Tag Archive for 'china'

25
Apr

Book Review and Giveaway of “Shanghai Shikumen” (上海里弄文化地图)

By Sue Anne 21 Comments
Categories: Exhibits, Talks and Publications, The Fading Vestige and What I Am Reading

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UPDATE: Congratulations to Patrick, the 10th commentator! Random.org picked you out of 18 commenators. Drop me an email via the contact sheet and I will dispatch the book to you!

Thanks again to everyone who participated! For those who are in Shanghai, remember to pick up a copy! Amazon.cn has it on sale.

** I am giving one free copy to a lucky reader regardless of where you are in the world. Leave a comment below about yourself and why you’d like a copy. Entries close 5 minutes before midnight May 3, Beijing time. I will pick the winner at random. **

(欢迎中文读者！如果想用中文来看博科，可以在右边点下翻译钮 “Blog translated”)。 我会选出一位幸运读者送出《上海里弄文化地图》的一本书。请在博客文章下留下个人发言，介绍自己。比赛5月3日半夜停止。我会随机选择。)

For me, the hardest thing about documenting Shanghai’s ubiquitous lilong (or lanes) residences and shikumen isn’t the tedious amount of time invested in research and photographing them, but surprise, surprise, actually finding the hidden gems.

While there is substantial and organized information on Shanghai’s western architecture thanks to dedicated archivists including Tess Johnston and Paul French, there is no equivalent English directory for the hundreds of Shanghai shikumen and lanes, which is a challenge given their rate of demolition.

As an outsider without initimate knowledge of the city, I depend a great deal on the internet, Google maps and collecting anecdotes from residents to piece together the what, where and whys.

There was one key source I often turned to – a photographer on Flicker and the Chinese equivalent, Douban who went by the name of Gropius (the famous German architect who pioneered the Bauhaus School) or Xi Zi (席子). His work was a treasure trove of beautiful shikumen and lanes that I never knew existed, along with names and addresses, which I would use to guide myself around the city. He was receptive to questions and had a large Shanghainese following online.

A few years ago, while shooting in a heap of what used to be a beautiful structure in Hongkou, I met a man in his late 30s, early 40s doing the same thing. Lo and behold, it was Xi Zi.

We became friends and I’d meet up with him on several occasions to shoot and even interviewed him for the blog. He almost never used a map and knew of hidden spots that even local Shanghainese had no idea existed. He photographed the same places over and over again, mapping a timeline of their demise.

After 5 years of continuous shooting, Xi Zi (whose full name is Xi Wenlei (席闻雷)) and his good friend Jiang Qinggong (姜庆共) (or Lao Jiang as he calls himself, a well-known publisher of history and the arts) have finally put out one of the best photo books on Shanghai shikumen that you’ll ever find. Both authors grew up in shikumens and as Xi Zi once said to me, for the younger generation, the shikumen will be just a concept as many of them have never lived in one.

“Shanghai Shikumen” or more accurately “Shanghai Lilong Culture and Map” (上海里弄文化地图) condenses explanations and diagrams of various shikumen styles, 40 shikumen lilong travel guides, 400 shikumen lilong directories and 120 accompanying images of both the exteriors and interiors of the shikumen.

Interestingly, Xi and Jiang have chosen to emphasize their work in images rather than in text, a departure from traditional Chinese publishing standards. The best part of the book is the litany of maps (both pre-1949 and the present) that help the tracking and identification of shikumen and lilongs more efficiently. All in both English and Chinese.

For the authors, the book is as much a way to reach out to the younger generation of Shanghainese about their history, as it is appealing to foreigners with a deeper curiosity of the Chinese aspect of Old Shanghai.

That this easily accessible shikumen guide has not been published earlier is baffling to me, which is why I recommend readers to pick up a copy and start exploring as some of these neighborhoods may not be around for too long.

