Born in Bolzano but raised between Milan and Verona, Janusz (Jan) Daga combines a high degree of creativity with a deep passion for cultural anthropology. He graduated in Communication and Marketing in Milan, and later worked in the Netherlands, Austria, and Italy before ultimately settling in Bangkok, where he has lived and worked for over a decade.
For the past twelve years, he has dedicated his life to professional photography, publishing six books and working across reportage, advertising, and cinema as a set photographer.
Jan moves effortlessly between genres- from gritty, provocative black-and-white photographs that capture the raw energy of Thai nightlife, leaving no viewer indifferent, to beautifully composed images of Southeast Asia’s rich cultural heritage, with much inbetween. His street photography often goes beyond simply documenting daily life—it serves as an anthropological study of urban existence, raw, unfiltered and unapologetically honest and can at times evoke the subversive spirit of Moriyama’s work. Jan’s images reflect a deep authenticity, and when combined with an acute perception of his surroundings, are deeply insightful.
As a foreigner, he has immersed himself in the fabric of Thai society , while remaining true to his art. Leafing though his photography books feels like an invitation to embark on a journey with him whether through the grace of a Khon dance or the chaotic rhythm of an Asian city. His work doesn’t just depict moments; it immerses the viewer in the soul and essence of a place.
Beyond photography, Jan nurtures a deep passion for antique books and video games, which he meticulously collects. Music is another essential part of his life—he experiments with synthesizers and shares his compositions on YouTube.
How did your journey in photography begin?
As a child, I suffered from an obsessive-compulsive condition that caused me to have waking nightmares. Horrible ones. My body would lose consistency, expand infinitely, dissolve into space. I couldn’t control them. I couldn’t escape them.
To learn how to manage them, I started drawing. I wanted to trap them on a physical surface. Then, at eight years old, I discovered photography: for my first Communion, I asked for a camera—I think it was a Canon Snappy EZ. Maybe by taking photos, I could keep my nightmares under control.
That’s when it all started, with that small pocket camera that I carried with me everywhere, taking pictures of my girlfriends and friends. Thanks to this obsession, today I still have hundreds of images—adventures, travels, memories that would have otherwise faded into nothing. I still have the Pentax my mother gave me for my 15th birthday. It seemed like an extraordinary, futuristic camera (it was hers, and she only had that one, but she decided to give it to me). I still have everything, boxes full of black-and-white contact sheets, slides, and darkroom prints—I remember my first acid development: apart from my yellow-stained fingers and the acrid smell, it was magical. I cried.
Later, in the late ‘90s, while studying advertising and marketing, I started working as the assistant to the assistant—to the assistant—in Sergio Tornaghi’s studio in Milan. A natural step, in a way. Or maybe just another way to make sense of my obsession with documenting everything.
You have been involved in photography for many years, with experience in both Europe and Asia. To start, I’d like to ask you: do you think there is a Western visual language and an Asian visual language? If so, how do they differ, and what are their distinctive characteristics?
For me, Asia is a prism of light and shadows. Aside from a few great Japanese photographers, hardly anyone has truly crossed the oceans, so we Westerners know little to nothing about Asian photographers. Yet in China, Korea, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, there have been remarkable photographers.
For us Westerners, photography is a direct extension of painting: we grow up with museums, great masters, light, composition. Think of Caravaggio! All of this is reflected in our cinema, which in turn filters and trickles into photography—and vice versa. But in Asia, the evolution of photography has followed a different path. Photography was introduced here as a documentary medium by Westerners in the mid-19th century.
Perhaps this is why artists like Araki and Moriyama have astonished us so much: unburdened by tradition, they broke free from the frameworks we’ve internalized for generations. Of course, Italy has had its share of unconventional experimenters, but our focus tends to lean more toward exploring the medium itself rather than the poetics of the image. Take Maurizio Galimberti, for example—his photography feels almost sculptural.
Western photography is monumental, sculptural, epic. The black-and-white images of great war reporters carry the solemnity of a Parthenon pediment—imbued with emotion, tragedy, and grandeur. Asian photography, by contrast, is rooted in observation and documentation, embracing even the ugly, the dirty, the blurred, and the out-of-frame. It’s a lighter, more deliberate brushstroke—reserved, introspective, and unafraid of imperfection.
