yet he moved effortlessly, entirely absorbed in his work. Observing this, I was struck by how people adapt to discomfort when it becomes part of their life, how routine shapes resilience, and how the environment itself tells a story about the subject. The following day, I asked if I could photograph him in the freezer as he went about his task. I worked with only natural light, letting the space and the moment dictate the mood. The resulting image perfectly captured what I intended: the quiet strength, focus, and endurance of someone deeply connected to their work, a mood born not from staging but from presence, observation, and empathy.
Q: As you keep moving between film and photography, what are you most interested in exploring next?
A: I am a storyteller by nature—not through words, but through images. Being able to move between film and photography has given me a language that feels instinctive, and discovering this medium has been one of the most defining and rewarding decisions of my life.
Both forms allow me to observe, to feel, and to respond to the world in ways that feel honest to who I am. As I continue navigating between these two disciplines, I am increasingly drawn to exploring a space where they quietly intersect. I am interested in creating work where a single frame can stand on its own, yet be accompanied by the living voice of the story it holds. Not as an explanation, but as an extension—where an image invites the viewer in, and a narration deepens the emotional connection. One might ask why photography alone is not enough, or why not simply make a short film or documentary. While those forms are powerful, I am searching for a greater sense of freedom—one that allows me to express my voice without being confined by structure or expectation. I want the image to remain open, poetic, and unresolved, while the story unfolds through the voices of those who lived it.
This approach is deeply personal in my next project, which focuses on my hometown, Manipur—a place where communities have been torn apart by ethnic conflict, where lives have been lost, homes destroyed, and families displaced. Rather than speaking for the people, I want to create space for them to speak for themselves. Their voices—raw, fragmented, and honest—will accompany the images, allowing the audience to connect directly with the human cost of the conflict. This work is not about experimenting with form for its own sake. It is about building emotional bridges—between image and voice, between subject and viewer. Ultimately, my interest lies in creating experiences that allow people to feel, to listen, and to remember that behind every image is a life, a history, and a story that deserves to be heard.
Review by Curatory:
Chitaranjan Khuman’s photography has a cinematic quality and a strong focus on intimacy. With his background in film, he sees each image as a complete visual unit. He pays attention to composition, timing, and the subject’s psychological presence. By photographing people from his personal circle, he creates work based on familiarity and trust. In these images, small changes in expression and gesture take on significant meaning. The photos avoid spectacle and heavy narratives. Instead, they emphasize closeness, stillness, and the act of observing. Within this restrained approach, questions of home, attachment, and belonging surface as lived conditions, felt through the closeness and duration of the gaze.
