Above flame浮光
Mandarin Original Version by Wu,Ming-Yi
Preface: As From My Window I Sometimes Glance
“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.
Chapter 1. Hunting Wild Life with Camera and Flashlight
“Near the western peak of Kilimanjaro, a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet above sea level, there is a dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. What is the leopard looking for in such an alpine place? No one can
explain.”— Ernest Miller Hemingway “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”
The image critic Ian Jeffrey initiates his work “Photography: A Concise History” with the statement: “From the very beginning, the pioneers of photography found themselves facing a profound predicament — the
inherent automatism of the medium they employed.” Photography, both in its early days and subsequent evolution, was perceived as an innovation, or more accurately, as a revelation of nature’s capacity to document its own imagery. The vocabulary adopted to discuss this emerging technique aptly mirrors this perspective. The image apprehended by the camera is often referred to as “sunshine painting,” a term suggesting a “natural handprint.” In contrast, artistic images are consciously crafted and purposefully
constructed, while photographs carry a natural quality, reminiscent of specimens harvested from the untamed realms.”
Shortly after the invention of photography, between 1844 and 1846, William Henry Fox Talbot published the pioneering commercial book featuring photographs, titled “The Pencil of Nature.” Each photograph within was accompanied by a concise essay elucidating the method and process behind its creation. The book’s title appears to resonate with Jeffrey’s assertion. However, intriguingly, the scenes depicted in these early photographs do not solely encompass what we might narrowly define as untouched wilderness. They encompass an array of subjects, from groceries in China to bustling Paris boulevards or bustling squares. This raises a significant question — one that has lingered in my mind for years: Can all of these subjects, including those shaped by human hands, still be regarded as “natural impressions”? This question draws me back to pondering what “natural” truly signifies, both to Talbot and to myself.
When photographers embarked on capturing “nature” during the early days of photography’s invention, they encountered a significant challenge: exposure time. Early photographic techniques like the “Daguerreotype” required exposures lasting 15 to 30 minutes. As a result, what could be captured was essentially an image of light’s movement on an object over a period of time. The most artistic aspect of Daguerre’s photographs lay in the fundamental difference between these images and what the human
eye perceives: they presented a positive image within a “narrow angle of view,” while the remaining angles appeared as negative images. Photography did indeed capture nature, but it wasn’t an exact
replica of what the human eye sees.
Smoke, flying birds, galloping horses, flowing clouds, and even the smile of an American woman — these fleeting moments were elusive for early photography, especially with the long-exposure Daguerreotype
method. The method captured only a “natural handprint” within the “narrow angle of view,” leaving the rest as negative images. It wasn’t until Frederick Scott Archer invented the Wet Collodion process that
humanity could begin to capture these fleeting lights. With this new technology, in 1855, John Dillwyn Llewelyn won the Silver Medal at the World’s Fair for a series of four popular “moving” photographs
featuring waves, smoke from ship funnels, and footsteps that deeply impressed sailors, fishermen, and urban wanderers alike. Photography had finally become a part of people’s memories, appearing sharper and more vivid than the mental images we carry.
Photographs freeze the perpetual motion of the natural world. Much like Linnaeus (Carl Linnaeus) summarized the attributes of living organisms with the binomial method, and Darwin’s selection of embryonic forms altered our understanding of the theory of evolution, photography reshapes nature. It halts nature’s continuous flow and offers repeated observation, transforming its fragments into a book that
can be revisited.
The second difficulty in photographing “nature” is not just technical. Although the French government bought the technology of photography in 1839, and Dominique-François Arago announced the invention of photography — — which declares that photography is both a science(mechanics, optics and chemistry) and an art.But through machinery, where is the artistry in replicating the essence of natural objects?
Human beings possess an inherent urge to document natural phenomena, driven by the necessities of survival — identifying pertinent information about wildlife to ensure their own wellbeing — and also fueled by religious inclinations. In the history of art, the depiction of non-human entities predates that of portraiture.
The bison and sheep etched onto the walls of France’s Lascaux Caves, the wild geese adorning the temples of ancient Egypt, and the dolphins captured in the artwork of Sandro Botticelli’s “Primavera” all exemplify this inclination. Within “Primavera,” the goddess Flora, adorned with flowers and elegantly dressed, beautifully merges human and floral imagery. Similarly, Titian’s “Bacchus and Ariadne” portrays the moment Bacchus’ sudden appearance startles mortal Ariadne, depicting her evasive motion.