Where to buy

“Shanghai Shikumen” (上海里弄文化地图), 162 pages, March 2012, Tongji University Press (RMB 42)

1. Dukou Bookshop(s) (上海渡口书店)

- 828 Julu Lu, near Fumin Lu, Jingan District 静安区巨鹿路828号, 近富民路

- 245 Madang Lu, B1, Xintiandi Style Mall, 卢湾区马当路245号新天地时尚B1楼

- Online bookstore

2. Link Shanghai Gallery in Tianzifang (搭界)

- No. 5 Lane 248 Taikang Lu, Shanghai 上海市泰康路248弄5号

22
Apr

The Astrid Apartments

By Sue Anne 7 Comments
Categories: Street Stories, The Fading Vestige and The Lives Within

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Over a month ago, on a cloudy spring afternoon, I found myself standing in front of a spectacular Art Deco building, all eight floors of mustard yellow and mocha exterior towering over the surrounding low-rises.

The eye was immediately drawn to the apex where an elongated ornament embellished with a spire and sunrise motif sat atop a prominent column.

And like sunrays, the angular façade streaked outwards the length of a block along both Nanchang Lu (南昌路) and Maoming Nan (or ‘south) Lu (茂名南路). Steel-framed windows wrapped around on all sides and glistened ever so slightly as the clouds shifted.

Presently, locals refer to it as Nanchang Building (南昌大楼) though it was originally known as The Astrid Apartments. Built in 1933 by property company Wing On (owned by the Kwok family), the building had been exclusively occupied by foreigners with servants living in the back quarters.

The Astrid was designed by the architect W.Livin-Goldstaedt, though little is known about him. He worked with the shortly lived Eastern Asia Architects and Engineers Corporation and the only other record of his work was the King Albert Apartments, a cluster of elegant four-storey apartments a few blocks away.

Serendipitously, as I stood outside the building entrance writing notes, a young woman exited the locked gates. She looked quizzically at me and thinking I was a visitor, kept it open.

I avoided the creaky elevator and took the stairs, steadily passing doors of small businesses, associations and private residences. With each floor, I discovered eroded floor tiles, rusted windows and dirtied walls in the dim hallways.

Yet the parsimonious elegance of the Art Deco design was evident in the doors marked by the classic geometric header, as were the window grills and moldings.

According to The Astrid’s blueprints, there are three entrances and elevators, and flats ranged from studios, two to four room flats. I had traced each wing via difference entrances and discovered recessed balconies facing another cluster of old housing.

Some flats were boarded up; one had rotting floor and junk strewn about. Otherwise, most were inhabited and renovated with metal gates and linoleum floors. Doors were firmly shut and residents kept to themselves. There was little sign of overcrowding, just the creeping decay and neglect of public housing.

Upon reaching the rooftop, I was greeted by The Astrid’s spire and ornament in a sea of laundry hung out to dry. The eight floors allowed a bird’s eye view of the surrounding neighborhood – a mix of typical Shanghai lilong housing and 1930s low-rise apartments – yet was close enough to observe people going about their daily errands.

With the balmy wind to keep me cool on the roof, I watched scooters weave in and out of traffic; children play in lanes across the street and older residents gossiping along the sidewalks.

Over several weeks, I returned to The Astrid to photograph in better light, and always wound up whiling the afternoon away on the roof. It was a quiet retreat from the buzz of the neighborhood, and Shanghai’s hectic pace. I often wondered if the roof, when it was first built, had been a special place for residents or servants to steal away to as well.

March 2012

Note: For a more compelling visual and historical insight into the influence of Art Deco in Shanghai’s heritage architecture, I recommend Deke Erh and Tess Johnston’s “Shanghai Art Deco” (Old China Hand Press, 2006).

12
Mar

The Many Lives of an Old Shanghai Villa

By Sue Anne 1 Comment
Categories: The Fading Vestige and The Lives Within

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Update: The Atlantic has published “The Elegant History of Shanghai’s Rundown Communal Villas” which I wrote based on this post. But I had the luxury of adding more context of villas serving as public housing, and discovering more interesting facets of this villa on Beijing West Lu. Such as, it served as a foreigners-only dormitory known as Henley Home prior to belonging to the Shanghai Huiming Flashlight Company. (The post will be remain sticky for a day.)

Even from a distance, the former residence of Wu Tingfang* (伍廷芳) tucked in along Beijing West Lu (北京西路) looked huge. The red brick so common in Queen Anne architecture in Shanghai seemed to burn under the sun at half-noon. Under the main porch, mumbled voices mingling with the clattering of tiles as a cluster of middle-aged to ancient residents played a lazy game of mahjong. Nobody batted an eyelash to a stranger in their midst as they were used to visitors with cameras.

