Revisiting Mentorship and the Idea of ‘Practice’ in film

A few conversations with master cinematographers changed the questions I ask every time I read a script. The most important questions aren't technical at all.

Coming into the ISC mentorship program, I carried with me a certain understanding of filmmaking, one shaped by film school, limited resources, and a deep reliance on peer learning, senior guidance, and occasional masterclasses. Film school, for me, was less about introspection and more about orientation, understanding what the industry looks like, how it functions, and where one might fit into it.

But that understanding only begins to take real shape after stepping out.

It is in the one or two years of working independently, freelancing, assisting on sets, observing processes, and shooting your own material that the term “industry” starts to reveal its true meaning. Especially in a space as unpredictable as Indian cinema, being part of this ecosystem is not just a professional challenge it is a mental one. It can subtly, but powerfully, reshape how you approach your work, often pulling you away from the very joy that brought you into the craft.

And yet, somewhere in that chaos, something persists.

For me, it has always been this instinct to find small pockets of joy within each project one or two elements in every shoot that feel personally exciting, regardless of scale or pressure.

Hearing my mentor articulate a similar approach, how he experiments with something new in every project, even if only he recognizes it felt deeply affirming. It reinforced a belief that sustaining curiosity is not accidental; it is a conscious practice.

This mentorship programme, in many ways, became a space that nurtured that practice.

At a time when external pressures, professional uncertainty, a rapidly changing world, and the expectation of maturity make it increasingly difficult to pause and reflect, this program offered something rare: access, not just to knowledge, but to perspective. Conversations with some of the country’s most accomplished cinematographers revealed something unexpected the discussions were rarely technical in the conventional sense.

Instead of focusing purely on gear or execution, the dialogue moved toward more

fundamental questions:

● What draws you to a script?

● How do you interpret a story visually?

● What influences your choices?

● Who are you as a person, and how does that shape your work?

These were not just professional inquiries; they were deeply personal ones.

Over the past few months, I found myself more curious than I have ever been. Not just about lighting setups or camera systems, but about ways of seeing. About how different cinematographers, whether working on independent or the largest productions in the country approach storytelling.

And through these conversations, one realization stood out above all:

The idea that a cinematographer must have a fixed “style” is, in many ways, a myth.

What truly defines a strong cinematographer is not a consistent visual signature, but a consistent commitment to the story. Every meaningful creative decision, lighting, framing, lensing emerges from the narrative and the collaboration with the director. Style, then, is not something imposed; it is something that evolves organically from the material.

What cinematographers do develop over time, however, are tools.

These tools are not just technical skills, but instincts preferences shaped by years of experience. They are patterns you return to, not out of habit, but because they resonate with how you see the world. For instance, hearing a cinematographer speak about a recurring inclination toward top lighting and then noticing that same tendency across work spanning nearly a decade reveals how certain choices become part of one’s internal toolkit.

But even then, those tools remain flexible. They adapt to the needs of each story.

This distinction, between style and tools, feels crucial. It shifts the focus away from trying to “have a look ” and instead toward building a deeper, more responsive practice.

Another unexpected shift that emerged through this process was a heightened sense of self-reflection.

Listening to so many cinematographers speak about how they engage with a story inevitably turns that lens inward. You begin to question your own instincts why you make certain choices, what draws you to particular frames, and how intentional those decisions really are. This reflection operates at a micro level. Nothing outwardly dramatic changes overnight, but your awareness sharpens.

The next time you read a script, you read it differently.

Not because you are applying a radically new method, but because you are more conscious of every response you have to it. That awareness begins to influence everything, how you engage with your director, the questions you choose to ask, and the clarity you seek before stepping onto set. As a result, even seemingly small decisions or the bigger ones, lighting choices, lensing choices start to carry more intention.

These may feel like surface-level shifts in the moment, but they are not insignificant.They accumulate.

Over time over the next five years, perhaps this accumulation becomes practice. And practice, eventually, becomes voice. In that sense, this stage feels like a beginning: the first step toward building something more grounded, more deliberate, and more personal.

Alongside this, another piece of advice stood out for its simplicity and weight: Never Worry Alone.

In an industry that can often feel isolating, the importance of community cannot be overstated!

Finding people to share uncertainties with, to learn alongside, and to grow with is not just comforting, it is essential. Building and contributing to such communities shifts the focus away from validation and toward participation.

It becomes less about being accepted, and more about being present, in my opinion.

About showing up, contributing meaningfully, and allowing that collective energy to shape you just as much as you shape it.

Ultimately, what this mentorship experience has offered is not just learning, but clarity.

Clarity that story is, and always will be, central.

Clarity that growth takes time far more than we often give ourselves.

And clarity that the journey of a cinematographer is not about defining yourself too early, but about staying open long enough for your voice to emerge naturally.

In an industry that often demands certainty, this might be the most valuable lesson of all.