"This is a series on writer Lin Hai-ying, whose novels present to us the tragedy—or frustration—of those traditional women with 'one leg,' who were ever unable to cross the threshold of the modern age—women of the old capital of Peking. I didn't know how to properly present Lin in the beginning, so I traveled with her to her hometown, Toufen. I was greatly impressed by the inner, cohesive strength of her family. And this is how the slide series came out." So saying, Hsieh Chun-teh, a 35-year-old Taipei photographer, clicked off another of the episodes in his "writer series."
It was my first encounter with Hsieh in his own residence, and I took quick note that his artistic nature was everywhere on display. Tatami mats, instead of modern sofa sets, provided cozy and comfortable seating for his guests. A pair of foot-high tables held tea sets, fruit trays, candy bowls, and slide cases in mingled disorder. Footstools were parked along the edge of the tatamis. A huge, old-fashioned rattan armchair, its back rising to an adult's height, loomed carelessly behind a beaded screen. A pretty oil-paper umbrella, obviously handmade in Meinung, bloomed upside down, hung from the ceiling. A bamboo cupboard, of a type very popular in the Taiwan of the 30s, now shifted its role to record storage. Aboriginal woodcarvings and photos look out from frames along the walls. It was all like some popular Taipei teahouse, assembled specifically to welcome guests.
And so was the disposition of the master of the house. Wearing a head of newly-trimmed if still uncouth hair, a loose T-shirt, and a pair of old jeans almost white from washings, the man had strong aboriginal facial features. At first meeting, he was rather reserved, even withdrawn (but it was somehow still obvious that he was an amiable person). He did instantly metamorphose into an entirely different person as his voice sounded, "Hey, let me show you my latest work...on six local writers."
It was a project he had started about ten years ago with the intention of carrying on until his lens caught all island writers worthy of recording. Hsieh Chun-teh is about the only photographer on the island conducting such projects systematically—the "writers series" is but one of them.
"It all started in 1976, one day when I passed by Yang Kui's house on the Tunghai University campus. I always dreamed of being a painter or a writer when I was a kid. I have some kind of penchant for literary work. Many writers have affected me—had great influence on different stages of my growth. While conducting this project, I can also take the opportunity to review the writers' works and gain a real understanding of their backgrounds—Basically, no one can be uprooted from his home ground. The first six writers I did are my favorites. They represent three generations," said Hsieh.
He uses around 15 selected slides to illustrate each writer, and each is provided a special musical accompaniment. When the lights were now turned off, and the projector on, his face began glowing with a clear delight, and his words to flow like a running stream. His slides clicked on through, leading us to Chung Li-ho and his hometown in Meinung, to Yang Kui and his garden on the campus of Tunghai University, to Lin Hai-ying in Toufen, trying desperately to turn back the clock, to Huang Chun-ming and his fish harbor in Ilan County, to Pai Hsien-yung and his father's grand final resting place, a symbol of the constant passing of another generation of Taipei citizens, and to Lin Hwai-ming, more a dancer than a writer.
Amid the shifting music and shifting shadow faces, Hsieh's words seemed redundant. We saw Yang Kui grasping a bowl piled with a pyramid of rice, his hand hanging on as if he was not sure he would get his next meal—a string in our hearts twanged a pathetic sound.
We seemed transported into a time tunnel as Lin Hai-ying leaned against a door frame before us, smiling at two old women looking blankly into the room. A clock hanging on the time-worn walls of our present "slide studio," in between other sounds, popped a meaningless "ticktock, tictoc." Did Lin somehow realize that she herself was now posing for us on a threshold between time past and present?
As Huang Chun-ming was strolling around his boat-stacked harbor in Ilan, fishermen's rhymes were sung on Hsieh's stereo. From Huang's obviously intimate gossip with the old folks sauntering through the area, we could see—knew—that he had contracted a deep affection for these people and their stories. He was turned to metal in a frozen moment, in a conversation with a young man with a bronze-cast face and strong figure. It was evident that when the "action" command is given, and Huang's literary reel starts again to run, such a man will be in a leading male role.
Pai Hsien-yung, standing, holding an umbrella, silhouetted against the evening sky, then Pai Hsien-yung stretching his arms to shelter all the tombstones in the Muslim cemetery where his father is buried, the scene unaccountably epitomizing the passing away, the eclipse from glory of some of the prominent figures who transplanted themselves so dauntlessly from the China mainland to Taiwan.