I entered through two sets of aged wooden doors flung open in welcome and adjusted my eyes to the dim hallway. It opened up into an airy space and a magnificent stairwell bathed in sunlight. The first thing one noticed was how aged the interior looked. Dust was lodged in every crevice of the intricate woodwork along the side of the banisters. Sunrays colored by glass windows illuminated European-styled arcs and moldings against tired and stained walls.

The floors creaked underfoot as I run my fingers along the sides walls where electrical switches on each floor controlled the over 50 households in the house. On the second floor, I could hear the hiss of wet vegetables against a smoking wok coming from the common kitchen. Next door, someone flushed a toilet and I later discover them to be in their original state. The suspended wooden stall doors gave little privacy to a human squatting atop the hole in the floor. It was rudimentary and uncomfortable.

A pair of middle-aged women was gossiping excitedly in Shanghainese as I continued upstairs. They giggled when I guessed them to be sisters and later shared with me a few tidbits of the history of the villa. As did many other passing residents, including an older man in a leather Mao flat cap, a heavily wrinkled woman stroking her cat and a middle-aged man wheeling his bike out. Everyone gave a different anecdote that seemed to map the many points of history of this house and they were similarly proud of its heritage.

The villa was built in 1910 and first served as the residence of Wu Tingfang (伍廷芳), a learned Mandarin official who also acted as an Envoy for the Qing Government in the United States, Spain and Peru. In America, Wu promoted Chinese culture and advocated efforts to mitigate discrimination against Chinese emigrants working in the country. Under Sun Yat-sen, Wu served as foreign minister to the Republic of China and even as acting president in Sun’s absence. He later passed away in 1922 in Guangdong.

(As past lives would intertwine, I later discovered that Wu had lived in beautiful Romanesque Revival style house* (now a boring looking apartment block) on Q Street in Washington DC, a block from my old apartment when I lived in the district.)

The villa in Shanghai was later taken over as a factory and dormitory by the Daxing Tobacco Company (大新香烟厂) and subsequently sold to the boss of Shanghai Huiming Tochlight Company (汇明电筒厂) named Ding Xiongzhao (丁熊照).

Ding had started his company in 1925 and grew to become the “King of Batteries”. He was unlikely to have stayed in Shanghai after the Communists came to power in 1949 as he had amassed significant wealth and businesses in the US and Europe. Records showed him settling and later passing away in Hong Kong in 1976. The house continued to serve as a dormitory for workers of the former Shanghai Huiming, whose descendants still live in the house till this day.

The current state of the villa – individual cramped quarters with backward communal amenities, facades in need of better upgrades and conservation – is still a common sight in Shanghai’s many old neighborhoods. So much so that the villa was deemed perfectly authentic to serve as a location set for a 2009 television series called  ”Dwelling Narrowness” or “wo ju” (蜗居). It literally translates into “snail house” but “humble abode” is a less awkward translation.

The TV series revolved around two sisters who struggled with life in a fictional city that strongly resembled present-day Shanghai. The plot focused on the sacrifices the sisters undertook to afford a home in the city - the younger sister becoming a mistress to a married politician while the other lived in a small room in the very villa with her husband as they scrimped to save money for a future together.

The show highlighted the conflicts arising from the widening gap between rich and poor, political corruption and an erosion of traditional Chinese family values. In particular, against the background of a real estate bubble in China and rising inflation, “Dwelling Narrowness” hit a chord with many viewers, especially in Shanghai, who saw themselves ball-chained for decades to burdensome mortgages like “house slaves” (房奴).

A resident told me that he appeared as an extra in the TV series and conveyed a mixed sense of pride and exasperation about the villa. “Everything is very much in its original form,” he said as he pointed out the sealed up fireplace, subtle moldings and wooden carvings, “That’s why the TV crew wanted to film here. They clearly appreciate the house, and I hope that the government does too. I certainly don’t want to leave.”

And with that, he wheeled his bicycle through the dim hallway and into the bright outdoors, his body cutting a sharp silhouette. My hand still on the banister, I decided to head up for another tour of the villa.

August 2011

* Photos of Wu Tingfang and his Washington DC residence are from Wikipedia Commons.

