Assembly-Line Princesses: Ethnic-themed Photography in Tibet

by Zixuan Zhang_

Introduction
In the winter of 2024, I spent six weeks conducting fieldwork in ethnic-themed photography studios in Lhasa. Across China’s tourist cities, young women dress in “ethnic” costumes, sit for makeup sessions, and pose before cameras in scenic sites, their images later circulating on social media and short-video platforms. Since the rise of viral “head-to-toe wanghong [social media influencers] transformations from ordinary people,” these staged performances have become increasingly standardized: a formula of makeup, poses, and costumes that can be reproduced in any photography studio. In Lhasa, some studios handle over a hundred clients daily during high season, producing what I call “assembly-line princesses.” While these glittering portraits may appear effortless online, they emerge from a complex interplay of commercialization, digital aesthetics, cultural appropriation and identity making (Li 2003). Like the “photo wallahs” in Mussoorie, Lhasa’s ethnic-themed studio scenes invite us to think what kind of personal meanings photographs have and how people use them to establish their own identity (MacDougall 1992). This essay draws on my volunteering experience in different studios and conversations with makeup artists, photographers and clients to trace how Chinese women, mostly Han, navigate femininity, self-representation, and the consumption of “ethnic” aesthetics in the Tibet Autonomous Region, formally incorporated into the People’s Republic of China in 1965. I argue that themed photography, rather than being simply a matter of personal taste or ethnic consumption, in this context becomes a space in which “modern” feminine selves are actively negotiated and constructed as part of national identity.

Makeup, Pose, and Repeat: The Assembly Line of Tibetan Photograph Making
“Ours isn’t the real tradition. The actual traditional style would be unacceptable to mainlanders. It has to feel traditional, but still look young and attractive,” said the Han makeup artist Putao at a photography studio on Barkhor Street in Lhasa, where many studios are located. Her brush glided lightly across the Han customer’s face, crafting a look neither the authentic Tibetan “sun-burned swaths of red” nor a purely influencer-style look, but a commercially adapted version of “ethnic flair.”
The customer moved toward the clothing section, her eyes scanning an array of colorful Tibetan costumes. “You’re more experienced. Could you advise, considering my skin tone and height?” she asked hesitantly. Putao responded with a practiced smile, “Do you want to look cute, or more cool?” This is usually the first question she asks costumers. The two offers that she recommended are pastel blue for a trendy, soft, “cute” look, and red for a more elegant, traditional, “cool” style. “These are our most popular,” she added. After trying on both, the customer decided, “I think I’m more of an elegant type, not so much a cutie style,” and chose the red costume.

The red costume, though it appears traditional, is actually a modernized version of a Tibetan dress (gailiangkuan in Chinese, 改良款) that typically comes in much darker tones, such as grey, brown, black or dark red. As the studio owner noted, “80 percent of customers prefer the modernized styles.” One Han customer jokingly commented, “Isn’t traditional Tibetan dress kind of dull and too formal? It feels like attending a meeting at the Great Hall of the People!” These redesigned outfits are mostly sourced from online Taobao (the leading Chinese e-commerce platform) shops, where new styles are launched frequently – up to once a month during peak tourist season.

The Tibetan photography experience follows a standardized process: customers browse sample photos on an iPad and select a style, proceed to makeup and outfit pairing, attend the on-location shoot, and finally return to the studio to choose the photos. Each step reflects a negotiation and homogenization of aesthetic standards: “Lots of customers bring references from Xiaohongshu [a social media platform]. They describe what they want from all the pictures and short videos online.” Putao explained.