I was deeply impressed by the young photographer's quest and made an appointment so I might know him better. This time, in a coffee shop, he was late. Through wall-to-ceiling glass front windows, I saw him hastening in my direction, his hair and the edges of his long coat blowing up in the wind, a camerabag swinging to and fro. He kept apologizing, overcautious; he was quite awkward, patting his hair, trying to tidy himself up. As day-by-day art director for a leading local printery, he had too tight a schedule, so he explained. He got out a cigarette—to rest his hands rather than to smoke.
I started asking about his current work to ease his tension. He was delighted: "Local commercial photography really has a long way to go. We must introduce new concepts from abroad; we stick too much to old ways—sordid, really, vulgar, overly direct representations. The other day, it took me 12 full hours to take a satisfying photo of a red flower and a green leaf. Properly controlling lighting to catch the absolute beauty of the composition was the great challenge. In fact, working with lighting is like building a house. Hurry and you make mistakes."
He came to another of his current projects—portraits of celebrities. "I intend to portray an artist, a writer, a movie star, a musician, a photographer—each with just one perfect photo and a very brief caption. It is a great challenge for me, a duel of wits and vigor. You must not be nervous, impatient. If you betray your first opportunity, your objective will be doomed. There I am, observing, and so is the opposite party. One stroke will decide if I win or lose." He explained it all as if he were starring as a master in kungfu movies.
His encounter with artist Chao Wu-ki followed that scenario: "I shot pictures for him while he was in Paris. I was very nervous because many European and Japanese photogs had taken pictures for him—well, he's an internationally famous painter. In order to calm myself down, I turned to touch this and that. Then I heard him ask, 'May I smoke?' It betrayed the fact that he was also nervous. I suddenly relaxed. And there he was, wearing dark leather work garments spattered with oil paints. The background—the wall—was also thickly dotted with paints," he recalled, his mind also a film plane.
He also records such determined public figures as movie stars. And I saw there was no limit to his sympathies. He talked of encounters with Hsu Pu-liao, Sun Yueh, and Lu Yen. Hsu Pu-liao is a popular comedian in Taiwan. "I really love this man. You can not help yourself. In him, I saw all the sorrows of nameless, ordinary men, but with both blood and tears. As I went about taking the photos, he smiled, and he continued to smile all the way through until I left. But he was suffering great pain from a physical illness, and he had been taking alcohol to repress it. And he said, 'People like me have to grimace for our publics before our corpses are encased in coffins.'
"Sun Yueh won the Golden Horse Award as leading male actor last year. I asked him why he is now so popular, and he told me, 'I really don't know. But many want to tell me, 'Hey, Sun Yueh, I saw your movies before.' They are probably concerned with a feeling of friendship, because it is like we grew up together. They might have included me in their life pilgrimages as they grew.'
"For (actress) Lu Yen, I decided to use a huge cloth for a backdrop. And she asked me if I would need a mirror to fill the light in. And I was busy setting up my lens. She put the mirror beside the window, then turned to put back the one or two loose hairs in front of the mirror. And there it was! A beauty, moaning the passing of time, finding flies in the ointment," he exulted.
He has taken photos for 50 such figures, and is still excited. But as the conversation tracked, I observed that he was consistently quite reserved when talking about himself. "You can't imagine how many failures I have met," the man bent his head and fell in a pensive mood when I pressed him.
He has loved painting ever since he was a child. "The four walls of my residence were always covered with my chicken tracks, and I always came home with awards for painting in my early school years. Since I hated to do homework, the teachers would make a deal—ask me to do a painting for them in exchange. Well, I quit school in my high-school years to work first at an iron mill, then as a watchman for bicycles at the Taichung Post Office racks. I was determined to be a painter, so I moved to improve my sketching techniques. I decided to buy a camera through a post office installment plan. My wishful thinking was that I could steal snaps in my spare time, then spend time sketching when I could. But once I got in close touch with a camera, I got drunk with it," he recounted.
Serious photography is a costly venture; his father had to sell his property to help him out. He came to Taipei with 200,000 NT (US$5,000) to buy the necessary equipment. And passersby then saw him as "the man carrying a high-rise on his back." He became so poverty-stricken that he would sometimes live on a steamed bun for a day, and too often, cadge free meals from his friends. But the ecstasy of reviewing developed slides, he said, paid for all the material deprivations.
