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| From dave and lauren |
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| From dave and lauren |
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| From dave and lauren |
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| From dave and lauren |
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| From dave and lauren |
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| From dave and lauren |
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| From dave and lauren |
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| From kim's point & shoot |
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| From Kim's camera: Thursday |
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| From kim's point & shoot |
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| From kim's point & shoot |
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| From kim's point & shoot |
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| From kim's point & shoot |
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| From Kim's camera: Thursday |
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| From Kim's camera: Thursday |
April 11, 2004
Angel
She stands in the rubble, white against grey.
The glint of sun on her cheek
Turning from the crowds
She smiles politely
Naked
Maimed
Half woman
Angel
A halo over her, others looking on
Not seeing
Not believing
Unable to see
They sit and stare
At me
I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the first one. No head or arms, plastic stuck in dirt a naked figure seemingly maimed jetting out of the rubble. A female form, helpless in the dust, a mannequin left by the scavengers, rejected. My body was paralyzed by her, everything in me wanting to watch her, save her, put her back where she belonged. Back to what I’m not sure. Maybe back to the tailor who used to be in that spot, back in front of the store that I got quilts and suits made. We always made fun of her before, using this ugly mannequin to distinguish exactly which tailor to go to for the best prices and the best service. And here she lay exposed, left behind in the mass destruction. We were about to continuing running when Kim looked nearby and saw the next one. A half woman, head and torso, sticking out of the rubble and watching us. She was calm, collected keeping watch of those who passed by and those who watched her. A group of sticks stuck out of a hole next to her, together they stood watch. Behind her head a basket laid, the rim forming a perfect halo around her head. This angel saw what had gone on in this place. She saw the people who passed every day, the colors and crowds. She smelled the charcoal smoke and grilled mutton. She spoke to the children. And standing she remained.
I had returned to the market after two days, this time with Kim. We ran, mindless or maybe I should say fully minding everyone around us. Although it was a sunny day and some places flowers bloomed, we ran puddles of collected mud to get to the place where we would see and perhaps say a final goodbye to that which was no longer. The piles from a few days ago were much smaller, the scavengers had mostly dispersed. I saw no cranes or dump trucks today, only a few standing trees full of flowers had survives the raizing of the street.
“How are you doing Kim?” I wondered at her state in seeing the market for the first time. She wasn’t able to deal with it a few days ago, like me staring in unbelief of what had become of the central part of her home of the last 5 years. She hadn’t answered before we stopped at the sight in front of us.
I could only think of my camera. This picture really did speak much more than what a book of thoughts about the loss of this market, the change I was experiencing in
I stood with her and realized that I could not remain standing, but somehow had to take her with me. And I look back on this now, this desire for wanting to hold on, not wanting to let go and what it boiled down to was this image. It was nothing but what I saw, and the way I saw it. I made the decision. Looking at Kim I asked if we should go back to get my camera but had already made of my mind that I would do exactly that.
“Should someone stand and wait with her?” I asked Kim, she was quick to tell truth to me.
“It doesn’t matter how fast we go, it doesn’t matter if we stay or not, the point is that we may look away and she will be gone.”
I started running, faster than before, sure that this was something that I didn’t want to miss.
“Why are you running so fast?” Kim asked. I thought of what she said and realized that there was not a single thing that I could do to hold the image, it was in my brain, I could think of it and talk about it, maybe even write about it but not hold on to it. I persisted anyway; at least we had to try.
We got our cameras and made it back to the same place. Nothing had changed. The same women sat near the figure and talked, seeing us for the second time and probably wondering what we were doing. I started taking pictures as I approached, fully aware that I wanted to capture the experience of coming upon these figures, the figures around them the scene in which they stood. Kim stood back and took pictures of me. I got close, captured what I wanted and turned my camera to the women. They laughed for me, and I showed them my images. I brought the camera behind the form, aware that Kim was taking my picture and wanting to set something up that would be very interesting indeed. I played the crowd, bringing them where I wanted, showing them their images, sitting low.
I can’t say when the crowd turned. They were looking at my camera, looking at images of themselves in the screen, laughing at what they looked like, laughing that I was taking a picture of the silly looking statue beside them. I continued to show them images of what I was seeing and they gathered in tight. It was then that a woman, probably the age of my mother, came upon me. She saw me flipping through images and the people gathered around and started yelling. She had seen what was going on from a distance and thought that I was trying to take pictures that would disgrace the image of
There are times when I wish that my language ability was better, and there are times when I want to curse myself for the lack of effort I’ve put into learning Chinese. I hacked up the language then, and basically told the crowd that I had lived in
“I am sad, I am sad to see this place go. How do you feel about the market?” It was then that I was caught off guard. Faces, distorted by anger and shouting came near.