However, the pair of leopards locking eyes in the center of the painting is often interpreted as a metaphor for latent wild desire. Art reflects humanity’s mixture of longing, passion, and apprehension toward
depicting natural subjects — these subjects constitute not just a living space, but an elusive spirit. With the advent of photography, a new facet of humanity’s desire for nature has emerged — understanding the
principles governing the natural world.
In 1840, French bacteriologist Alfred François Donné photographed bones through a microscope camera, just as an American physician, John William Draper, captured the first photograph of the moon that same
year. Although bones, teeth, or even the moon remain natural entities, seeing them this way — through the lens of a camera — transforms teeth into planet-like formations and the moon into a beautifully textured stone.
People have long believed that the hand wielding a pen is guided by both heart and mind. However, the photographic process, which mirrors the original subject so closely, prompts contemplation about whether the beauty portrayed within still stems from the divine, and whether “nature” continues its silent workings. Thus, we encounter what can be termed “positive rationality.”
On one hand, these photographed natural entities — sometimes “anonymous” or awaiting comprehension — generate a novel sense of curiosity, and photography plays a role in unraveling these mysteries. Through the “mechanical eye,” humanity gains the ability to observe the intricate biological and physiological structures and behaviors.
As John Berger posits, the camera was invented in 1839, around the time Auguste Comte finalized his positivist philosophical discourse. Since then, positivism, sociology, and photography have co-evolved, sharing a common belief: the “quantifiable variety of things recorded by scientists and experts.”
In time, it is anticipated that all knowledge pertaining to nature and society will be bestowed upon humanity, empowering us to master the natural world and societal dynamics.
However, humans will gradually realize that alongside their rationality and thirst for knowledge, a romantic sentiment simmers — a sentiment akin to a yearning for love. They are unwilling to perceive merely the “shadow” of a natural object. In fact, they uncover facets beyond mere physiological structures — discoveries that might stem from intuition or serendipity.
During the 1880s, French physiology professor Étienne-Jules Marey designed a unique camera that he humorously named a “photograph gun” due to its pistol-like appearance. This camera’s film was placed on a revolving baseplate reminiscent of a revolver’s cylinder, enabling it to rotate at twelve frames per second for multiple exposures. Marey dubbed this technique “chronophotography.” Through this apparatus, he captured the continuous movements of pole vaulting athletes, the graceful arcs of egrets taking flight and landing, and the intricate gaits of elephants. Concurrently, artist Eadweard Muybridge, born and deceased in the same years as Marey, employed a contraption comprising over ten cameras to
capture a famous series of galloping horses — an iconic moment in the history of photography. This endeavor was initiated as a wager — Leland Stanford, a railroad magnate who later founded Stanford University, challenged that all four of a horse’s feet leave the ground while galloping.
To substantiate this claim, Stanford enlisted Muybridge to design a photographic mechanism. Unlike Marey’s revolving camera, Muybridge arranged twelve cameras in a straight line parallel to the horse’s path, with the horse’s motion triggering the shutters. After development, a photograph revealed all four hooves off the ground, validating Stanford’s assertion. Muybridge, spurred by this challenge, became fascinated by photography. Over the ensuing decade, he captured over 20,000 similar images and published eleven volumes titled “Animal Locomotion.” His
contraption, the “Animal Reality Display Device,” could rapidly and continuously display images, creating a primitive form of “animation.”
Upon viewing Muybridge’s photographs, one can’t help but reflect, as I did, on how belated humanity’s genuine interest in animal movement was. The elegance and naturalness of animals’ motions — whether human combat, a leopard’s dash, or an elephant’s seemingly unhurried stride — all boast graceful contours, the result of billions of years of biological evolution. Finally observing that instant when a horse gallops with all four hooves elevated, seemingly suspended in mid-air, is an awe-inspiring realization. I’m certain Muybridge’s heart soared as he witnessed the development of that photograph.
The pursuit of truth about life through the lens has commenced and shows no sign of cessation. In 1898, photographs of a dog’s heartbeat were captured, and X-ray photography unveiled the internal structures
of creatures — the “inner framework” previously thought accessible only after death. Infrared rays illuminated hidden secrets of the nocturnal world. While delving into the history of accelerated shutters and exposure processes in photography, one standout moment was in 1906 when National Geographic magazine published seventy-four works by Congressman George Shiras III.
This congressman set up flashes and cameras, activating them via tripwires as animals passed by. The ensuing detonation of the flash, accompanied by blinding light and resounding noise, transformed the dark night into a celestial spectacle — an astronomical event of star-like birth for both animals and photographers.