There is no doubt that the role of the photographer today is complex and multifaceted, influenced by an ever-evolving landscape where technology, social media, and the image market constantly redefine how photographs are created, distributed, and perceived. In your opinion, what defines a photographer in the contemporary world? And what does it mean to be a photographer in 2025?
Taking beautiful photos is now within everyone’s reach—we see it every day, everywhere. Even AI can generate images that look straight out of a fashion shoot or a war reportage. But having a vision, planning, and crafting a story? That’s something else entirely. That still belongs—at least for now—to the professional.
A photographer understands that every shot is part of a process. Whether it’s a reportage, an advertising campaign, a fashion editorial, or even a vacation album. They know their equipment like a mechanic knows the sound of an engine. They understand how to communicate with clients and production teams, navigate deadlines and expectations, create a storyboard, manage assistants, write grants for photography projects, and sell a reportage after meticulously planning and executing it.
Taking a beautiful photo is one thing; building a story through images is another—that storytelling that everyone talks about. The same goes for working on a commercial set, where every detail is scrutinized by the client and agency, or shooting a wedding, where missing a crucial moment means there are no second chances. Being a photographer is a way of living, a way of seeing the world. It means waking up with a project in mind, with something to say and express. Like a writer who feels the urge to put words on a page, a photographer feels the urgency to create images- not for likes, not for a showcase. Those, if they come, come later. Much later. Or maybe never.
And then there’s everything else: staying up to date, learning new technologies, mastering new software, understanding new cameras. Reading books, studying the greats, absorbing their lessons. Because photography is a language. And like any language, you either learn to speak it fluently- or just repeat the same phrases as everyone else.
I’d like to focus on the topic of the photography industry. I often feel that the most sought-after quality in an image today is its appeal—meaning work that is as accessible and consumable as possible. It seems that photographers, especially those who aspire to make a living from their work, end up blending into an indistinct mass, conforming to an increasingly standardized production shaped by market dynamics. This process leads to a gradual homogenization of images, sacrificing the uniqueness of an authorial vision. In your opinion, are we losing authorship and becoming our own censors?
I wouldn’t say we’ve become censors—I’d say we’ve all become publishers. The point is that, nowadays, we publish something online almost daily for a hypothetical audience that is always there, sitting in the front row, scorecards in hand, ready to judge.
Imagine Picasso with an audience commenting on every brushstroke, every ceramic piece, every sketch. He probably would have chosen a different profession.
Being publishers means we’ve internalized the logic of publishing- one that has always existed: if something appeals to the masses, it sells. If it doesn’t, it gets discarded. By that logic, many masterpieces from the past would never have seen the light of day- just think of how Cubism was initially received. Art cannot afford to be dictated by an algorithm, yet here we are, posting, evaluating, deleting, reposting—one eye on the audience, the other on the outcome.
Then there’s another issue: professionals buried under a landslide of amateurs. And what about the girls with Instagram profiles full of awful—and overly sexy—photos, amassing millions of followers? The truth is, despite these distortions, when real work is needed, serious companies know exactly who to call. They can tell the difference. And they understand that a professional cannot afford to fail.
It’s not about knowing how to use Photoshop or having a massive Instagram following- those are different games, best left to marketing. When results matter, real skills and expertise still command respect.
You have spent many years documenting the changes in Bangkok through photography. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that your archive contains thousands of images, capturing glimpses of the city that no longer exist today. Tell me more about this still-unpublished work: what inspired you to undertake it, and what does it mean to you to observe and capture the evolution of a constantly changing metropolis? Additionally, what are your future projects related to this visual research?
You’re right—Bangkok, Seoul, and even Hong Kong, though I arrived there too late. I’ve always been fascinated by architecture and cinema, and when you combine the two, you inevitably develop an obsession with places that, without artificial lighting or constructed sets, already look like a perfect film scene.
If you love culture, some places feel like they need to be preserved. And when no one—be it people, governments, or those responsible—steps in to protect them, the only way to save them, at least for me, is to document them. To freeze them in images before they disappear. That’s exactly what Girard and Lambot did with Kowloon Walled City. Decades later, their books, exhibitions, and archives continue to keep the memory of that bizarre and extraordinary place alive. The paradox? Hong Kong—the same city that demolished it—now dedicates exhibitions and museums to it. If they had realized earlier what they were destroying, maybe they would have preserved it.
