City Lens - Fuzhou

Story:

The full moon of the fifteenth is brightest on the sixteenth, so on October 7, I climbed up to the rooftop of our workspace in Gulou District with my camera to capture the moon rising over the hillside. As I adjusted my gear and set up the tripod, the playful shouts of children reached my ears. I turned to see three kids running around, chasing each other and laughing.

While they played, I finished preparing my camera and found a spot to sit. Watching them reminded me of how carefree childhood can be—no worries, no burdens, just simple joy. When they gathered by the metal railing to play, I took out a disposable film camera and told them, “Keep playing—I’ll take a picture of you.” The shutter clicked, and this moment was captured.

It felt meaningful. Childhood holds countless memories, yet as we grow older, those beautiful moments slowly fade. Now that we have the “ability of gods”—the power to freeze time—we can preserve them. A disposable camera may be used only once, but the instant you press the shutter, the memory it captures becomes permanent.

Years later, when we look back at these photos, we’ll be able to describe how we felt, who we played with, and the dreams we had. That’s why we should photograph the little moments around us and turn our memories into something we can hold onto.

Story:

This street, this wall, this stretch of road—I walked it countless times during middle school. Now that I’m older, I find myself looking back at the memories of my early youth. Back then, it was normal to walk here with classmates, laughing and fooling around without a single worry. But time keeps moving forward, and the paths we once walked every day eventually become roads we no longer step onto.

This time, I returned. As I walked, scenes from my teenage years resurfaced bit by bit. When I reached this wall, I noticed the banner reading “Bamin Youth,” reminding me that we were children from all across Fujian, once seen as the rising hope of the future.

The afternoon sunlight fell across the bicycles, and it looked exactly like the scenes I imagined as a kid—heroes defeating monsters, sunlight returning to the earth, everything glowing with victory. I stood there quietly, watching. Then, as my thoughts settled, I pressed the shutter, freezing this moment and giving it weight and meaning.

Youth is full of impulse and passion. Back then, we would casually park our bikes by the roadside and run into the schoolyard or onto the field to play. But I never realized that one day, without knowing it, I would park my bike there for the last time—and we would never look back.

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Story:

My grandfather was a freelance photographer, and my mother also loved taking pictures. Maybe because of this family influence, I naturally grew interested in photography. The moment I press the shutter, I freeze pieces of beauty—seen through my perspective.

For a long time, I was drawn to symmetry and minimalism. I often used symmetrical compositions and intentional negative space. But as time passed, and the internet flooded us with trends and visual overload, I began to follow the wave and chase maximalism. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how far I had drifted from my original intention.

So I’m not sure if my past self influenced who I am now, or if my present self is reaching back to guide the person I used to be. Either way, this photograph was born. In my eyes, it represents a world of symmetry and emptiness—a return to the visual language that once shaped me.

Story:

During the National Day holiday, West Lake Park was crowded with visitors, lively and noisy. The humid heat made me restless, so I wandered toward the shaded areas with my camera in hand. Before I could take in my surroundings, a squirrel caught my eye. I watched it for a long while—its body nearly blending into the bark—until it disappeared at the tip of a branch. When my gaze drifted downward, I noticed an incense-filled burner. Wisps of smoke drifted upward, carrying with them the solemn presence of the temple and the quiet devotion of the worshippers within. Perhaps this moment was meant to be.

People always seek a place to anchor the desires in their hearts. That is why faith exists: to express what we struggle to say, to hold what words cannot.

In Fujian, people pray to Mazu on the sea and to the Buddha or Guanyin on land. Here in this temple, visitors came from all over the country—different faces, different backgrounds—but sharing the same purpose: to pray, to seek blessings, to find a smoother path for the wishes they carried.

The incense, heavy with people’s hopes, continued to burn. I looked through the drifting smoke at the worshippers inside the hall. I followed their movements and bowed three times before the Buddha. Then I raised my camera and pressed the shutter—my own way of expressing what I could not fully put into words.