Too Tight: My Photography Workshop with Steve McCurry – Vietnam, 2024.

Everyone at the hat market was wrapped in plastic rain covers and masks, moving in all directions — some already leaving. It was pouring. Our van had broken down that morning, and we had arrived extremely late.

How was I supposed to capture portraits or street photos when all I could see were covered faces? Covered bodies, for that matter.

I had already been feeling anxious; by then, I was a mess. It showed so much that K, Steve McCurry’s assistant in Asia, started helping me right away. I mean, he tried. But all I could see was rain and mud.

I had imagined portraits full of color, faces full of character. Through my lens, there was only a crowd of formless ghosts wandering around.

That night, I would have to present my photos in front of the whole group, for Steve McCurry to review. One thought kept echoing in my mind:

What am I doing here?

Decades of Almost

The honest answer is that I had been trying to get there for decades.

Long ago, browsing Steve McCurry’s website, I noticed a section about his workshops. Right away, I started imagining myself in one. Back then, it stayed in the realm of dreams.

Fast forward to 2019: I was thinking about improving my photography, and that memory resurfaced. A quick search, and there it was — a workshop with him in Myanmar! The downside? It was far more expensive than I remembered.

For weeks, I debated whether I should spend that much money and — the same question that would come back to haunt me at the market — whether I even had the skills to enroll in a workshop with THE MAN himself. Then, in one of those dangerous “I work my ass off, so I deserve it” moments, I paid the deposit.

And then 2020 arrived, and with it, the pandemic. The trip was scheduled for March and was postponed indefinitely.

When things started to return to normal, Myanmar had become unstable again, and the workshop was relocated to Thailand. I had already been there, and I didn’t want to spend that kind of money on a place I knew. I asked the agency to keep my deposit for the next one.

In 2024, the workshop was back in Myanmar, and a few months later, it moved again, this time to Vietnam.

I decided to go. Sure, I had been to Vietnam before. And yes, the thought of another round of Vietnamese food made saying yes much easier. But that wasn’t really why I went. Steve was already in his seventies, and workshops like this wouldn’t be offered forever. If I let this one go and they stopped, I would regret it for the rest of my life.

Which is how I ended up in a hotel lobby in Hanoi, waiting with the others, when the elevator doors opened. There he was — in person. He didn’t seem entirely comfortable with everyone looking at him, but he tried to appear at ease.

Too Tight

Back at the hotel after the hat market, I didn’t have a single photo I liked. Far from it. I thought they were all terrible, and I seriously considered skipping the selection altogether.

But the Catia in me didn’t let that happen. When things get tough and I feel like giving up, I usually push through. So I sat down and did it anyway.

Later, our photos went up on the screen, one by one, in front of the whole group. One of mine showed a craftswoman working on a nón lá, the traditional conical hat, looking straight at my camera — wrapped in an awful plastic rain cover. Behind her, a messy scene that only polluted the frame.

Of course, Steve didn’t like it either. I can’t remember exactly what he said. I only remember a look without a trace of approval, and one word:

No.

He said other things, but I must have buried my face, because I couldn’t hear anything else.

I felt ashamed. I still do.

Over the following days, I learned to listen. Some of his comments still help me today:

“Too tight.”

“Darken it!”

“The background is too busy.”

Those words, along with what I learned from K and from Christian, a photographer and the owner of the travel agency, slowly started to click.

Crashing a Wedding

At the first meeting, Christian had explained that the group would be divided into three teams, so that everyone had quality time with Steve. Each day, Steve would join a different team.

Mine was me, Murray and Mary, a Canadian couple, and Rajesh, an Indian who had lived in Hong Kong for years.

We spent a few days visiting villages near Hanoi, places I had never been before. Many of them specialize in a single craft: noodles, soy sauce, incense sticks, rice paper. The goal was to photograph locals going about their daily routines, so we wandered around capturing whatever caught our eye.

One day, we noticed something going on in a house a few meters ahead. Curious, we walked over, only to realize we had stumbled upon a wedding party.

It was a long, open corridor packed with people in suits and traditional dresses. I don’t know if it was a house or a venue, but it was clearly not big enough for everyone inside.

While I was still trying to figure out what was going on, I saw Murray, in street clothes, already disappearing into the crowd. I remember thinking, “Of course he did.” He was the spirited, extroverted one of the group, always jumping headfirst into whatever came along. He never stopped astonishing us, and we always followed, because he usually opened the door for the rest of us.

People looked at him, but nobody seemed upset. So we went in too.

We smiled, took photos and slowly made our way toward the back, and all we got in return were more smiles. Guests were dressed in their best clothes; I even saw a man in a military uniform. Some looked a bit self-conscious with a huge lens pointed at them, but it was obvious their discomfort came from shyness, not annoyance.

At the end of it all, some of the guests even handed us candy. Not a bad outcome for an uninvited visit.

A Splash of Yellow

Another day, we were on our way to the Temple of Literature in Hanoi for a session with models in traditional outfits when Murray suddenly started yelling for the minibus to stop. He had spotted something out the window: a crowd of soldiers filling the sidewalk, on their way to what seemed to be a parade.