When the ethnic themed photography trend first took off on Barkhor Street, the most important pilgrimage route in Lhasa, encircling the sacred Jokhang Temple, the elderly Tibetans would sometimes get angry and even threaten to hit inappropriately dressed girls. In fact, the studio owners are mostly Han Chinese, many of whom have limited knowledge of Tibetan cultural traditions. Costumes and props such as prayer wheels and Tibetan opera masks are often used interchangeably across shoots. I once saw an elderly Tibetan woman kindly remind a young girl that she was holding the prayer wheel the wrong way. Some photographers began coaching tourists on proper behavior, as one explained: “We have to teach guests how to spin prayer wheels respectfully.” A Tibetan girl from Qinghai, shared her own experience: she once wanted to take a set of photos wearing traditional clothes. Referring to one of Tibet’s three major administrative regions, Amdo, she asked one studio’s staff, “Do you have any Amdo-style clothing?” The staff responded, “What is Amdo?” Forced to compromise, she selected a more generic costume for her shoot. When I asked why, as a Tibetan herself, she still wanted a Tibetan-themed photoshoot, she smiled and said: “Who doesn’t want to look beautiful? I saw those pictures online, and they were so beautiful.”

The photoshoot itself is a carefully choreographed performance, which usually takes about half an hour to one hour. Photographers, mostly male, give detailed, almost scripted instructions: “Chest out, straighten your back, rest your right hand here, turn your head slightly…” Nearly every pose is directed by the photographer. Photographer Cai in the studio where I conducted field research elaborated: “Middle-aged women prefer more elaborate poses, like waving their hands around. As for the girls, they are less confident in front of the camera, so you must give more instructions, so to be productive.”

While chatting with employees at the same photography studio, I asked what defines the “Wanghong style”, a look associated with popular internet influencers. “It’s about looking refined, pale, and youthful,” Putao said. “Before, we’d add freckles and heavy blush to mimic Tibetan sunburned cheeks. But now, it’s a formula that transforms you into someone else, with crazy aegyo-sal [small puff of skin under the eyes], enlarged eyes, blush, heavy contouring.” She added, “It’s the easiest way to make ordinary people look beautiful, like a Wanghong.”

Nevertheless, aesthetic trends keep shifting. A studio owner in Shangri-La observed: “Back in the beginning, around 2016-17, everyone imitated the ultra-authentic looks from Qinghai, Tibet, or Sichuan, such as big amber beads, thick braids, sunburned, freckled makeup. By 2022–2023, the influencer aesthetic took over: butterfly stickers, face gems, glittery aegyo-sal. But by late 2023 into 2024, those overly trendy styles fell out of favor. Some earlier fashion traditions also come back.”

Dressing Desires: From Virality to Escape to Immersive Experience
After photographing with Dacao, we wandered through Barkhor Street and chatted. As a public school teacher from Chengdu, the capital city in the neighbouring province Sichuan, Dacao reflected that initially, she had had no plans to dress up but joined the trend after seeing others. “It’s just for memories,” she said. “The point of taking photos is to prove that I’ve been here. If I didn’t post on social media, it’d feel like I never went anywhere!”
This sentiment was voiced frequently during my fieldwork, with “for memories” being a common narrative. “This might be my only way to escape daily life,” explained a 30-year-old woman from Shenzhen working in sales. “It’s not about going somewhere, but it’s about escaping your working city.” This “escape” is not just geographical, but psychological. “It’s like announcing to the world: I’m in Lhasa and I look beautiful.”

Younger consumers in their early 20s were often more blunt in stating their motivations. As the popular phrase on Chinese social media “No good photos, no happiness” suggests, the primary goal was to simply produce “good” photos. While most still chose full package deals, they also took supplementary photos with their own phones or GoPros. During my fieldwork, I often observed pairs of young women taking turns filming each other in between the photographer’s shots. A smaller number of young tourists, who are particularly skilled at photo-editing or doing makeup, even skip the makeup and photoshoot part, renting only the outfits to cut around half of the costs. They often use the same DIY approach at different tourist destinations. Two university students criticized over-edited photos as looking fake, explaining that they chose their studio carefully or sometimes took their own cameras. “It’s actually a superficial cultural experience, but what else can you do in a limited time? The photos are beautiful, the ritual feels meaningful, which is already enough.” The other added that “domestic travel is so homogenized now. No one can tell where your photos are taken, with all the same-looking ancient towns and streets. But wearing Miao attire in Guizhou or Tibetan clothes in Lhasa makes you look more local and immersed.”