06
Mar

A dog’s life

By Sue Anne 3 Comments
Categories: Street Stories

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Warning! Some images may be disturbing for readers.

The village of Jiangtaiwa (将台洼村) and  Dongcuijia (东崔家村 ) are two of several clustered villages between the fourth and fifth ring of Beijing. The villages dated its roots to the Ming dynasty when Jiangsu traders first settled in the area. Now, it is largely  populated by migrants who had made Beijing their home within the last decade.

I was with Anton Hazewinkel, the photographer of the excellent Beijing stories blog Chinesense.com and his assistant Li Yu. He had kindly taken me around to meet local residents he had previously interviewed and photographed.

On our way out, we passed by a group of men chain-smoking outside a budget cafe and had gathered around a basin of fresh meat, watching a comrade hard at work with a carcass.

A large thigh rested on the rim of the basin. It looked too large to be a chicken and too small to be a goat. A rib cage laid on top of severed parts, prominently stripped and laced with blood so fresh and crimson, a shiver ran up my spine.

It was then my eyes drifted to the head of a dog on a chopping board, staring at me with glassy eyes and a mouth half-opened as if in shock. The creature was sold by a farmer in Hebei province and was likely slaughtered minutes before we chanced by.

“RMB20 for a jin (half a kilogram) if you want to buy. If not, don’t bother me with questions.” The chef dismissed us. I had guessed him to be from the south since the region was famed for eating anything on four legs. I was right when I heard him mutter “in my hometown of Guangxi” as he picked up a hunk and tossed it in a boiling vat.

He then positioned the dog’s head heavenward and with one heaving stroke, sliced down the side of the dog’s mouth and split the cheek. My stomach churned and I turned away, clutching Li Yu by the arm. The girl looked equally ashened.

Less than an hour later, we were in a more residential neighborhood visiting a man who specialized in wedding preparations. His shop was called “Easy Love” and he was as easily affable in discussing his business. The shop was a warm respite from the Beijing cold. We were surrounded by voluminous wedding dresses and bright red wedding paraphernalia, the grey and dust of the village far from our minds.

Halfway through, his wife brought out a white cocker spaniel squirming wet and uncomfortable in a towel after a bath. The dog grimaced as the woman began to blow dry its white coat back to a warm fluffiness. She laughed and stroked her pet, cooing sweet words of endearment. Her husband smiled and dryly remarked that the dog has been spoiled.

“Sometimes, we lavish more attention on them than our children!” he joked.

I could only muster a vegetarian option at lunch that afternoon, the contrasting images of the two dogs – one utilitarian and the other pampered – still burning in my brain, even now as I write this post.

February 2012

29
Feb

Hunger pangs at Da Fu Gui (大富贵)

By Sue Anne 1 Comment
Categories: Street Stories, The Lives Within and To Market, To Market

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The discovery of Shanghainese snackhouse/ restaurant Da Fu Gui (大富贵) was an accidental delight. As adverse I am to crowds, hungry hordes are hard to ignore when delicious (hence popular) food was involved.

Outside, long lines clustered for takeaways of golden roast meats and steaming buns and dumplings. Upon entering, the entire restaurant was a din of loud chatter and slurping noises. The smell of pork celebrated through frying and steaming, drifted and seduced.

The interior of Da Fu Gui is set up like a cafeteria with neatly aligned formica tables and welded down chairs. Patrons lined up as they do in Shanghai by pressing closely behind one and another while waving their money madly to catch the cashier’s attention. With a small ticket, everyone shuffles along to their desired snack and stock up.

Patrons clutched their trays of dumpling soups, paigu niangao (排骨年糕), steaming plates of xiaolongbao (小笼包) and pan-fried shengjianbao (生煎包) and looked frantically for seating. The food simply had to be consumed immediately, like right now.

Next to me, a woman dived into her plate of shengjianbao (生煎包). Peeling open the sweet steamed bun pan-fried to a deep brown on the bottom, a steaming morsel of pork flecked with seasoning and spring onions was revealed. To my left, a man slurped down a giant bowl of wontons swimming in broth. Across the room, I noticed two middle-aged ladies concentrated on demolishing xiaolongbao (小笼包) by the dozens. At RMB3-8 a dish (above and a little over USD1), dining was a cheap and cheerful affair.