Now, the same thing is happening in Bangkok. We have the last authentic Chinatown in the world, but it’s on the brink of disappearing. In a few years, all that will be left of its alleyways, neon signs, and the vibrant life moving between street stalls and wooden houses will be nothing more than faded postcards.
Maybe we Italians have preservation in our blood—that’s why the Colosseum and St. Peter’s Basilica are still standing after hundreds, even thousands, of years. If they had been built in Asia, they might not exist today —not even as illustrations in a travel guide.
You move with ease across different photographic genres, from photojournalism to documentary and reportage photography—fields in which you’ve earned prestigious awards and recognition. You’ve also made a mark in the world of fashion and advertising, demonstrating a rare versatility.However, it would be impossible to talk about Jan the photographer without focusing on your true passion: portraiture. Tell us more about this central aspect of your work.
Portrait photography is where I find the most freedom- a kind of poetic detour into my own complex mental universe. I love working with people, trying to capture something beyond the visible, something they carry within. I never ask for poses. I don’t want someone to “do” something for the camera. Every portrait I take is the result of a process- both technical and physical- that I’ve studied, tested, and refined over time. It’s difficult to put into words, but I can say that my practice of Aikido plays a part in it.
With beauty, there is no room for distraction. A beautiful girl or the handsome guy doesn’t make a great photo. To build a strong portfolio, you need a vision- a project with intent. That, too, is professionalism. Anyone can put together a collection of portraits with different lighting, lenses, and settings, but few can craft a portfolio with a cohesive narrative.
I always shoot without makeup. None at all. No flashy outfits. My love for Japanese minimalism translates into a simple black top, bare skin, and natural hair- no elaborate styling. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to Japanese aesthetics and industrial influences, from Comme des Garçons to Raf Simons—that avant-garde vision that Balenciaga later pushed to the extreme. Just to name one example.
You have been exploring the use of Artificial Intelligence in image creation for some time now. Can you share your experience in this field and any advice you’d give to photographers looking to embrace this technology?
I use AI constantly for work. Stock image libraries – and stock videos- will disappear; It’s only a matter of time. Those who don’t see it now will be left behind in three years. Models and photographers alike will have to adapt if they want to stay afloat.
Print is already dead, even in fashion. Websites don’t pay. Digital doesn’t generate revenue. And advertising? Increasingly reliant on AI for pack shots and videos.
The photographers who survive will evolve into something closer to art directors—visual curators who select and commission images from their AI agents, with their technical and cultural knowledge as their only real value. Perhaps the only ones who will still have a place are reporters (maybe) and wedding photographers- a tough, highly respectable profession I’ve always admired.
Who have been your greatest mentors in the field of photography? Which figures have had the most influence on your journey and artistic vision? And today, where do you find inspiration for your work?
Definitely all the great war photographers from the 1950s to the 1970s—Margaret Bourke-White, W. Eugene Smith, Robert Capa. But also the razor-sharp irony of Elliott Erwitt, the almost sculptural solemnity of August Sander, and the raw visual power of Sebastião Salgado.
Over time, I started following movements that intertwined with the evolution of fashion photography—Terry Richardson (I still remember those Sisley catalogs in stores, filled with almost pornographic images), the cinematic delicacy of Peter Lindbergh, the explosive sensuality of Ellen von Unwerth, the plasticized glamour of Mert & Marcus, and the madness of Juergen Teller. If you don’t know his work, his late ’90s-early 2000s era was mind-blowing. Today, he probably has bills to pay too- but since he is still shooting for Balenciaga, I’d say he’s doing just fine.
Lately, I draw more inspiration from art and painting. I don’t see Instagram as a creative resource- it’s more of a black hole for creativity, an endless loop where you either find someone better than you or discover that your idea has already been done. It’s not healthy if you want to create something truly your own. Sometimes, you need to empty your mind to fill it with something new.
And of course, I still turn to Japanese and Korean photographers—I’ve practically worn out the pages of their publications.
Silvia Dona’
https://www.instagram.com/jan_daga_
Pubblications:
2019 – Whisky Boom Boom
2019 – Seoul Nightshift
2021- Like. Behind the Scenes of Thai Popular Folk Theatre
2024- Love all the People
2025- Pattaya Mai Me Arai
2025- Seoul Lucky Love