“I am happy” they screamed at me. “Happy. Happy. HAPPY” one lady spoke for the crowd. The rest agreed, “We are happy. Can’t you see that we are happy?” Their screaming could’ve fooled me. I asked another man, about 65 years old or so with one good eye, rotten teeth, a green Mao coat and white hair what he thought of this new market. He didn’t answer my question but demanded what right I had to be in this place taking pictures of destruction when there were other places that looked much prettier and were definitely nicer places to take pictures. Why did I have to come and deface the place that had welcomed me? What right did I have to capture on film something that would change so fast? The shouting increased, more voices, more pushing more people yelling.
When I was 14 I discovered that the best way to encounter dogs on a run was to stop, face them and stare them down. They would eventually go home. But if you kept running, the dogs have a way of sensing fear and will chase after you. I learned it the hard way as I once ignored a dog and kept running. It chased me and ended up biting my back, drawing blood. At the time I wasn’t too scarred, I turned around and told the dog to go home. Every time I run by that house to this day I stop and walk face the dog, invite the dog over to me and he comes to me hovering near the ground, afraid I might strike. If I reach out my hand and wait long enough he comes near, timidly, slowly. When he trusts that my upturned hand is not one that will strike him but wants to pet him he licks it, rolls on his back at my feet and asks for a caress. He is unafraid, and so am I. I’ve encountered a lot of dogs on my runs and this tactic always seems to work, I have had close calls but never again has blood been drawn.
I put my hands out at that point, deciding to listen to the crowd, not to run, not to push the point I was trying to make. I thanked them for welcoming me to
Hearing what they said is one thing. Seeing them say it is another thing entirely. Not satisfied to leave with my camera and pictures I wanted to find what people not in peer pressured crowds thought about what was happening to the place where they had worked for many years. We continued down the street and stopped at a vendor selling brushes. Not intending to interrogate anyone, we just engaged in casual conversation, finding out about her son and getting the usual English teaching request. I continued to take pictures here, with my camera at my waist and the sound turned off. Eventually though we got pictures together, posed and very normal.
Something in me reacted at this point.
“Kim. Run, get out of here, we have to go NOW” I started jogging as we had before. The police started running after us and yelling and Kim stopped. We couldn’t move much anyway, the street had become narrow and crowded.
“Stop”. They shouted as they approached. “Why are you here? What are you doing?” their questions weren’t malicious, but my whole spirit was telling me to get out fast. We had lingered too long.
“Don’t be afraid. Why are you afraid? Why are you running? Please show us your passports” they continued on
We obviously didn’t have our passports with us as it usually isn’t my custom to carry it when I run. Kim, who’s Chinese, is much smoother than mine explained as calmly as possible that we had been out on a run and were just making our way through the market. We explained that we were sorry but didn’t have our identification with us at the time but were happy to go back home and get it for them.
The men talked with each other, trying to figure out if we were harmful or not and decided themselves that it was important that we go with them in their police car to get our documents. Their car was parked at the other side of the market and away from our apartment. I felt strongly that we should not be getting in their car and made that clear to Kim who translated it to them. They offered to buy us a cab and follow us home. We followed them to their car.
If my instinct earlier was to sit and wait it out, my instinct now was to run. I’m still trying to process this one. I don’t know what threat exactly I saw in the police. Maybe it was because I knew they did in some respect possess the power to take my camera away, to make an arbitrary rule about what I could and couldn’t take pictures of. I am not sure. I’ve also heard stories of what happens when those given authority want to let people know that they have it, and the Chinese PSB isn’t known for the way they treat people justly. In short, I think I had a right to be concerned. Concerned or not, there was no where to go except to the car.
Our officers made good subjects of my documentary for the day. They were unaware at first, as I just followed them and shot images, but once we were in the van together Kim and I became bold again. They didn’t seem to mind, and became quite jovial as we showed them the digital images we took together. After half and hour though, I was a bit concerned.. What were we waiting for? I called my TA and dear friend who’s father is also part of the police force.
Guanxi, or what we call “connections” is the force that rules all systems in
We soon found out what we were waiting for. Two more officers arrived. One, an older man with pocked face and smoke excreting from facial holes opened our sliding door and barged his face in front of Kim, blowing smoke right at her.