I believe many individuals must have sighed as I did when they viewed Eadweard Muybridge’s photos. It’s a belated realization of humanity’s newfound concern for the movements of animals. These motions
exude elegance and natural grace. Whether it’s human combat, a leopard’s sprint, or an elephant’s seemingly leisurely stroll, they all possess a captivating beauty borne from billions of years of biological evolution. Finally, we witness the instant when a horse’s four feet leave the ground, resembling flight. I’m convinced Muybridge’s heart soared as he witnessed that image come to life.
The pursuit of uncovering the truths of life through the lens has begun, and it will continue without cessation. In 1898, photographs were taken of a dog’s beating heart, while X-ray photography unveiled the bones of creatures — the “inner structure” previously thought visible only after death. Infrared rays unveiled long-concealed secrets of the night. While reviewing the accelerated history of shutter speed and exposure in photography, what struck me most was that in 1906, National Geographic magazine featured seventy-four works by Congressman George Shiras III.
Shiras III set up flashes and cameras, triggered by tripwires as animals passed by. The resulting explosion of light and sound in the dark night became a novel celestial event for both animals and photographers.
In 1936, Shiras III published his photography collection “Hunting Wild Life with Camera and Flashlight: A Record of Sixty-Five Years’ Visits to the Woods and Waters of North America.” The collection featured
nearly a thousand nocturnal animal photos, often taken in moments of surprise, imbuing the images with dynamic tension. Some animals were momentarily blinded by the powerful light but retained their poise
by the water, evoking the elegance of mythical forest deities.
My personal favorite is the image of three deer startled by the flash, each fleeing in a different direction, mid-leap, revealing their graceful hind legs in poetic motion.
American naturalist Barry Holstun Lopez once remarked that two trilobites can evoke different musical compositions — Bach and Haydn. This subtlety and delicacy rival the taxonomy of natural science, constituting a taxonomy of the soul, an ethereal temptation. Shiras III ventured into ecological photography due to a faltering political career. Yet, his nocturnal animal photos provided a visual stimulation to urban dwellers akin to a return to the wilderness — sleeping in trees, attuned to the mysteries
of the dark and the occasional enigmatic encounter. His legacy rests not on his political endeavors but on the “nocturnes” he orchestrated with the camera — a testament to the enlightenment of beauty.
Images, like migratory birds, traverse the realms of art and science, refusing to relinquish any habitat.
As cameras become lighter and shutters faster, they increasingly resemble a naturalist’s weapon.
Hemingway’s works, while resonating with the thrill of facing formidable prey, also convey weariness towards war and civilization. These contradictions dogged him throughout his life, culminating in his tragic
end by shotgun. His fate mirrors the leopard frozen in “God’s residence” atop Mount Kilimanjaro — leaving only footprints and enigmas. This echoes the discrepancy in Kilimanjaro’s height mentioned in his novel.
The photographic expedition typically doesn’t involve literal killing, but the creation of cameras, photographs, and the subsequent development process often have wilderness destruction in their wake.
The missionaries and anthropologists armed with cameras in Asia, South America, and Africa resemble explorers — unveiling the “undiscovered” as a means of organizing, rationalizing, and confirming their observer status. Carrying heavy equipment into the forest, I sometimes see myself as a naturalist of yore.
Yet, in truth, nothing is brought back; everything remains in its place.
Transposing an image of an African elephant from the grasslands to an art gallery transforms it into a hanging picture. While the tusks and unique crown are replicated, this image is not a copy but a product of a distinct technological process. The journey of capturing the image, the angles, and the photographer’s endeavor are intrinsic to the viewer’s experience. A photograph possesses meanings distinct from mounting a trophy, evoking varied aesthetic and possessive implications. The camera engenders complex beliefs.
Recalling photographer Adolphe Braun’s “Deer and Wildtowl,” where lifeless creatures hang alongside their killers’ weapons, bags, and horns. Nature, however, is not a mere ornament. This duality encapsulates
humanity’s choice in treating nature — gunpowder or light.
So I picked up the camera and faced the history of the field, from the pursuit of shutter speed, to the establishment of perspective knowledge and rationality, the discovery of aesthetics, and finally to the
speculation of ethics. A photo of wild land without the stimulation of ethical thinking is really no different from what fishermen, hunters, and wanderers used to know about wild land.
I can’t help but think of the two things that fascinated me in the passage of “A Brief History of Photography”: first, photography is a key technology for the “discovery” of nature’s ability to record its own images; specimen.
These two points unexpectedly completely define what the ecological photographers in my mind are pursuing: they spend their whole lives discovering the wild and wildness that light and cameras can capture, and they spend their whole lives chasing light specimens. And they face their own pictures, they will reminisce and revisit the scene they have been to, and then they will find that they are the ones captured by the light and the camera.