We all burst out laughing as he kept shouting, “Stop! Stop!”, but the driver couldn’t have cared less, only pulling over a few meters further down. Murray was fuming, convinced we’d missed the perfect shot.

What none of us knew was that we had already arrived. The minibus had stopped right beside the temple. We got off and walked to the gate, and there they were: the same soldiers, now lined up in formation right in front of it.

Murray went quiet. The view was even better than the one he thought he’d lost.

We all whipped out our cameras and started shooting. It took only a few seconds for the officer in charge to order us to stop. He was clearly not thrilled with us, so we backed off.

I was a little tense and barely noticed the two tall models standing next to us, waiting for instructions. As we were figuring out how to work with them, we heard Murray’s camera clicking away: he was sneaking photos of the formation. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run. Vietnam is a one-party state, after all.

Suddenly, he crouched down with one of the models and slipped her into the middle of the formation. She was stunning, and the young soldiers couldn’t stop staring at her. There they were, all in dark green uniforms, and there she was, in a bright yellow imperial-style costume. The whole scene felt surreal, and almost too funny to be true.

“We’re all getting arrested anyway,” I thought. “I might as well get some photos.”

To this day, I don’t know whether the officer didn’t see the commotion or simply gave up. I never saw him again. The soldiers tried hard to stay serious, but between Murray’s antics and the beauty of the girl standing among them, they couldn’t. It was nervous laughter, the same kind we had. Except for Murray, of course. At some point, they seemed to decide what we had already decided: it was impossible to keep a straight face, and impossible to stop.

The photos from that completely unexpected moment turned out to be some of the best we took.

The Market I Had to Leave

Markets are a feast for the eyes, especially for street photographers: people selling all kinds of goods, the whole community passing through. There’s always something unexpected to see.

Like dogs being sold as food.

We were wandering through one of these markets when we saw it: a roasted dog on display.

I had heard the stories about people eating dogs, but I had never come across anything that could actually bring those stories to life. I looked closely, checking the tail, the snout, the shape, trying to confirm what I feared.

No doubt about it.

I was horrified. And even though Steve has traveled a lot and seen all kinds of things, I could tell he was just as uncomfortable looking at that scene.

On another day, we saw a similar scene: a single roasted dog lying on a stool in front of a house. Again, I couldn’t just walk past without stopping to take it all in and, of course, to capture it with my camera. Inside, a man was cleaning near the doorway. He didn’t look pleased to be observed. I still wonder if he could sense our tension and judgment.

Later, in another street market, we stumbled upon several stalls openly selling roasted dogs. It wasn’t one house or one vendor anymore. There were so many that the smell hung heavily in the air. It was overwhelming.

We took a lot of photos, but at some point, the stench made me physically nauseous. I had to ask our guide to get me out of there.

A Lesson in Patience

Steve had become captivated by a khu tập thể, one of Hanoi’s old collective housing quarters: gray apartment blocks, simple and plain, completely different from the rest of the city. I didn’t get what the big deal was, but he saw something special there and kept coming back throughout the week, at different times of the day, with all three teams.

One visit was fine, but my group ended up returning three times, and I was getting frustrated. If it had been a mind-blowing place, I would have understood. But this bland neighborhood? I kept thinking of all the amazing places we could have gone instead, and there we were again.

But it was there that I saw Steve do something I had once read about in an interview.

He has a famous photo of a boy caught mid-air, both feet off the ground, running through a narrow, winding alley in Jodhpur, India’s blue city, its walls covered in red handprints. I love that picture. He explained that he got the shot by finding the location, seeing its potential and returning over and over, waiting for the perfect moment. When it came, he worked his magic.

In that gray neighborhood, we spent hours in another winding passageway, waiting for someone to walk by. It was exactly the method I had read about. Some things sound good in interviews and stop there. Not this one: when Steve finds a place with potential, he is tireless.

Whether for lack of magic or lack of opportunity, I didn’t get anything good in that passageway. And if anyone else in my group did, it never made it to the evening review.

A Prank in the Spotlight

Later that day, walking through the housing blocks, I recognized a spot from one of the nightly reviews. Marco, a second-time attendee, had shown a great photo of a silhouetted man entering a dark passageway. I mentioned to Steve that this was exactly where Marco had taken it. Immediately, he suggested we play a prank on him. I didn’t see that coming.

His plan: I would take a picture exactly like Marco’s and slip it into the middle of my selection for the evening review. He would act as if he were seeing it for the first time and shower me with compliments.

We had the driver pose as the man in the original photo, and I took a few vertical shots, as I remembered Marco had done. “No, take it horizontal,” Steve snapped, mumbling something about Instagram and people obsessing over vertical shots. He was the boss, so I went with it.

Back at the hotel, I edited the photo in Lightroom to get it as close to Marco’s as possible and placed it in the middle of my selection. When I handed my pictures to Christian, I mentioned that Steve had asked me to include an extra one. He laughed, as if he knew what was coming. “That can’t be good.”

Before dinner, I showed Steve the final result on my phone. He said it was perfect, and even complimented my Lightroom skills.