“What are you taking pictures of?” he asked, his face too close for comfort and his breath making us cough. Kim is a rather quick one, she asked what he was doing and could she please see his identification. He pulled it from his suit coat, she took and inspected it closely. Content that he could question her, she asked him to put his cigarette out first. While this was happening another young well dressed man approached the van and offered us some “suggestions”
“I suggest that you cooperate with the police” he threatened. We asked him who he was, as both men were not in uniform. He also produced identification (something that we both lacked.) He continued on
“I suggest that you don’t give us any trouble, I suggest that you give me your cameras” I think that is what I feared most, as there were a few more recent shots that really did reveal our treatment thus far. I had continued taking shots of each interaction with each person up to that point.
Kim snapped a picture of that man and showed him his shot. At that point we decided to play the “clueless American girl” card and snap shots in the open. It didn’t go as planned. Our cameras were in his hand momentarily.
I called my roommate. “Hey Alison” I started, sitting next to a fluent English speaking police man “First of all, I want to let you know that I’m fine, so don’t worry, but I just wanted to let you know that Kim and I are in the back of a police car with 6 officers headed home. We’re coming NOW.” I hoped that she got the hint. A couple things in our home needed some sprucing up. She assured me that she would get ready… make sure that she was “dressed.”
The caravan home was quite the experience. Five of us in the police car following four other officers on bike. Undoubtedly taking the slowest possible route home. Alison had called our General Manager who met us when we got home. We were certainly the spectacle making our way up the stairs to my 6th floor apartment. I ran ahead and knocked quickly on our neighbor's door, telling them to watch and be quiet as they were going to have some interesting sights. They got it, closing the door quickly and giving a very interested look.
I was glad that Kim made cinnamon rolls that morning. We all sat together in my living room and I passed out the goodies for all to partake. We sat and looked at each other for a few minutes, everyone very dressed save us in our running gear. Funny that we had both made comments that morning that our old running clothes really stunk and we were glad we would just run in them again… well, 2 hrs later we had run 15 minutes and still were wearing them with company- lots of them.
Finally the English speaking policeman spoke.
“We suggest that you cooperate with us. It has come to our attention that you could have caused a riot in the market, the old people were upset that you were taking pictures. We are glad that you are safe and that is the reason why we are all here. Will you please delete all the images that you took today in the market?”
Of course I didn’t want to delete my images. Not only were they important, but they symbolized my entire experience in China. Rising from the Rubble… images of a different kind of beauty. They thought I was trying to expose something. I was, and I think it was a dignity in the midst of destruction. Whose loss really? It was funny as well, for the previous day I had read an article on living simply. The main gist of true simple life is to be able to receive and give everything. Christ certainly gave that example to us in his life. I had established that I was willing to give anything… and now they were asking me to delete images on my digital camera and I had a crisis point in my mind.
I decided to try and give them an art lesson first, educating them on the beauty of the everyday, teaching what image capturing is really all about. I brought out some photo albums, painting and prints I had recently finished.
“Look” I began, kneeling at the feet of my prosecutors. “I am an art teacher; I am always taking pictures, trying to discover unlikely beauty.” There was no recognition or understanding. To them I had only exposed ugliness. I showed them a picture of a Chinese doorway, something that they would probably walk by everyday. They looked, recognized that it was appealing and contemplating my actions. They told me they liked my art. They wouldn’t concede on my image deletion.
The tricky part of getting our way was to figure out the relationships happening in our living room. I didn’t understand the multiple relationships and saving face issues, but I did understand that it was complicated and I probably wasn’t going to win. My livingroom sat 6 police officers, a few friends, and Kim and Alison and I. Even if some of the officers had wanted to grant us our request (and some did- Kim was trying to play the crowd, posing, frowning, smiling and begging to keep images they had consented to posing for). My friend whose father (a friend, and also a policeman) was really pushing for us, suggesting that we weren’t causing any harm and that we genuinely were clueless girls having fun with the camera. They decided to focus on my pictures… making me delete them all regardless of my reasoning and begging. Kim disappeared into her room and came back out, still fiddling with her camera. I went through the 127 images I had taken and deleted them one by one, hoping there was something that I could save. I saved the one with the man we reconciled with- that one was obviously taken with permission.
The policeman’s verdict- we had to delete anything we had taken that day but if we wanted to go back to the market the next day and do it all again with permission we were more than welcome to do so. Kim asked if we could ride in their car again, I asked if we could be friends and gather for a group picture. Both questions answered with the phrase “Not today, but tomorrow you can.”
