Interview
Engines of Identity or How to Use a Vehicle as a Lens
NB: What made you want to photograph vehicles? Where did the fascination begin?
MR: It actually started long before I became a photographer. When I was twelve years old, I used to ride my bike through my hometown and visit every car dealership I could find. I’d go in, ask politely and collect brochures. I built up quite a collection of gleaming catalogues full of polished cars, technical specs and glamorous slogans. For me, cars weren’t just machines. They had personality. They represented freedom, adventure and possibility.
That obsession faded as I grew older, but something of it remained in the background – quiet, unresolved. Years later, while working on my Metropolis project in rapidly growing cities, I started noticing the unique and sometimes strange vehicles people were using in different parts of the world. They looked completely out of place by European standards – three-wheeled delivery vans, hand-painted taxis, patched- together scooters. That’s when the old fascination came back, but with new questions.
What happens when you isolate a vehicle from its chaotic surroundings? Can it tell us something about the culture it comes from? About the person who uses it? Or about society itself?
So the idea was born from those early impressions?
Exactly. But the real start came during a trip to Mumbai with my wife. Every morning we walked past a carpet shop, and in front of it stood an old car that was partially broken and covered in paint and text, essentially being used as a street advertisement. It was striking. I thought: maybe this is the moment to test the idea. When we came back a few weeks later, I arranged a shoot with the car.
The shoot itself went smoothly, but when I reviewed the image later that evening, I had a strange feeling: this wasn’t enough. The car was rich in detail, but it felt… empty. That night, I called everyone involved and asked them to return the next morning. I wanted to reshoot, this time with the owner.
And that’s when everything clicked. The human presence added emotion, depth, even ambiguity. From that point on, I knew this wasn’t a project about vehicles – it was a project about people and identity, using the vehicle as a lens.
How did you move from that single photo to a global series?
I decided to do a one-month road trip through India. It was a kind of test phase. I hired a fixer and a few helpers, and we built a mobile outdoor studio: a steel frame about 12 metres wide and 6 metres high, assembled by a blacksmith in Mumbai. The structure could be dismantled and transported, and we used it to hang neutral backdrops so the vehicle and its owner would be isolated visually from their environment.
We travelled north from Mumbai, stopping in towns and traffic-heavy areas. Whenever I saw an interesting vehicle – or someone with a certain posture or look – I would approach them, explain the project and ask if they’d participate. Most were curious. Some said no. Others didn’t have time. But many agreed, especially when they saw some example prints.
Do any moments from that journey stand out?
Yes, one in particular. I wanted to photograph a Bajaj Tempo Hanseat, a rare three- wheeled delivery vehicle originally made in Hamburg in the 1930s. Production had moved to Pune, India, decades ago, but no one on my team had ever seen one. I insisted they still existed. One day, while driving on the motorway in India, I suddenly saw one ahead of us. I shouted to the driver: “That’s it! That’s the Hanseat!” We sped up, drove alongside it and tried to get the driver’s attention. He didn’t understand. Eventually, I said: “Just cut him off.” So we pulled in front of him, forced him to stop, and I jumped out with a thousand apologies.
He looked puzzled at first, but once I explained my admiration for the vehicle and the project, he agreed to be photographed. We led him to a shaded area, set up the backdrop and took the photo. Afterwards, he even told us where we might find more Hanseats. That moment had everything: history, spontaneity and a kind of joyful absurdity.
There are also pictures of rickshaws in your project…
I made a special trip to Kolkata for those. I sought out the hand-pulled rickshaw, a relic from colonial times that has all but vanished from the rest of Asia. These rickshaws are deeply tied to the city’s identity and inequality: lower caste migrants pulling upper caste passengers. The city government has tried for decades to eliminate them, calling them inhumane and outdated. But for all the men who pull them, this is their only means of survival. The fact it’s controversial makes it interesting for me.
I photographed a dozen of these men with their rickshaws. It’s not about nostalgia or romanticism. It’s about survival, class, and the stubborn persistence of systems that resist change. That tension is visible in the image.
You have photographed in many different countries. How did you choose them?
Each country served a different purpose. India was essential because of its unique local production and rich vehicle culture. Senegal imports thousands of old cars from Europe, many of which wouldn’t pass inspection anymore. While stricter environmental laws are gradually curbing the influx of high-emission vehicles, these so-called ‘dirty’ cars remain a common sight on the streets, for now. At the same time, a growing middle class across parts of Africa is driving demand for affordable cars, often second-hand imports. This creates a complex intersection between aspiration, accessibility and environmental responsibility.
