The Proxy of Absence

Typically, pressing the shutter is an act of withdrawal. When I hide behind the camera, I am shielded from the biting wind of the Shougang ruins, the monumental chill of the reservoir dam, or the suffocating silence of an old, dying home. Placing a fumo in the frame started perhaps as a subcultural habit, but it gradually turned into a photographic question: what happens when a purely "soft fiction" is thrown into an unyielding reality? It is no longer a cute prop placed in front of beautiful scenery to "enjoy" the view for me. Instead, it becomes a proxy for my absence. It sits symmetrically beneath the cross-stitch "Home is a warm shore," enduring the weight of departure; it has nowhere to hide from gravity, harsh studio strobes, or winter ice. As the ancient text laments, "Yet living here, there is much to rejoice in, and much to grieve." It stays in the frame, feeling what I, safely detached behind the lens, cannot.

通常来说，按下快门是一个"退出"的动作。当我躲在相机背后时，我就安全地隔绝了首钢园的寒风、水库大坝的冷酷，或是那个即将告别的老屋里令人窒息的死寂。把 fumo 放进画面，最初或许只是受众圈子里的一种习惯，但渐渐地，它变成了一个摄影上的提问：当一个纯粹的"柔软虚构"被扔进"不退让的现实"中，会发生什么？它不再是那种放在美景前替我去"打卡享受"的可爱道具，而是成为了一个缺席的替身。它端坐在那幅"家是温暖的岸"的十字绣下，承受着离别的重量；它在重力、刺目的闪光灯和坚冰面前无处可躲。正如古文所叹："然余居于此，多可喜，亦多可悲。"它留在了画面里，替那个置身事外的我，去感受这一切真实。