Silent Homeland

by Chen Haiyan

Bai Dongquan is a seasoned photographer and a farmer from Yan’an. The visual world of his work unfolds as a somber and ethereal black-and-white dreamscape—both entrusted to himself and estranged from himself. He once said, “Through photography, I bid farewell to this world, yet I remain deeply reluctant to part from my homeland.”

Layer upon layer of mountains, stretch upon stretch of waters—on this Loess Plateau at 37 degrees north latitude, departed relatives lie buried in the furrows, while on the earthen tablelands of life, the piercing notes of Xintianyou folk songs still drift in the wind. Emptiness is as concrete as any tangible object: like water dissolving into water, mountains pressing forward within mountains. And yet, it releases embodied perception from the mire of the self. Photography, at many moments, is merely a tool; it does not necessarily concern itself with the ontology of the image. Likewise, black-and-white tonality is never an equivalent of truth. The sense of space flattened upon the surface is but the appearance of space—and the spatiality of appearances. The flickering eruptions of pixel-grain often open into silent abysses; a disassembled heat turns into the vortex of entropy, restless and urgent. It belongs to Bai Dongquan, and equally to the viewer.

While pondering the impulse behind the pressing of the shutter, I recall that this dark-skinned, solidly built man of the Northwest once mentioned that he grows apples. “Yan’an apples?” I asked. He paused, slightly startled, then replied politely, “Come back to pick apples—there’ll be plenty for you!” And then he quickly took his leave. A journey of mountains and rivers, where time itself gathers form. The past becomes whole, slowly developing in the darkroom of memory. On a solitary pilgrimage, I once saw the long-parched red clay soaked through by rain, melting like powder under the blazing summer sun, pooling into several crimson patches.

Years later, regret has finally turned into tenderness. The hillsides of apple blossoms have merged into a magnificent sea of clouds. In the intoxicated springtime of fluttering butterflies and humming bees, the homeland remains silent.

Written in the Spring of Bingwu Year At Shulewo, Shanghai