The US has a deep, personal car culture. China is the world’s biggest car producer and market. Germany and the Netherlands are close to home and key in automotive history. Ukraine offered a fascinating contrast – Western luxury cars in the cities; Soviet relics in the countryside.
Was it difficult to photograph in Ukraine?
My time in Ukraine was deeply moving. I arrived during the war, uncertain whether people would be willing – or even able – to take part in the project. But their openness was striking, despite the daily air raid alarms and an atmosphere thick with tension.
This backdrop gave the work a powerful social and political resonance. I photographed a woman who keeps an Orthodox icon on her dashboard – a quiet act of faith meant to protect her husband on the front. Another portrait features a soldier freshly returned from the front lines, his presence still heavy with the experience of war.
These are stories of mobility under duress and identity under pressure, of people navigating conflict not just on the battlefield, but in the intimate spaces of everyday life.
Did you find cultural differences in how people relate to their vehicles?
Absolutely. In Rajasthan, lorries are treated like canvases. They’re hand-painted, decorated, and sometimes covered in slogans or religious symbols. In Senegal, cars are more functional, especially among the working class. But once you go higher up the social hierarchy, the car becomes a statement.
In the US, identity is closely tied to the car. Even if someone is struggling financially, they might drive a huge SUV. It doesn’t always ‘match’ their circumstances, but it reflects a cultural ideal: freedom, power, independence.
Each photo comes with a backstory. Some are about survival; others about expression, heritage, memory, protest – and spirituality.
Spirituality?
Yes. People often take their new vehicles to a temple to be blessed by a priest. It’s a holy act, seeking protection for something valuable. One of the most striking scenes was a priest blessing a car in India by placing small offerings on the bonnet and painting symbols on the windscreen. In China, I saw a woman pick up her new car at a dealership, and the staff performed a small ceremony for her: singing, posing for photos and offering flowers. These aren’t transactions – they’re rites of passage. Were there any vehicles that surprised you?
Plenty. In Bangalore, I found a car with a garden on its roof. The owner was a lawyer and climate activist. He said it was his way of offsetting the carbon footprint of his vehicle. He wanted others to follow his example. I doubt many did, but it was a beautiful gesture, and an amazing photo.
Did you also photograph people living in their cars?
Yes. Especially in Los Angeles. I was struck by how many people in the US – a wealthy country – are forced to live in their vehicles. Even though it was difficult, I tried to include that in the project. Some people were open to being photographed, but many didn’t show up. One man needed petrol just to get to the shoot. I helped, but then his car broke down. Another man did show up but stopped short when he saw the white backdrop. He didn’t want to be photographed on it, so I asked what his concern was. He told me a story about space and the universe. It was messy, human, real.
In the end, I was able to include four people living in their vehicles. The most touching encounter was with Carl, a musician. He appears to be doing alright for himself, but the dog, a boxer, looks so sad – that remains one of the most powerful images in the series.
What about the future? Electric cars, hydrogen, car sharing?
I did include a few future-oriented vehicles – hydrogen prototypes developed by students in Delft, the Netherlands, for example. And electric cars in China. But I stayed away from car sharing. It’s hard to photograph because there’s no clear owner, no human connection. And that’s part of the point: the personal link to the vehicle is dissolving.
That’s why this project feels timely. We’re on the brink of a transformation. Young people don’t care about cars the way previous generations did. They value mobility, not ownership. They rent, they share, they Uber.
So this project is both a reflection on the present and also a farewell?
Yes. It’s a portrait of a world about to change dramatically. A kind of zeitgeist record of our relationship with mobility. It’s not just about vehicles – it’s about class, pride, belief, survival. Each image contains a story: a person, a culture, a contradiction.
But while they last, they carry more than just passengers. They carry identity. And through this project, I wanted to hold up a mirror: to our systems, our aspirations, our transitions. We are what we drive – not in a consumerist sense, but in a cultural one.
And yes, it’s also a kind of farewell. A farewell to a certain kind of car culture that shaped the 20th century. A farewell to the combustion engine. A farewell to the idea that owning a car is a symbol of freedom or adulthood. That time is fading.
Nadine Barth is a curator and publicist. With her agency barthouse, she organises exhibitions, book productions and cultural events. Barth is the editor of over 100 books on photography, fashion, architecture and art. She lives in Berlin (and drives an Alfa Spider from 1982).