There is no guarantee of what tomorrow will bring. There was never a guarantee that the image would’ve been there had we turned around for an instant. We had to try was the only thing that I ended up settling on. We had to TRY. It was worth the run. It was worth standing in the crowd. It was worth the time, the experience, the story. I counted the cost and lost what I was hoping to gain. There was nothing I could do when the officer took my camera and inspected everything. I have the story, the memory.
I have the questions, the observations, the experience. I have a greater insight into China. I have everything and more of what I was hoping that the image I had taken would share. I have confirmed that it is difficult to teach art and truth here. I have words, I lost the moment on film. I have myself, my friends. I have the understanding that I have made relationships with Chinese people who were willing to put relationships in their job (their job I the police force) on the line so that I might be ok. I have witnessed the transforming power of understanding and love.
I have lost my images, but I have not lost.
After the men left Kim disappeared back into her room. She came out and showed her camera to our friends downstairs, who had just come up. We shared our story with them and they commented on the interesting images she had on her camera. In the confusion of my image deletion debacles Kim had replaced her memory stick unnoticed so that it appeared that she had deleted the days work. She hadn’t.
She still has the images.
I looked at Kim’s pictures. They were all of me taking pictures. Kim had my entire experience on film. The beginning, the crowd. The faces of the people around me. Us in the police car. My face reflected in the mirror of the car looking at the policeman in the front seat. Me sitting on the floor of our apartment looking down, my camera sitting right behind me on the table. Telling images.
I’ve relived the experience a thousand times in my head. I’ve asked the what-ifs, the whys. What if I refused to delete the images and demanded that they show me a law in the Chinese law book that demands that I cannot take images of mannequins on the street. What if I had conveniently lost my memory stick or taken my battery out of my camera so that it wouldn’t work. What if we had left the crowd in the first place, or gone home after getting what we wanted?
I found out later the reason for tearing down the market. There had been a severe fire that fire trucks couldn’t get to. People had suffered greatly. The city was tearing down this market so that if it were to happen in the future another fire truck could get to the necessary place. Understanding brings some new light. Were the people really happy though? They seemed mostly to yell, distorted faces. Maybe I misunderstood them. Was I really a threat? What had they gone through before? The tearing down of the market was really nothing to them. They’ve known what it is like to lose a whole lot more. They remember.
July 2004
I returned to my market after being in
I leave this neighborhood now. My home of 3 years, unfamiliar to me. It’s ok, I too remember.
I recently finished reading Fredrick Buechner’s Eyes of the Heart. His basic premise: we see our lives, our family, and our friends with eyes of our head. Every thread that connects every tie that binds, our histories, or circumstances can been seen and tracked with these eyes. But it is the eyes of our heart that really see “to look through those eyes (the eyes of our heart) is to see every kingdom as magic.” We can know the facts, but to understand them, to understand what makes us, to grasp that thread and follow it uninhibited though the fabric of our lives and see clearly a pattern woven intricate and beautiful is to see with the eyes of the heart. Certainly this is an exercise in determination, a choice to enter a world where one can communicate heart to heart with those I love regardless of time or distance. Regardless of separation even by death. Regardless of language or circumstance. I’ve been trying on the eyes of the heart lately, entering my magic kingdom as if looking through the dark glass and seeing the physical world as if it were mere shadows, but through time seeing clearly colors and distinct images of another world more real and true in form and in function than this gray planet I find myself residing on.
Eyes of the heart, cries of the heart. Augustine says that God is as close to us that we are to ourselves. Jean-Nicholar Grou, an 18th century French Jesuit affirms that in knowing this, we understand the essence of prayer. He says “the posture of our body and the words we use have no significance in themselves and are only pleasing to God as they express the feelings of the heart. For it is the heart that prays, is is to the voice of the heart that G listens, and it is the heart that he answers. … It is the heart that God teaches and it is through the heart that he enlightens the mind.”
I walked in the market today. A brisk walk though like any other November night, frost on the air and buzz of activity all around. I went to the market with a mission- to get my knives sharpened, to get a handle for a pot that has been handle-less for over a year and to pick up film I shot yesterday and jeans I had shortened. For some reason this crowded city has become home, I’ve been here for over 2 years now, rapidly moving on two and a half. I don’t know quite how to describe what it is like living in a place for this long not knowing the language, not knowing how to communicate simply that I want to buy a sharpening stone for my kitchen knives. I’ve come to understand what it is like to go on day after day in constant awareness that I am and always will be an outsider, a foreigner, an alien. As far as communication, I go in waves. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing well, communicating exactly what it is I need to, and finding solutions for various problems. Tonight however, I felt simultaneously among and removed from the bustle of the evening market.