Suddenly, the camera seemed a little heavy and I concluded a spot of nourishment would do the trick. I melted into the frantic lines of patrons and without thinking, walked away with 3 shengjianbaos (RMB 3) in a thin, oil-soaked paperbag. I had wanted to share it with my partner at home and suddenly realized, I had put an end to shooting for the day.

But priorities, priorities. Following a quick douse of vinegar to the already soaked bag, I hopped into a cab bound for home 5 minutes away.

Rarely has a photography expedition been so rudely interrupted by food. But sometimes, it can be worth it, especially if you have someone to share it with.

Addresss: Da Fu Gui (大富贵), 1409 Zhonghua Road 中华路1409号 (close to Fuxing Road East 复兴东路)

Febrauary 2012

22
Feb

Winter walking

By Sue Anne 0 Comments
Categories: Street Stories and Take To the Street

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It was only a few weeks ago, the cold and dampness of Shanghai’s winter had gotten to me in the worst possible way.

Hibernation swiftly took over and I stubbornly refused to get out of bed on the weekends. One Saturday afternoon, I woke up groggy, my heart and bones felt heavy as if trying to break out of a funk. I stared out of my window to see overcast skies and a dull fog. Grey seemed to constantly plague my weekends. I crawled back into bed.

I have often thought to myself that there was simply no excuse for bad weather to get in the way of shooting. We are reflecting society as is, and bad weather, warts and all, are exactly that. I knew deep down the most amazing pictures would come out of people fighting rain and cold. Nature versus man! Authenticity! I thought, yet laughing at the absurdity of my city-mindset. I lived in Shanghai, for pete’s sake.

And so it went for days, then weeks.

Then suddenly, there was a buzz around me. Sunshine this coming weekend! A colleague clutched my arm to exclaim. strawberries picking! Window shopping! Hot coffees in the streets! Picnicking!

Satuday came and it was half of what had been promised. Sunshine bathed busy streets. Frowns and hunched backs turned briefly into easy smiles and relaxed postures. I counted on two hands, youngsters snacking on ice-creams even when their breath was visible as they spoke.

In my first hour of walking, the camera felt unwieldy, almost alien in my palm. Still, it felt good to be get my rhythm back, measuring people and distance on my 35mm. Children were screaming as they played thieves and robbers in alleys. Shopkeepers joked back and forth. Loud conversations and the clattering of mahjong tiles drifted out of open windows.

By the 2nd hour, I pressed deeper into alleys and emerging in equally quiet streets where the temperature fell from the absence of bustling human bodies. The soundtrack of the warm afternoon had dimmed. My cheeks were pinched pink from the brisk air and my fingers felt slightly numb even in my gloves.

Adjectives failed me. I was freezing. As the sun slipped back behind clouds and the proverbial mountain, the evening chill forced bodies indoors, leaving only those out with a purpose. Places to go, bellies to be filled.

Bodies began to hunch again and layers piled on you only see eyes and red noses. Another 12 more hours and good weather will be upon all of us again. I was waiting. For Sunday promised to be as brisk but infinitely cheery.

February 2012

21
Feb

The bazaars of Kyrgyzstan (part 2): food

By Sue Anne 0 Comments
Categories: Off the Streets of Shanghai

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This is a continuation of my series on Kyrgyzstan’s trade bazaars, as part of my 3-weeks in Central Asia last October.

In my last post, I talked about the layout and structure of bazaars in Kyrgyzstan, and how they are major gateways of goods flowing from China, therefore attracting tens of thousands of traders and customers from all over the region.

But as busy as they are haggling for business, there is often a lull around lunch time and tea. It’s quite hard not to contemplate the next meal when the rich smells of roasted spiced meats and baked breads constantly permeate all corners of the bazaar. Not only is the tummy tickled, the eyes are also treated to a feast of color from fresh vegetables and fruit stands, whose produce taste as sweet as they look.

It is unauthentic to omit the important role of food in daily commerce. So in the interest of research, I’ve sampled widely the bazaars’ best cuisine.

Naan is everywhere and a staple in every household. Different from say South Asian naans which are thinner, softer and doughier, Kyrgyz naan are perfectly round, brown edible discs that often have a patterned stamp in the middle. When it comes right out of the oven, the first bite is heavenly. Mindless exploring through alleys had me in the middle of a family bakery where two brothers were turning out hundreds of discs that were cooling on rusted mattress springs. They were readily stacked and wheeled off to sell to nearby markets.

