In Spandita Malik's practice, the act of image-making is transformed into a quiet but powerful form of resistance. Between 2019 and 2024, Malik — an Indian photographer currently based in New York — travelled across the remote hinterlands of Punjab and Rajasthan documenting survivors of domestic abuse. Malik photographed the women in the intimate, often fraught spaces of their homes, but the images she made were not typical portraits. She printed the images on khadi — the indigenous handspun cotton textile closely tied to India's histories of autonomy and struggle — and sent them back to the women with an open invitation to alter them however they liked: embroider them, paint over them, stitch protective symbols into the fabric, or even scratch them out entirely. What returned to Malik were transformed images that reflect how the women wish to be seen or obscured.

These portraits, and the process behind them, form the basis of Malik's Nā́rī and Jāḷī—Meshes of Resistance series. Together, the projects represent a body of work that resists easy categorisation. They draw as much from traditional textile practices like phulkari and zardozi as they do from documentary photography, driven by a fundamental question:

What does it mean for a survivor to control her image, and to literally stitch herself back into visibility?

"In my practice, aesthetics and activism are not at odds: they are woven together, like the threads in the embroideries the women create," Malik says. "The visual beauty of the work is intentional; it gently draws viewers in and then reveals the weight of the stories stitched into every portrait. In Nā́rī and Jāḷī, collaboration is not just a method — it's the core of the work. Many of the women I work with have survived domestic violence or have lived in forced seclusion. Through image-making and embroidery, they reclaim agency over how they are seen and represented."

Her process is slow and grounded in care. "I never arrive with a camera the first time I meet someone," she says. "Cameras can be intrusive, especially when conversations touch on trauma, which is difficult even with close friends. I'm a stranger, and the most respectful thing I can do is simply be present: to listen, to share space, and to honour whatever they choose to share with me, or not. Often, I spend time sitting with them, drinking chai and learning the rhythms of their homes." Sometimes she brings disposable cameras and teaches their children photography. "It becomes an entry point into the idea of self-representation. The women and their children begin to see that their stories and creativity matter."

The photographs, once printed on khadi and returned to the women, take on new life through hand embroidery. "The use of khadi and hand embroidery adds a deeply embodied and political layer to the work," explains Spandita. "Khadi, in particular, holds historical weight in India — it was a symbol of resistance during the independence movement, a rejection of colonial industry in favour of self-reliance. Printing portraits on this cloth roots the work in that legacy of protest and autonomy."

Malik doesn't guide the women artistically. "The collaboration is both intimate and self-directed. Once the portraits are printed and sent back, the women take full control. They decide how they want to be seen: what to reveal, highlight, or hide." Each image becomes a deeply personal act of self-representation.

In March 2025, Malik was announced as one of the four winners of the 2025 V&A Parasol Foundation Prize for Women in Photography which identifies, supports, and champions the talent of global female photographers. Her debut solo exhibition with the Robert Mann Gallery in New York concluded on May 10. Naturally, Malik shared photos, videos, and installation views of the works on display with some of the women. "Their reactions are often deeply emotional," Malik says. "A mix of pride, surprise, and sometimes disbelief. It's powerful to witness: their lives, their images, taking up space on walls across the world."

Many of the floral motifs in the work come from phulkari, an embroidery tradition from Punjab that literally means 'flower work'. Historically, women embroidered phulkari for their dowries — these intricate, labour-intensive textiles were deeply personal, often made silently, yet full of meaning. Each motif carried symbolic weight: five-petaled flowers signified harmony, diamonds represented fertility, and repeated patterns were meant to protect.

"Some women add verses, others paint over certain parts before stitching," Malik says. "Each act is a decision about how to be seen, or not seen. It's not about embellishment. It's about control, visibility, and reclaiming language that has long been tied to expectation and ritual."

With such charged material, Malik is careful to center the women's safety. "The women whose stories I hold are never 'subjects' — they are the heart of the work. If a woman chooses to cover her face, that choice is respected. In fact, veiling in this context becomes an empowered act — it's about asserting one's own boundaries, not disappearing. Authenticity doesn't require exposure. It's about honouring how each woman chooses to be seen and understood."

"These are not projects with fixed endpoints," Malik says, looking back. "They are relationships. And like all relationships, they deserve time, care, and ongoing presence." Rather than positioning herself as a documentarian capturing trauma, Malik builds on trust and reciprocity. Her gaze is neither extractive nor foreign — it is shaped by cultural proximity and an awareness of her own privilege. Through this collaborative method, Malik's work avoids spectacle and offers nuanced, tactile portraits of survival that honour silence as much as they celebrate voice.

Nā́rī and Jāḷī are testaments to that ethos. They are collaborative portraits not just of these women, but of their strength, resilience, and self-image — stitched, quite literally, by the women themselves.

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