Relative value: Picture perfect
A coffee-table book on Hamilton’s photographic treasure and digitisation of its archives is on the cards, even as the Madhavjis struggle to survive.
A few months ago, member of the Romanov dynasty of Russian monarchs, H H Grand Duke George Roman of arrived at Ballard Pier looking for a photo studio. He was accompanied by his partner, Rebecca Berttini, who he hoped the studio’s owners would capture in an old-style portrait with him.
They couldn’t have entrusted the responsibility to a more competent team. Ranjit and Ajita Madhavji have run Hamilton Studios Pvt. Ltd, the city’s oldest photography outpost, since 1958 after Ranjit bought it over from Sir Victor Sassoon, member of the famed Jewish family behind David Sassoon Library and Sassoon Docks, who was a portrait photography enthusiast. Ranjit hoped the acquisition would help him escape his Kutchi family’s textile business.
But it hasn’t been an easy ride. Since 1976, the Madhavjis have been fighting National Textile Corporation (NTC), co-owners of the then E D Sassoon Building, who want them evicted. After the Sassoon family’s businesses and mills were declared sick, all their sprawled out properties were taken over by the government, under the Public Premises Act (Unauthorised Ocuupants), 1972, says Ajita, the building’s six legal sub-tenants, including the Madhavjis, were sent notices to shell out present day rents. “We charge Rs 3000 for a portrait. I make a couple of thousands a month. If nothing works out for legal tenants, we’ll have to close this institution down,” says Ajita, 57.
Incidentally, it was the legal tussle that was responsible for Ajita’s involvement in the business. In her 20s, Ajita set aside an MBA degree to pursue photography when in the early 1980s, Ranjit was in Delhi for a court hearing. The director of Monsanto Chemicals walked in for an urgent passport picture. With little idea of operations, she delegated the task to a staff that wished to show a young arrogant woman her place. “They delivered horrible passport pictures, and the man threw a fit. I realised I couldn’t handle a mocking staff,” says Ajita, who eventually enrolled for courses at the Indo-American Chambers, Photographic Society of India and Kodak India. The lessons haven’t stopped. She is in the middle of advanced Nikon classes to keep her abreast with digital photography. It’s what connects her to her father, who shot with a Leica 3C camera, and was ecstatic when Sassoon, a friend, let him use the studio premises. Eventually, he handed him a blank cheque in a grand takeover.
Born to an artist mother, Ranjit, who became the official photographer of the then Bombay State, now government of Maharashtra, Kathiawad and Gujarat State, spent a part of the 1960s travelling in a van stuffed with 10 lights and a fleet of Rolleiflex, Hilba, Linhof and Graflex cameras. His mission was to document the countryside.
Hamilton gave him roots.
In a rare visit to the studio last week, Ranjit remembers the place being run by a staff of suited-andbooted white Russians. “The country’s elite would walk in for a click. Oh, the whiff of the old negatives,” he sighs, looking at a photograph of Mrs Pamela King, then resident of Carmichael Road, hanging from the high ceiling. It reminds him of a nasty remark that got him mad. “‘Nobody in India knows how to take pictures’, she said. She hated the rough proofs, and refused to take the pictures home. I sent the same images to many photographic competitions, and of eight, seven won awards all over the world. That sealed her mouth.”
Another haughty young woman, actress Zeenat Aman, is also part of Hamilton’s legend. It’s the studio that’s credited with discovering her. “It was the 1960s, and young marriageable girls got portraits shot here. It was believed that those shot at Hamilton stood a 100 per cent chance of finding a boy even before they collected the prints!” Ranjit narrates.
Zeenat stepped out of a Mercedes-Benz with her mother, and like the other young women, had marriage on her mind.
Pointing to the Kodak studio camera, Ranjit recalls, “That was the camera I shot her with. I spent the usual 45 minutes taking the picture, and along the way realised she poses well. I suggested she consider modelling. She signed up for a calendar shoot with us. It was here that one of my photographers, Sohail, took her first portfolio shots.”
The actress’ pictures, together with lakhs of others, have been carefully stored and manually catalogued. The organisation is going to come handy when work on the coffee-table book Ajita is planning, starts, as does digitisation of Hamilton’s archives. As a centre for photo restoration, Ajita often entertains students from the Sir JJ School of Art, who drop in to learn about photography back in the day.
The Madhavjis hope the government recognises the studio’s relevance to the city’s history. “My hands are tied; I can’t take on anything more. The case has us weighed down,” says Ajita, speaking of expenses that have forced them to trim the staff from 22 to one. “We can either pay our lawyers or the staff,” she says, before Ranjit interrupts with a raise of his stick. “We are Rajputs. We’ll go on till the end.”