That night, we were all sitting down for the review, the photos projected on the screen. Steve sat off to the side, going through the day’s pictures and making a few comments on each. When he got to mine, he suddenly stood up. “What a fantastic photo! Great composition, lighting, color!” He went on and on. The room fell silent. You could feel everyone wondering: Is she really doing this? Did she copy someone else’s photo and take credit for it?

I looked at Marco. Pure shock: eyes wide open, mouth frozen, as if a shout had stuck in his throat.

Then Steve finally explained the prank, and everyone burst out laughing. The color came back to Marco’s face, and he started breathing again, saying he couldn’t believe his eyes.

P.S. In the end, Marco’s photo was vertical.

Where Bourdain Met Obama

We were on our way to lunch when the guide made a thrilling announcement: we’d be eating at Bún Chả Hương Liên, the very place where Anthony Bourdain filmed his famous dinner with Barack Obama for Parts Unknown. I was beyond excited. I had always wanted to go there, and now I was going with Steve. Standing where one of my idols once had a historic conversation, together with another one: what a combination.

The place was absolutely packed. I remember climbing the stairs and seeing floor after floor of full tables. I lost count after the third. It just kept going. And the smell was everywhere. I could almost taste it before we even reached our table.

When we finally sat down, Steve asked the guide why, in a city full of amazing restaurants, they had picked this one. Apparently, he hadn’t caught the explanation in the van. I jumped in: “This is where Bourdain had dinner with Obama!” The guide added that the table was still there. Of course, I asked to see it. Steve gave me a look of disbelief, almost annoyance, as if to say: Really? We’re here because of that?

Luckily, the food arrived right away.

On my first trip to Vietnam, I had learned that the food can look simple, even unglamorous, and still be some of the best in the world. Bourdain declared his love for Vietnamese cuisine many times. He was right.

Bún chả is pork grilled over charcoal, served with rice noodles, fresh herbs and a sweet-and-sour broth to dip everything in. I’m not usually one for brothy dishes, but the smell filling the place came mostly from that broth, and it was clearly the star.

So I picked up my chopsticks and started the ritual of dipping the meat and the noodles. I’m no master with chopsticks, but I managed.

I think many of these ingredients don’t even exist in Brazil. So when I tasted it, what blew my mind wasn’t the sweet and sour — we have that too. It was the flavors I couldn’t recognize. Nothing overpowered anything else: herbs, sugar, salt, spice, all in perfect balance.

On our way out, Steve lit up: he had spotted an elevator we hadn’t seen on the way in. He was about to step in when he turned back and saw me heading for the stairs. “I’m going to see the table,” I said. He laughed and got out of the elevator. “Oh, so now you want to see the table too?” I teased. He just kept laughing.

To my absolute surprise, the table and the two stools were enclosed in an acrylic case, under a photo of Obama and Bourdain taken that night. It looked like a shrine, a bit surreal.

I asked the guide to take a picture of me next to it. Then Steve asked for one too: he wanted to send it to his wife. We ended up taking the corniest photo together as well.

It’s the corniest photo I have. It’s also the one I love the most.

The Last Review

One of our activities during the week was a session with performers from Vietnam’s national Tuồng theater, a classical opera form. We followed them as they did their makeup and got into costume, and then photographed them in full dress.

I was photographing one of the actresses in the theater’s red seats when I looked up at the balcony and saw an opportunity. I asked her to stay where she was and rushed upstairs. Looking down, I knew it was the shot. I called out for her to look up, and took it.

At our last review, I presented that photo and another one, taken at a street market: the back of a man’s head as he cleaned pork, while the pig’s head, sitting in a bowl, stared straight at the camera, as if smiling. I like that kind of strangeness, and it got the reaction I expected: a mix of discomfort and admiration. Someone even said he wished he had taken it.

But it’s the theater photo I’ll never forget. I could see approval on everyone’s faces.

Including Steve’s.

Marco had been chatting and missed whose photo it was. He looked up at the screen and asked: “Wait, who took that picture?”

In his final wrap-up, Christian said my improvement had been clearly noticeable throughout the workshop.

Our last dinner with Steve and Christian came with a book signing and even a diploma ceremony. Then it was time to say goodbye, and it caught me off guard how sad I felt that it was over.

Once again, emotion swallowed the words. I can’t remember what Steve and I said in those few minutes. I only remember telling him how grateful I was.

Every night, my group had been going up to the hotel rooftop for a drink after dinner and reviews, along with K and his wife, Pook, who was also part of Christian’s team, and sometimes people from other teams. But I had walked past a bar nearby several times, always full, always lively, so for our last evening, I suggested a change of ritual. Somehow, word got around, and I ended up at a big table with everyone from the workshop. We talked, laughed and relived those days.

On the first night, all I had to show was a woman wrapped in plastic, and all I got was a look without a trace of approval and a single word: no. On the last, a face looking up at me from a red theater seat, and Marco asking who had taken it.

So, what was I doing there? I had gone to meet someone I admired, and I came back with something I hadn’t expected to find: a few photos I’m proud of, and the memory of a man who turned out to be human.