had been widened and straightened out, yet immediately, parked
vehicles took up the two sides of the lane, making it look even
narrower. The low walls, which had been half-sheltered in
hibiscus and paper flowers, along with the shades of copious and
spreading trees, have all but disappeared. Replacing them were
stories and piles of apartment buildings and a network of different
branches and boughs—television antennas. Once there was
the crispy clear sound of wooden getas knocking at the tranquility
that filled the lane, drawing nearer and nearer, and then
becoming low and faint. Then there was the sharp dinging of
bicycles bells that went past outside the house—it was from the
newspaper boy in the morning, and the students returning home
from school. Mixed with these sounds was that of the pedicabs.
Late at night, there were other sounds that took over the lane.
Forlorn and melancholy was the sound of bamboo flute of the
masseuse or the blind man. And then there was the peddler’s
cry of “shao-rou-zong1,” subdued yet rich, slowly and serenely
passing by, calling out to night owls. When the lid of the steamer
was taken off, the steam from the shao-rou-zongs immediately
rose into the night air. I had never went out to buy them, yet the
cries in my ear were reassuring; knowing that someone was
sharing the night with me alleviated my loneliness.
In today’s busy world, who can tell the world to stop for
three seconds? No one save the photographer. Examine the
shooting of a group photograph: First there has to be a commotion
over who should sit and who should stand. Then once
everyone is “in situ,” people standing at the back are either too
tall or too short or the left and right sides aren’t even. Then
there’s a pair of glasses that catch the light or the tassels that
need to be straightened. Whatever the photographer objects to,
with a holler, must be corrected. For those 10 or so minutes
under the hot sun or in the freezing cold, it doesn’t matter if you
are the king or the president, no one can go against the person
wielding camera-control.
“Don’t move!”
The last order holds absolute authority. Who dares bat an
eyelash and be held accountable for ruining everything? The
authority of that bark resembles an American cop yelling
“Freeze!” to a fleeing fugitive. Every person is intimidated into
fixing their smiles and paralyzing their faces such that no
amount of “say cheese” helps. When the picture is finally developed,
there is always the chink in the wall: someone reacted too
slowly or another blinked. Human beings rather resemble Argus
the hundred eyed monster in Greek mythology, a few eyes are
always shut in repose.
We generally sit in neat rows not to have candy handed out
to us, but to have our picture taken. More often than not, the
outcome is flat and uninspiring. In recent years, whenever I
have had to speak in public, I have had to stomach electrocution
by flashlight. Audience members vying for a photograph always
want it in the same format. After a while, the experience
becomes trying. A smile is supposed to happen naturally but
when one is forced to keep smiling, the smile becomes fake,
even hypocritical. I finally came up with my own strategy to cope with this challenge.
Generally speaking, before the photographer clicks the shutter,
he will yell, “1, 2, and 3!” This tactic rarely works and may
even work against you. When “1 and 2” are being called out, the
group is already so tense that when “3!” is yelled, facial expressions
have already become stony or your smile, if there was one in
the first place, had become transfixed due to the long wait. This
helps explain why having your picture taken is often a monotonous
exercise. It is often photographs of people in motion: the
athlete leaping in mid-flight, the singer belting out a song, the
dancer pirouetting, the conductor with his baton in mid-air that
convey spontaneous and vibrant expression and movement.
In recent years, whenever I have needed to have my photograph
taken, I have requested that the photographer discard his
old tricks and allow me to look off somewhere in the distance.
When the photographer calls out, “now!” to me, I will turn
around and only then gaze at the camera. In so doing, my
expression appears fresh, so too my movements. Even my smile
is in its first bloom. Before I have time to fall into a stupor, the
shutter has clicked and the moment is in the bag.
Is photography art? Of course it is. But it is the kind of art
where God takes on half the responsibility and man the other
half. To Monet, light is God. In the beginning, God said, “let
there be light,” and there was light. The fading twilight, the
reflection of the moon on the water, the philosopher in deep
thought, the beautiful lady who glances back . . . these are all
works of God. In other words, God has accomplished half of the
work but when it comes to capturing a moment in eternity just
when the light and shadow are perfect, for that full miracle to
occur, the master photographer has to be at there. At that
moment, he has to be ready to whip out his light-box just like
the expert gunmen in western movies.
The expression of wide-eyed terror of the girl from
Afghanistan on the cover of National Geographic conveyed fear
and anger in a single snapshot. Her stare made the hairs on our
necks stand up and unnerved the world. It spoke of a living
nightmare more powerful and searing than any accusation made
by articulate Afghan diplomats dispatched to the United Nations.
That kind of miracle occurred once in a million years, it was so
fleeting you had no time to shout “1, 2, and 3!”
For photography to become art or at least a lifelong keepsake,
occasionally the person in front of the lens can make a
contribution. For example, whether sitting or standing, portraits
of people are too often too serious and dignified. Why not ask
for a side shot or even a shot of your back? Today media is
everywhere. I have long become accustomed to the stare-down
of the lens whether it is a photographer taking pictures of me or
footage captured by television cameras. Reporters today have
become amateur directors. They would first direct you to sit in
front of a desk as if you were composing a poem; otherwise they
would want you next to a shelf leafing through books. If you
happen to be outdoors, they would ask you to walk down a long
corridor by yourself or sit in repose under a bodhi tree.
Sometimes they would even go as far as to ask you to stand on
an embankment and look out beyond the straits as the sun sets
over a gloomy dusk. I have become a part-time actor of sorts,
entering and exiting scenes in my own poems. Before long I too
knew how to choose the right backdrop, think up the appropriate
gesture and sometimes even look back unexpectedly to wave.
I remember one year when I took the students from
National Sun Yat-Sen University to South Africa on an
exchange program. When we reached a Zulu village, everyone
fought to stand next to the tribesmen for a photograph. I thought that would be a waste of a good opportunity, so for my picture I
asked a Zulu warrior to point his spear at my Adam’s apple
while I covered my head and feigned panic.
In 1981, not long after Mainland China opened up,...
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