Whose Gaze?

 

“Dear Lâm-kong, do you fancy me posing like this?”

“You black puss from Tâi-pak, that’s gorgeous!”

 

On that breezy day, the sky resembled an inverted bowl, clouds drifted like marshmallows, the sun shimmered and glowed, and the blades of grass scratched her skin like ten thousand ants crawling.

 

An itch was permeating through the density of time. A diamond-shaped tapestry flooded the gaze with a lady’s mental image that brooded over the poignancy of life. In a flash, golden light stung the eye as the curtain lifted: there nestled a cub vibrant with libido.

 

The punctum arises from a ubiquitous absent presence. One’s affection knits by day and unravels at night, as a flâneur’s gaze wanders and roams. I photograph you to transcend your physicality. Through the dark tunnel I see a spinney with entangled twigs of leaves, yet I am still searching for you.

 

Would this photo last for thousands of generations to come? If so, how would future generations retell our story back in the day? I have lived, loved, and savoured bittersweetness, and I embrace it all.

 

In a quiet corner, beams of light spill onto a framed image, wherein a lying figure strikes a stilted pose for the photographer. The stagey posture betrays her flirtatious thoughts, yet her gaze arrows down into the distance: a profoundly intelligent face, like an unfathomable well.

 

None ever steps in the same river twice. What’s done cannot be undone. What has been embalmed is the gazer––whose eyes once fixated on Deng Nan-Guang––and her everlasting gaze.

--------------------
Collection of the National Center of Photography and Images

Streets Are Also Where We Dwell

 

The narrow fortress shaped by three brick walls at a corner might be nothing to others, but a precious space for these girls. Like sitting around a hearth or in a backyard, they share the innermost thoughts here.

 

One of them gracefully leans against the column, one supports herself with a hand to the wall, and one turns her back to the viewers. The one with a delicate profile elegantly sits. Their conversation is not heated, but viewers fall into the whirlpool of their lives. The sorrow on the face of the standing woman might suggest hardship in life or emotional exhaustion. The woman with her back to us seems to have surrendered to the challenges in life. She lowers her head, wishing to say something but never speaks out. Perhaps in her heart she is crying, “Leave me alone in silence.”

 

And the woman looking ahead with her delicate facial features facing us shows a slight smile on the corner of her mouth. Does the smoothness in her expression tell us she is the lucky one whose fate is not impacted by the roughness of life? The answer might not be revealed so soon. Is she in love and all she cares for now is a figure in an aura? Perhaps.

 

Who is she? Does her profile betray the vicissitudes of life? Perhaps turning one’s back to life is the best strategy for being persistent and stubborn. The day dimming, light and darkness are fighting, like women’s beauty that is peeled away by time. Nevertheless, their youth is forever preserved in this photograph.

Afar

 

There was a world map in my father’s study. When I was little, he would hold me and point to each area, country, river, and city for me. Cities were like stars on the map.

 

I was so infatuated with the lakes and forests on the map as if I had a fever for them. At night, my father smoked, and I looked up at the giant map, eager to understand the complicated and bloody histories of peoples with different ethnicities. I felt restless.

 

I wanted to fly. I imagined myself becoming a steel aviator with a straight back, so I would fulfill my dream of flying.

 

I brought with me a pair of binoculars, a book The Golden Bough, and my notebook. My destination was the heart of the continent flooded through by winding torrents. Swaying in the noisy river waves, I was entranced.

 

I was not afraid to travel alone. From the subtropics to the equator, I went ahead and traveled further and further. Farewell, my hometown.

--------------------
Collection of the National Center of Photography and Images

Cool Before Cold

 

In an ideal afternoon

 

Something is hanging in my mind

 

I powder my nose and shine my shoes again

 

Small but wonderful things

 

Are inscribed in my head

 

Sweet dreams I ever had

 

Have really come true this time

 

The wind is soft and cool

 

My heart is a container. How about yours? Is it inflated, too?

 

We are women waiting for love

 

The rose in his hand is white or red?

 

White roses are calm and refreshing, red roses wild and passionate

 

But I am a black rose

 

Not buyable, nor capturable

 

Romance is a fruitless game

-------------------
Courtesy of the Summergate Phototimes