A few months ago, member of the Romanov dynasty of Russian monarchs, H H Grand Duke George Roman of arrived at Ballard Pier looking for a photo studio. He was accompanied by his partner, Rebecca Berttini, who he hoped the studio’s owners would capture in an old-style portrait with him.
They couldn’t have entrusted the responsibility to a more competent team. Ranjit and Ajita Madhavji have run Hamilton Studios Pvt. Ltd, the city’s oldest photography outpost, since 1958 after Ranjit bought it over from Sir Victor Sassoon, member of the famed Jewish family behind David Sassoon Library and Sassoon Docks, who was a portrait photography enthusiast. Ranjit hoped the acquisition would help him escape his Kutchi family’s textile business.
It did. The portraits of erstwhile maharajas, nawabs, governors and viceroys of Bombay, including Mumbai’s celebrated residents, JRD Tata, Bhulabhai Desai, Dr B R Ambedkar and Sarat Chandra Bose, that sit around an original 1926-Kodak studio camera which functions as the 5000 sq ft studio’s punctum, speak of Ranjit’s success as a selftaught photographer.
But it hasn’t been an easy ride. Since 1976, the Madhavjis have been fighting National Textile Corporation (NTC), co-owners of the then E D Sassoon Building, who want them evicted. After the Sassoon family’s businesses and mills were declared sick, all their sprawled out properties were taken over by the government, under the Public Premises Act (Unauthorised Ocuupants), 1972, says Ajita, the building’s six legal sub-tenants, including the Madhavjis, were sent notices to shell out present day rents. “We charge Rs 3000 for a portrait. I make a couple of thousands a month. If nothing works out for legal tenants, we’ll have to close this institution down,” says Ajita, 57.
Incidentally, it was the legal tussle that was responsible for Ajita’s involvement in the business. In her 20s, Ajita set aside an MBA degree to pursue photography when in the early 1980s, Ranjit was in Delhi for a court hearing. The director of Monsanto Chemicals walked in for an urgent passport picture. With little idea of operations, she delegated the task to a staff that wished to show a young arrogant woman her place. “They delivered horrible passport pictures, and the man threw a fit. I realised I couldn’t handle a mocking staff,” says Ajita, who eventually enrolled for courses at the Indo-American Chambers, Photographic Society of India and Kodak India. The lessons haven’t stopped. She is in the middle of advanced Nikon classes to keep her abreast with digital photography. It’s what connects her to her father, who shot with a Leica 3C camera, and was ecstatic when Sassoon, a friend, let him use the studio premises. Eventually, he handed him a blank cheque in a grand takeover.
Born to an artist mother, Ranjit, who became the official photographer of the then Bombay State, now government of Maharashtra, Kathiawad and Gujarat State, spent a part of the 1960s travelling in a van stuffed with 10 lights and a fleet of Rolleiflex, Hilba, Linhof and Graflex cameras. His mission was to document the countryside.
Hamilton gave him roots.
In a rare visit to the studio last week, Ranjit remembers the place being run by a staff of suited-andbooted white Russians. “The country’s elite would walk in for a click. Oh, the whiff of the old negatives,” he sighs, looking at a photograph of Mrs Pamela King, then resident of Carmichael Road, hanging from the high ceiling. It reminds him of a nasty remark that got him mad. “‘Nobody in India knows how to take pictures’, she said. She hated the rough proofs, and refused to take the pictures home. I sent the same images to many photographic competitions, and of eight, seven won awards all over the world. That sealed her mouth.”
Another haughty young woman, actress Zeenat Aman, is also part of Hamilton’s legend. It’s the studio that’s credited with discovering her. “It was the 1960s, and young marriageable girls got portraits shot here. It was believed that those shot at Hamilton stood a 100 per cent chance of finding a boy even before they collected the prints!” Ranjit narrates.
Zeenat stepped out of a Mercedes-Benz with her mother, and like the other young women, had marriage on her mind.
Pointing to the Kodak studio camera, Ranjit recalls, “That was the camera I shot her with. I spent the usual 45 minutes taking the picture, and along the way realised she poses well. I suggested she consider modelling. She signed up for a calendar shoot with us. It was here that one of my photographers, Sohail, took her first portfolio shots.”
The actress’ pictures, together with lakhs of others, have been carefully stored and manually catalogued. The organisation is going to come handy when work on the coffee-table book Ajita is planning, starts, as does digitisation of Hamilton’s archives. As a centre for photo restoration, Ajita often entertains students from the Sir JJ School of Art, who drop in to learn about photography back in the day.
The Madhavjis hope the government recognises the studio’s relevance to the city’s history. “My hands are tied; I can’t take on anything more. The case has us weighed down,” says Ajita, speaking of expenses that have forced them to trim the staff from 22 to one. “We can either pay our lawyers or the staff,” she says, before Ranjit interrupts with a raise of his stick. “We are Rajputs. We’ll go on till the end.”
