translated from the chapter in 浮光“Above Flames” ：「序/當我偶然從窗戶瞥見」（Wu Ming-Yi, 2024)
“the transformation of events into words, driven by the hope that these words will be heard and that, upon being heard, these events will undergo judgment — be it divine judgment or the judgment of history.
Despite the distance of such judgment, language possesses immediacy.”— John Berger’s work “Another Way of Telling”
During my childhood, I had two windows in my home. One faced Zhonghua Road, offering a view of the №1 Department Store, while the other overlooked the railway and Renren Department Store.
Unfortunately, the latter window was partially obstructed by our house’s signboard, resulting in an incomplete view. It occurs to me that these two windows might have seeded my earliest photographic imagination, serving as my initial frames of reference.
When I obtained my first camera during my college years, I nurtured fantasies of becoming a photographer. Among those I admired were Zhang Zhaotang, Ruan Yizhong, and Guan Xiaorong. I remember reading an article about Guan Xiaorong where it was mentioned that, after relocating up north, he worked as a taxi driver while avidly capturing photographs everywhere. During this period, he encountered the works of photographer W. Eugene Smith through “You Works.” Driven by a desire to document the mercury poisoning incidents in Japan’s waterways (where fishermen consumed polluted wastewater from factories, leading to lifelong paralysis), Guan spent three to four years in Sodi, even facing physical threats. Nonetheless, his series of works managed to awaken something powerful.
After college, despite almost depleting my living expenses on purchasing lenses and developing photos, I grew to comprehend that my dream of becoming a photographer — especially one who could reshape people’s worldview through images — was no longer attainable. Confronted with real-life challenges, I lacked the courage to face them head-on with my camera.
I never fixated on photography equipment. From my college days with the FM-10 and FM-2 cameras to my current digital models, I always preferred affordable options and maintained the practice of acquiring second-hand cameras and lenses. This practice was inspired by the bird painter Liu Bole, who lent me a lens years ago for bird photography. I almost began to consider it my own. Though I thought he possessed other lenses, it turned out that he didn’t. He relied on this worn, camouflaged lens to stealthily
approach and capture the mesmerizing winged creatures. For nearly a year, that lens was a constant companion. Although I had focused on the wild for quite some time, my focus shifted to the streets due to my novels a few years ago. Often, the words wouldn’t come, but images would, rekindling my interest in filmmaking and my earlier aspiration to become a photographer. However, I now approach this aspiration with a more realistic perspective. Although it’s improbable for me to become a professional photographer, I can embark on photography projects that I can fund and am eager to pursue.
While poring over historical image references in the library, I started to familiarize myself with pivotal figures who revolutionized human perception through the lens. Analyzing these iconic images, I silently
realized that the history of visual representation harmonizes deeply with the history of human-nature interaction. Regrettably, this aspect remains relatively underrepresented in Taiwan, whether within the
realms of photography research or photographic prose.
At the same time, I also began to face my own video history: a roll of film that is not too long but has a profound meaning to me. I categorized these articles into “positives” and “negatives,” those worthy of being examined under sunlight, and those not easily revealed, kept within a moisture-proof box.
Eugene Smith’s journey in photography was marked by extreme hardships. He suffered wounds in Okinawa, and in 1955, he departed from Life magazine for reasons of his own. Consequently, Smith resorted to documenting cases to earn a living. Over the years, he immersed himself in photographing Pittsburgh, utilizing over 10,000 negatives to encapsulate every facet of the city. He envisioned his work as a photographic rendition of “Ulysses.”
By 1957, Smith’s unrelenting commitment had taken a toll on his mental well-being due to his use of amphetamines to boost his energy. He settled into the top floor of an apartment at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street in Manhattan. This window, Smith discovered, was his sole remaining vantage point in life. The flow of passing cars,
people embarking and disembarking, mail deliveries, the descent of snowflakes — these ever-changing worlds that he was intimately familiar with began to kindle his creative fervor once again. He positioned
several cameras to capture the street view and rented another room downstairs. He documented the external world as seen from his window as well as the interior of his apartment, including scenes of jazz
musicians practicing and interactions among other tenants. He adorned the entire building with microphones, capturing not just visual but also auditory experiences. This series of works he dubbed “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance,” although his gaze was more constant than occasional — he could sit by the window, motionless, for twenty hours, embracing the sunlight.
Photographs adorned every inch of the room and a subsequent room, eventually forming a labyrinth inearrangement. Smith eventually described this window as his “last bastion, still standing — a bastion
safeguarding the mind.”
When employing a telescope outdoors, a sense of spatial astonishment arises from the apparent closeness of distant objects due to optical manipulation. However, the camera functions differently. It flattens a confined space, evolving into a type of auxiliary memory that combats the passage of time. The camera simultaneously alters our relationship with space and time in the world before us. In 1978, John Szarkowski, the director of photography at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York, curated an exhibition titled “Mirror and Window.” Ostensibly, windows represented science while mirrors symbolized the photographer’s introspection. Yet, in truth, every photograph serves as both a mirror and a window.
Jorge Luis Borges cited a quote from Saint Augustine: “What is time? If I am not asked, I know. But if I am asked, I do not know.” Borges stated that he felt the same way about poetry. After wielding a camera for over two decades, I realized I shared this sentiment about photography.
Hence, I resolved to write and share — presenting to you the images that have profoundly influenced me, alongside the more modest images I’ve produced myself. Photographer Brian Griffin was once asked how long it took him to capture a photograph. At thirty-seven years old, Griffin responded, “It took me thirty- seven years plus one-sixtieth of a second to take this picture. My mirror, my window, my fire, my light. In essence, transforming images into words is akin to seeking hope.
Thank you for stumbling upon — whether by chance or intention — a book that has spanned twenty-four years since its inaugural image.
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