For some, clothing is a symbolic gateway into another culture. “I’m not just here to take photos,” said an administrative worker from Beijing. “I want to experience this culture.” She described a moment under a tree on Barkhor Street: “At first, I wasn’t very excited. But later, posing with Tibetan locals, having little girls ask to take pictures with me, that’s when it felt profound, like I was blending in.” This mutual gaze of tourists admiring “Tibetanness” and locals appreciating the tourists’ cultural performance creates a subtle space of exchange. “I could’ve just booked a studio in Beijing if I only wanted pretty pictures.” For others, the photography experience becomes a form of cosplay. “It’s like cosplay,” said a girl from Wuhan. “Once you put it on, it’s like time-traveling to a distant era, with everyone projecting their own fantasies.” “You feel naturally transformed, like you belong to that vibe. Even just walking around feels good.”

Studios are aware of this diversity in demand. One studio catering to high-end customers, of which being charged three to four times the regular price, identified a third approach: “Our clients want to envision their ‘what-if’ selves, like how they might’ve looked as Tibetan women. Not everyone’s ideal is pale and thin, you know.” Dacao recalled being encouraged to try a more traditional Tibetan style. “It was slicked-back hair, no smiling, a bit cold. It felt like the other side of my personality. I’m rarely this cool in daily life.” An alternative persona temporarily made visible through costume and poses, as Dacao noted, which is why she likes taking photoshoots every time she travels.

199 Yuan Hustle: Inside the Tibetan Photo Studio Economy
Walking through Barkhor Street in winter, I noticed that many clothing shops operated under photography studio signboards. In fact, most studios are seasonal and migratory. They close during the low season and rent their space to local merchants, reopening in summer. This seasonal model creates a highly mobile labor market, where makeup artists and photographers from outside the Tibet Autonomous Region coming to Lhasa for summer work before moving to warmer tourist places in Southern China during the winter.

The industry has seen explosive growth over the past decade. With the rise of short-video platforms in 2021–2022, “head-to-toe change” and “princess transformation” videos went viral, which sparked market demand. In Shangri-La, a Tibetan autonomous county in Yunnan Province and a popular Tibetan cultural tourism destination, the number of studios ballooned from one or two in 2016 to over 2,000. According to a local owner, the same is true in many other so-called “ethnic” tourism hotspots in the People’s Republic of China. “Take a video of Barkhor Street this year,” said one shop owner, “and next year you’ll see those studios gone. Or the same group of people will restart under a new name.”

Intense competition has triggered price wars, with rates dropping to 199 yuan per set (app. 25 EUR), comparing to 700–800 yuan in the previous years. Among Lhasa’s hundreds of studios, business strategies vary between those who focus on online marketing through platforms like Xiaohongshu or by livestreaming makeup transformations to sell photography packages to viewers directly, and those who avoid digital channels, rather partnering with traditional travel agencies, street promoters, and hotels.
During fieldwork, I witnessed one studio’s nightly livestream generating 2,000 yuan in sales, though with a 50 percent cancellation rate. “Summer ad budgets exceed 10,000 yuan per day,” one owner said. This intersection of digital and tourism economies shows how platform capitalism reshapes traditional markets. Yet, despite high-tech methods, old-fashioned street solicitation plays an important role. Migrant touts steer customers to the studios with the high commissions, which is one of the key reasons for frequent cancellations.
Moreover, online promotions like 199 or 299 yuan often come with hidden fees. One customer recalled being upsold on extra editing: “Originally, it was 199 yuan for 40 original photos and 10 photoshopped photos. I ended up spending 72 yuan more for just two additional photoshopped edits.”