I presented my dull knife to the first butcher I found. My conversation going something like this “I have this bad knife, this part (touching the blade) very bad. I want it good. Can you make good?”
“Not have” was the reply and on further charades asking if he knew where I could find someone to sharpen my knives I was shrugged off. If I stood for another few minutes I probably could have made some sort of scene or found some kind of solution to the dull knife problem. I didn’t feel like waiting around and the butcher wasn’t interested in my charades. I tried another shop nearby and found the same response. Understandable, they were busy, it was cold, I was not comprehendible. I decided to move on to the next mission, my jeans. Stepping over plastic tubs of frozen shrimp, dodging men on bicycles side stepping around frequent traffic I passed the vegetable lady, the glasses shop and the funny lady who sells pickled spotted eggs and holds a small yappy dog in her lap which is wearing a blue and red striped sweater. A broken mannequin sporting a rather 70’s looking tweed coat marks the hole in the wall where I brought my pants. I pictured another encounter of charades and miscommunication as I waved at the men through a glass sliding door in the back of the shop where people could sew and have heat. There is about a two meter spread between the walls of this rectangle, all space lined and stacked with bolts of wool and silk. Plastic bags with finished clothes hang up high protected from the dust of the air and dirt from the cement slab called the floor.
The shopkeeper slid the door open, greeted me and recognized me as the foreigner with the long jeans I had brought the previous day. His wife joined him from the back room, appearing from behind a wall of hung coats and an old foot operated sewing machine. A kind smile, recognition. I could not understand what they said to each other even with perfect Chinese as they spoke a dialect different from mandarin. Their soft words and lack of tones made me think they were from western
The next sentence caught me off guard, I really wasn’t expecting it. “where country you live?” Not that I don’t get a similar question in various forms from every corner, but it was not asked in the usual way. Not a demand, not a forced English opportunity, not a chance to show off the one world or phase known by my local compadres. I answered that I was an American and lingered still.
“Where are you from?” I asked my one perfected Chinese phrase gladly. I could not understand the reply, it didn’t matter. I did understand however that we were both foreigners in this land, both on our journey, both doing what we could to live well and do what needs to be done. For a moment the bustle of the crowd faded in the background and I felt as if I saw something more through the dark mirror. A brightness in this woman’s eyes perhaps? A warmth of heart, a peaceful spirit? Something more. Something deeper was understood. A voice of the heart perhaps?
Jean-Nicholas Grou continues
“You ask me what this voice of the heart is. It is love which is the voice of the heart. Love Him and you will always be speaking to him. The seed of love is growth in asking…If it is the heart that asks, it is evident that sometimes, and even continuously, it can ask by itself without any help from words, spoken or conceived….we need words to make ourselves intelligible to other people but not to the Spirit… For He reads the secrets of the heart. He reads its most intimate feelings, even those we are not aware of…..”
I did end up buying a sharpening stone this evening. I found a shop that resembled what could have been the warehouse of the traveling medicine man/ salesman of our last century. I spotted this rather large junk collected and pulled out my butcher knife to show the salesman. He immediately pulled out a 20 cent sharpening stone. Somehow in all the bumbling, mumbling and stuttering this evening my mission was accomplished, maybe more than I can even see.
Transport from one pile to the next.
Avoid trampling flowers.
And look cute at all times. Do you like that makeshift fence in the background? Took a trip to a hardware store (not the one on Josie's jacket-- I haven't found an Ace in Vancouver yet). I had to figure out a way to keep little movers and shakers away from the road and little squirrels out of my garden. So far so good. Though, Josie is the one who yells at and scares the squirrels away when she's sees them sabotaging my crops.
It's cold in Vancouver, despite appearances. 
We sure it would warm up a bit! The sun comes out like this once a week or so, teases you for a couple of hours or maybe a day and then its back to rain rain rain and pretty cool temps.
But I've been a bit overeager in planting my seeds. Although I'm following suggested planting times, it's brrrr chilly here still (though I shouldn't complain, as the rest of Canada has cool spring temps as well).
I've been planting inside, hoping to get a head-start! And the seedlings seem to prefer warmer temps.
But these kiddos, I'm not sure if the warm or cold seems to bother them much. Getting outside and getting wiggles out is a priority!
Josie forgot at first (but not for long) that she really liked to "help bake" anything with chocolate,
Asher screamed for his food and wanted to feed himself. (he got some in his mouth, at least)
I feel like I'm having deja vu all over again! Kids are kids.
He's all boy.
But they sure have something in common don't they?
They must be related!
** Asher is now 5.5 months old and these pictures of Josie were probably taken around 7-8 months old. He's catching up fast!
