Muay Thai Photography
I shot these photographs across several fight nights at Chiang Mai Boxing Stadium and Kalare Boxing Stadium.
I was training at Hongthong Muay Thai. Being a fighter changed what I noticed as a photographer. I saw the nerves, the money, and the families waiting outside the ropes.
Anticipating the Strike
I had attended around 50 Muay Thai events in person. With roughly ten fights on each card, that is about 500 live fights watched from close range.
Repetition teaches you where to look. I stopped watching only the strike and started noticing the breath before it, the shift of weight, and the corner preparing to move.
The settings, autofocus, and lenses belong in my sports photography guide. This essay stays with the people.
The violence was not what disturbed me most. It was the crowd. I watched children around ten years old fight while drunk white farangs sat beside bar girls, treating the evening as entertainment.
I was also a white farang at the stadium with a camera. I cannot write myself out of the scene and pretend I was morally separate from it. I documented what was there, including the parts that made my position uncomfortable.
Fifty Dollars a Fight
The banknotes held between the fighters' teeth were prize money. For many bouts, the purse was the equivalent of 50 US dollars. The amount was the same for winning or losing.
Winning a belt did not mean taking it home. The winner had to pay to keep the physical belt. Almost everyone posed for the photograph and handed it back.
Most fighters I knew were barely surviving on what they earned. Still, I refuse to flatten them into a story about poverty or injury. The friendships, pride, and celebration were real. A fight can hold damage, money, relief, and affection in the same few minutes.
The Smell of Thai Oil
The smell of Thai oil puts me right back into the minutes before the bell.
The Physical Toll
Documentary photography begins with understanding what you document. You cannot read your way into a liver shot. A description does not explain the smothering clinch of a fighter ten kilos lighter than you. Training turned theory into reality.
The light session ran from 8 to 10 in the morning. The hard session ran from 4 to 6, with clinching and sparring every day. At 36, recovery was as difficult as the training.
Between sessions, there was food and more food. Some people slept for an hour. I never could. Every session required two litres of water with electrolytes.
My fight landed close to the Chiang Mai smoky season, making outdoor training unpleasant. Then I picked up a staph infection. The final two weeks became hard training mixed with antibiotics. The marks were still visible when I fought.
My First Fight
I took my first fight near the end of a seven-month stay. I did not see my opponent until 15 minutes before we fought.
He was Thai, had around 30 fights behind him, and weighed roughly eight kilos less than me. The weight difference made the experience gap fairer, but it did nothing for my nerves.
We fought five three-minute rounds. He won, but we went the full distance. It was gruelling and unlike anything I had felt from ringside.
It remains one of the best experiences of my life, but I knew I never needed to do it again. The anxiety and uncertainty were enough. I still love training and technical sparring, preferably controlled and with a smile.
After the Bell
The fight does not end when the bell rings.
One sequence shows a boy watching his father fight. Afterwards, the father bends down and comforts him. A moment earlier he was a fighter in front of a crowd. Now he is a parent taking care of his son's feelings.
Other photographs carry the same aftermath. A doctor treating a cut. Friends embracing. An exhausted fighter lying still.
That habit also runs through my Songkran photo essay from Thailand. I photograph the build-up, the event, and what remains after it.
A year later, I returned to Chiang Mai for another three months. That is when I started taking my mobility for Muay Thai seriously.
I trained while editing the lessons for Underexposed. I had no desire for another fight, but I wanted the rhythm of the gym and the people around it.
I always work in black and white. Here it strips away what I do not need and keeps the emotion in front of you.
The final photograph is quiet. A fighter lies on the canvas with his hands behind his head.
No single essay can explain Muay Thai.
It records what I found after getting close enough to feel it.