The 2024 economic downturn posed serious threats for the industry. “This is the worst year,” one studio owner claimed, “if the economy doesn’t improve, this industry might not survive.” On the other hand, some high-end studios are now favoring “authenticity,” as they say, over mass production: “The future lies in artistic photography, not assembly-line snapshots.” Meanwhile, other studios promote new group packages (e.g., 4,000 yuan per day shoots at Yamdrok Lake) or attempt targeting new clienteles, such as Southeast Asian tourists.

Conclusion: National Strategies, Industrialized Tibetan Photography, and Individual Practices
The practice of ethnic-themed photography needs to be situated within broader cultural consumption in contemporary China. Through visualizing ethnicity, the photo studios not only engage in a commodification of ethnic elements, but also create a performative gendered space where “modern” women experiment with alternative selves and enact fantasies of temporary “traditional” identities. At the same time, while the portraits emphasize symbols of “traditionality,” they remain self-images that affirm cosmopolitan aspirations and middle-class privilege (Brown 2021). In Brown’s terms, the playful appropriation of ethnic symbols, whether prayer wheels, masks, or costumes, reflects a capacity to treat cultural difference lightly, to “eat the other” while reaffirming one’s own modernity.

Meanwhile, ethnic-themed photography also serves as a way for the female customers to imitate and practice the aesthetics of “wanghong” culture. The standardized “princess” look through makeup templates, scripted poses, and heavily photoshopped images is designed for replication and easy circulation online. Makeup artists, photographers, and editors across different studios can reproduce identical looks from a single template with relatively little technical skills. While many criticize such images as “fake,” “homogenized,” or “unnatural,” young women continue to participate, experimenting with beauty ideals through this process. Beyond the registers of “tradition” and “otherness,” the pursuit of beauty itself remains the most important factor for many of my participants.

Together, these dynamics transform ethnic-themed photography from a seemingly private leisure tourist pursuit into a complex social practice, entangling individual aesthetic choices with national strategies, the industrialization of tourism photography, and gendered performances of self. Closely linked to the state’s intangible cultural heritage agenda and the political project of “the firm establishment of a sense of the Chinese national community” (in Chinese, 铸牢中华民族共同体意识, Kang and Yeo 2024), short-video platforms and reality shows have rapidly turned traditional cultural elements into consumable, eye-catching content. In this sense, visualizing ethnicity entails not only practices of “Othering,” but also the construction of femininity and beauty ideals, making such photography less a matter of personal taste than a site where national identity and modern femininity are actively self-constructed and negotiated.

References

Brown, Melissa Shani. 2021. “Heterophotographies: Play, Power, Privilege and Spaces of Otherness in Chinese Tourist Photography.” Culture, Theory and Critique62 (3): 307–37. https://doi.org/10.1080/14735784.2021.1943698

Li, Jing. 2003. “Playing upon Fantasy: Women, Ethnic Tourism and the Politics of Identity Construction in Contemporary Xishuang Banna, China.” Tourism Recreation Research 28 (2): 51–65. https://doi.org/10.1080/02508281.2003.11081404

Kang, Min-Seok, and Yu-Kyung Yeo. 2024. “The ‘Firm Establishment (Zhulao)’ of a Sense of the Chinese National Community: Rhetorical and Substantive Characteristics of Ethnic Minority Policies in the Xi Jinping Era.” The Journal of Asiatic Studies 67: 245–72. https://doi.org/10.31930/jas.2024.12.67.4.245

MacDougall, David. 1992. “‘Photo Wallahs’: An Encounter with Photography.” Visual Anthropology Review 8 (2): 96–100.

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About the author

Zixuan Zhang is a PhD researcher at the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology and the Graduate School of East Asian Studies at Freie Universität Berlin. Her research interests focus on migration, affect, materiality, human and non-human relations and sensory ethnography. 

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