Christopher Taylor?s photograph of Town Hall, Calcutta

Quite a remarkable exhibition of black-and-white photographs of Calcutta and Mumbai has opened unannounced in the relative obscurity of the staircase and the library of British Council. These are by Christopher Taylor, a British photographer in his mid-40s who lives in France. A man of few words, Taylor is as understated as his photographs. He has been visiting India since 1986, and is quite intrigued by the ambiguity of our perception of the British.

His photographs are coloured by that sensibility. Even when he portrays Neo Classical architecture in all its cold grandeur in his photographs of Raj Bhavan, these enormous unpeopled halls do not project Raj imperium. They are haunted by a past they cannot shake off. Dramatic but not overbearing.

As demonstrated in his incredibly delicate and sensitive series on insects and sections of faces, he defamiliarises the most visible sights of Calcutta. Without captions, viewers may be unable to figure out where he took these.

Taylor had begun his career with an old Rolliflex and now uses a large studio camera with bellows that allow him to exercise control over perspective. A small aperture and long exposure ensure that each photograph is sharply focussed. Taillights on Chowringhee turn into luminous ribbons. But the ornamental grille on the terrace of Bible Society is clearly etched out. A Bombay High Court stairwell becomes a snail?s carapace.

Each photograph is carefully composed, the architectural elements in equipoise, creating a sense of solidity and calm. The Calcutta that Taylor portrays is far removed from the mall culture that threatens to wipe out the identity of the city, which calls itself the cultural capital of the country.

He had either taken these photographs before the daily crowds arrived, or after they had thinned out. For, there is no one in sight in popular haunts such as the College Street Coffee House, the General Post Office and Writers? Buildings.

Crowded with chairs and tables, light percolates through the skylights of Coffee House. The only sign of activity is man sitting on his haunches in one corner, reduced to a blur. A section of the post office is a jungle of fans hanging from the ceiling hemmed in by pigeonholes. Writers? is defined by the criss-cross of drainpipes and scaffolding.

Yule House has elegant balusters. But it is as flaky as its surrounding buildings. The memorial to Lady Canning in St John?s Church turns into an elegy, the dried up wreath serving as a reminder of the evanescence of life. An arch spans an entire frame. A large mat on the floor directly under it and a trolley serve as the counterpoint. In between is a tiny door with a light hanging above it, resolving the tension created by the mass of masonry.

It?s a pity British Council was unable to display the entire series.