When naan is served, it is customary for hosts, as a sign of respect, to tear the bread into pieces to offer to others. I enjoy pairing it with shashlik, which is also a common Central Asian dish due to the prevalence of mutton. They are essentially skewered cuts of meats that have been marinated in spices (cumin, paprika, pepper, salt etc.) for hours and then grilled and served with raw onions. Shashliks skewers are arranged one bit-sized portion of meat to an equal portion of fat. Thankfully, the naan helps soak up the grease and flattens the sharpness of spice and onions.

Another favorite bazaar snack is samsi, which are small pocket pastries stuffed with chopped up mutton and vegetables. The real kick is the bits of cheap mutton fat which flavors better than it tastes. Widely available at any street corner, samsis are best eaten piping hot as the congealed fat from a samsi sitting too long in an open market is quite a turnoff.

Next are doner kebabs, which I’m pretty sure did not originate in Kyrgyzstan but rather from Middle East and Turkey. Nevertheless, it is simply delicious and appealing to the internationally diverse group of traders working in Kyrgyz bazaars. Slices of lamb wrapped in fresh lettuce and tomatoes and topped with a variety of sauces, I could eat it for every meal. (Well, I almost did.) 

Laghman is a noodle dish popularin Krygyzstan and Xinjiang, China, and believed to be invented by Dungans (Chinese Muslims or ‘Hui’). Thick hand-pulled noodles are served with mutton sauce with peppers and vegetables. In Jalalabad, Kyrgyzstan’s 3rd largest city, I’ve actually had Xinjiang-styled laghman made by a long-time Uigher transplant from Urumuqi, thanks to a Chinese language professor who took us there.

In the fresh food section of the markets, cluttered with spice racks, slaughtered lamb hanging on hooks, endless rows of fruits and vegetables, I always like to watch fresh salads being made.

Cold salads are a Russian (and Soviet) influence in Central Asia. The original inhabitants of Kyrgyzstan (long before it was demarcated as a sovereign country) were nomads who ate mostly what flock they had. Vegetables were not part of their diet. When I first lived in Russia, meals were often laden with cold cuts and salads. As a result, I’ve developed a fondness of the simple salad dish of tomatoes and cucumbers, a fistful of chopped dill, olive oil, lemon and salt and pepper. The flavors are fresh, sharp and cool. Nothing is more satisfying.

These delicious bazaar foods are not limited to Kyrgyzstan and can often be found in other Central Asian countries. But it is the unique mix of Soviet, nomadic, Turkic and Middle Eastern influences that has kept the cuisine firmly regional. I am looking forward to continuing my Central Asian culinary adventures this year.

17
Feb

The bazaars of Kyrgyzstan (part 1): layout and structure

By Sue Anne 1 Comment
Categories: Off the Streets of Shanghai

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(Editor note: It seems that I did not notice the lower resolution when exporting the photos, will sort that tonight. Please bear with me. Resolution sorted, selection of photos altered slightly)

This past week was spent wrestling with an intransigent hard drive, which took its last breath and some recent work I had done along with it. But all is well now and to celebrate, I thought I’d dig into my bursting archive and sharing a little my 3-week trip to Central Asia last October/November.

For two weeks, I was in Kyrgyzstan documenting trade markets, as many readers would know, is one of my favorite things to do. In particular, I was trying to understand the pervasive nature of China’s economic influence at the goods trade level but more importantly, the role of Chinese businesses and their networks in this neighboring yet obscure region.

Kyrgyzstan’s bazaars are huge, with the largest being Dordoy Bazaar, located in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital. Traders from all over the region including China, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Turkey and Russia converge to sell and procure goods in large volumes, ranging from white goods (expensive flat screen TVs, refrigerators, washing machines) to consumer products (shampoo, clothing, shoes, toys).

Like all bazaars in Kyrgyzstan, Dordoy is assembled by shipping containers that are stacked up and stretch for miles and miles. The containers, ranging from rusty red, sea blue and deep green, and serve as both storage and shopfronts. The layout of the bazaars is easy and almost grid-like, giving a sense of order amidst the chaos on a busy Sunday.

Stepping into the bazaar, one dives into a kaleidoscope of rich smells, loud sounds and dizzying colors assailing you from all sides. In narrow pathways, customers mingled with mobile hawkers who carried tea and snacks in baskets or push carts to feed he crowds. Every few minutes, laborers carrying giant boxes of stock would bellow in warning as they barrel through. On a clear day, sunlight would pierce through chinks in the roof in a sharp slant, illuminating anyone in the way.

Almost all consumer/appliance products you find in Kyrgyzstan’s largest bazaars are made in China, and a small selection from Russia, Turkey and other neighboring regions. Nevertheless, most China-made products are labelled in Russian as they were to be exported to Russian-speaking regions.

Russian is still commonly spoken in much of Central Asia though since breaking away after the collpase of the Soviet Union, the independent countries have been promoting the use of their own local languages. Kyrgyzstan is especially fierce about advocating Kyrgyz in schools, though many recognize English (and increasingly European languages, Korean and definitely Chinese) offers more employment possibilities. Nevertheless, Russian is a common language of choice for all traders. Accents are heavy but the point is carried across and transactions are eventually completed.

In the next installments of the bazaars of Kyrgyzstan, I look at the delicious bazaar foods.

17
Jan

And the dragons come aflutter …

By Sue Anne 5 Comments
Categories: Street Stories and To Market, To Market

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The din of nearby crowds rivaled the incessant car honking as I alighted by the main road. Mustering great vigor, I dove into the busy pedestrian area around the Fuyou Lu Wholesale Market (福佑批发市场) near Yuyuan (豫园). My mission was to acquire some decorations to bring home to Singapore to alert our neighbors that yes, Chinese New Year is coming and this time, the Dragon will breathe fire into the new year while the Rabbit scampers away, never to return until 11 years later.

The smell of street snacks mingled with loud bargaining by hawkers and customers alike. Festivities don’t officially get underway until next Sunday but the buzz and cheer of the most important holiday for many Chinese all over the world are already in full swing.

The street was awashed in swaths of red cloth and paper laced in glittering bits of gold. The endless paraphernalia associated with celebrating Chinese New Year never fails to amaze me. Last year’s shiny posters of gold-detailed rabbits have been replaced by dragons that reflect every mood: cute, regal, tacky, fierce and prosperous. The Year of the Dragon is deemed a good one – for babies, for businesses, for weddings and anyone who believes in the auspicious symbolism it embodies.

In the background, Chinese New Year songs blared at every corner, ranging from the traditional gongs and songs to sped-up techno, none of which did anything to sooth the tic developing in the corner of my eye.

Besides the dragon, the other traditional symbols of prosperity and wealth sold well among shoppers: hanging mobiles of fish, ancient Chinese ingots, firecrackers, all 12 zodiac animals bundled together and lanterns. I found myself tangled with two other matrons trying to pay for my Dragon posters, so overwhelmingly massive, the God of Wealth would be blind to miss my home. Next to me, an older gentleman amused himself with a stuffed toy hammer shaped like a dragon that irritatingly parroted “Gongxi Facai! 恭喜发财!Gongxi Facai! 恭喜发财!” over and over again as you bashed it on its head.

I imagined nimble hands all over the province of Guangdong working at blinding speeds through December and early January, churning out all these .. things … to satiate the depthless appetites of heady consumers.

Chinese New Year is not complete just with decorations. Grandmothers swarmed candy stores to stock up on sweet bites for expected visitors during the new year, migrant parents perused toys to bring home, and children took advantage of the festive atmosphere to wrangle presents. Almost everyone was seeking something new to wear or adorn themselves with. I watched a woman, hands red and puffy from excessive dish washing, stroking a gold bracelet lustfully as her daughter tugged her arm for a snack.

Not to be outdone by the shops, entrepreneurial mobile hawkers lined up in the middle of the pedestrian street to peddle even more (if at all possible!) knick knacks. A tall striking man displayed his wares by layering himself with multiple  flutes on strings, enticing passers-by with a lyrical tune. Another cheery man wore a winter hat shaped like a panda and helped children try on similarly shaped hats. Adorable, wind-pinched cheeks peered out under their furry hats at parents unable to resist their innocent glee.

And just like last year, I emerged slightly rumpled but triumphant with my procured decorations. Each January, I vowed never to throw myself at the mercy of Fuyou Lu at this time of the year. But I cave each time for it has become a festive ritual, and if you’re in town, I encourage you to do the same.

Just remember, hands tucked in on the sides, stiffen the spine and dive headfirst into the crowd.

January 2012

12
Jan

Grappling with Street Photography

By Sue Anne 2 Comments
Categories: Take To the Street

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Picture 1 of 9

I’ve been sitting on this series for a while. Well, not just this, there are a dozen others, but let’s talk a little about this one in particular.

There isn’t a specific or exciting story to tell. It was a thoroughly enjoyable day-long amble on a Saturday in Hongkou district (虹口区) which I ended with cramped feet but a happy heart. Everything came together: cool weather, sufficient light, optimal crowd density and diversity of characters. It was days like this that reinforced my affection for Shanghai.

Yet when I reviewed my work the next day, I felt uninspired, almost disappointed. I found some perspectives unoriginal and compositions lackluster, a bit of a waste given the pleasant circumstances. Where was the motion, flow and wit? One photo seemed like a variation of another barely a month ago.

It took weeks to filter a dozen shots I could live with, another several days to do another cull. I remain undecided, deleting another as I write this post.

So what of it then, you ask? It was an exercise for my own gratification, a weighing of one’s minor accomplishments. But really, it is a reminder of how difficult the process of street photography can be for some.

Many photographers consider street photography to be challenging, perhaps the most difficult of genres within photography. The random and often uncontrollable elements in composition and people’s growing sensitivities about privacy are just some examples. Ironically, these are also the reasons that drive some to embrace street photography.

Personally, I’ve had little trouble with photographing people in Shanghai’s streets, something I’ve discussed at length before. Where I find constantly challenged is in creativity, sustainability and speed, especially when detecting and assembling an interesting composition quickly.  The process is easily suceptible to weather conditions as it can by your emotional state. Often times, it can be both relaxing and frustrating.

My partner often teases me about being too hard on myself, and how little of my work I share (ironic given that I have a blog) but I discover this to be surprisingly common among some photographers. It’s not a vanity thing but rather about skill and expectations.

Last September, as part of organizing the exhibit “The Living Streets of Shanghai and The Hague”, I spoke at length with photographer Lu Yuanmin (陆元敏) who was the event’s guest speaker.

Lu 老师’s (or Teacher ‘Laoshi’ Lu as most call him out of respect) street photography, largely shot in black and white film, is concentrated in his hometown of Shanghai. Pushed by high contrast and heavy grain of the film, his photos exude a dreamlike feel (also a recurring theme in interviews). His inspiration “comes from visual memory; the moment of collision of memory and reality.” It is as if one is drifting through Shanghai with an invisible cloak, peering intimately (and fleetingly) into people’s souls.

When I asked him if he encountered much difficulty shooting in the streets, he acknowledged how angry some people can be and it has grown more difficult of late. Being exceedingly shy in public, Lu is adverse to conflict.

“When I notice an argument in the street, I tend to walk away rather than towards it.” he said once in an interview. All of this has shaped his stealthy approach in street photography.  Before, the Lomo camera used to be one of his many weapons of choice. Of late, he has switched to a toy camera which hung like a small key chain no bigger than his thumb.

Once, I blurted out that despite practice, I find myself with no more than 8 good shots after a long day of shooting.

“So many?” Teacher Lu remarked in surprise. “That’s quite good already. I usually have just one or two,” he laughed. My face reddened and I slunk deep into my chair. That only made me feel worse. Clearly, my bar of excellence wasn’t very high.

When shooting film, Lu insists on developing all of it himself, fearing others might see his “mediocre” work if he sent it off to professionals. There was nothing militant about his approach to photography, he really was that humble. Perhaps with fame comes growing expectations, and you can be your own worst critic. Despite decades of experience, even veterans still grapple with the process. But it is Lu’s passion for street photography that presses him on. Nothing was too trivial. Nothing was to be passed up.

And so, the weekend is coming. Another day-long amble is expected and the frustrating process of shoot and review will reoccur.

But I never said I’d stop. Did I?

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