Before 1969, when Hsieh Chun-teh was still in his early 20s, he preferred surrealistic results. "At that time, this photographic world was dominated by the Salon School. We were all young, all full of imagination and reveries, and above all, very unsatisfied with our real worlds. For us it was an outcry, a protest, but also a direct involvement, and daring and honor permitted no turning back. I pictured a truck marked with loading weights. I saw an empty car lying at a wrecking yard near Sungshan Airport, and I told a girl to lie inside for my camera with her two legs stretching towards the sky. Or I would go to the foot of Flame Mountain near Taichung and take photos of comical faces."
In 1969, Hsieh held his first Taipei exhibition, in the downtown Hsimenting section. It was an opportunity for a brief look-back, and to make new friends with common goals. But above all, he now wanted to prove to his parents that he was doing something serious. "When my father saw people really coming and going, he was moved and happy. Still, he doubted that I could ever make a living from it. Deep down, he still thought of a photographer as a man hiding behind a square box and a dark drapery before a posed group in Taichung Park," he smiled.
After completing his military service, Hsieh did not know any more clearly which way to go. He was though, sure that the surrealist stint had better come to a stop. He decided to return to his home village near Taichung to retrieve, with his camera, his memories of childhood. Before his second exhibition, in 1975, his photos were mostly nostalgic, lyrical, sentimental. "Before that experience, I clung mostly to modern things. I found fault with practically everything in a rural village. 1 felt that there was so much that should be improved. Then I began to feel that the spirit of tradition must be preserved, and I went out and took a lot of pictures of old houses and such," he said.
A watershed came in 1976 while he was spending the Lunar New Year on Orchid Island. It was the first time he dared to attempt direct contact with strangers. He confessed, "You might have noticed that I was born shy and withdrawn. I remembered at the time that while I was serving in the military, I was directed to take photos of President Chiang Ching-kuo, who was then vice premier, and of my fellow officers. You can't imagine how nervous and embarrassed I was. Before Orchid Island, I preferred to concentrate on landscapes and keep a safe distance from strangers.
"On Orchid Island, I soon discovered that the Yami tribespeople were as straight and honest as a piece of pure white paper. I smoked, chitchatted, and listened to the radio with them. In fact, after landing on the island, I took a trip around the island first. Then I chose a village and went on a door-to-door visit. In the end, I made very good friends. The kids where I stayed would even crawl in and sleep with me at night. And it was so natural for me to break through, to pick up my camera to record their faces and lifestyles."
It was a bumper harvest. His control of light had also come to maturity. His new photos were also of Chinese people, revealing their self-complacent nature. A picture of a baby's eyes, brimming with tears, shouts with self-respect, crying out the dignity of life.
A five-member Yami family is gathered under a dim glow of yellowish light, each busy with his own work—we feel, seeing them, an immediate intimacy and warmth. A baby is lying on a table, bending and toying with his toes in the foreground. But we do not neglect to notice that it is the father doing the sewing. Neither can we overlook the majestic look of the baby's mother—after all, the Yami still maintain a matriarchal society. And when our eyes meet those of the firm, self-assured young wife, now breast-feeding her baby, we are surely told that there is the future of Orchid Island.
With the intention of introducing new photographic ideas, and now an assured professional, Hsieh started to publish a modern photographic magazine. And though his money ran out after only four issues, he has never regretted his attempt.
It occurred to him in the aftermath that now was the right time to systematically record the features, people, and lifestyle of the island. Before starting, he drafted a proposal, marking down themes, objects, angles, and procedures in great detail. Fearful that he would never complete such a great project singlehandedly, he sought the cooperation of his friends, and incorporated different approaches. "It was a great failure, because my friends backed out in the middle of the operation," he ruminated.
Still, he was not intimidated. He continued to leave his footprints in practically every corner of the island. He went to record the bumper-harvest festivities of the Paiwan tribe and of the Hakka (Chinese) people around Pingtung County, among others. He put together an album, but it failed even to come off the press. "Suddenly the sponsor decided to back out. It seems that heaven is always playing hide-and-seek with me," he said listlessly.
But the raw album, itself, is a great feast for the eyes. We could feel the intimate relationship between land and the people. A marriage of a young aborigine couple in the mountain village of Donar; a group of children and their elders scattered, sitting or lying under a mystic, yellowish lamplight; a fisherman on a sandy beach, foamy tidal remnants washing his feet, a fish in his hand—these are his best examples.
"It was a big farewell to my nostalgic and folkart period. I now realized that suspicion can't help solve problems. We must find something in modern life to assure our own existence. Man can never be truly uprooted from the land.
"Though many things are not as beautiful as you would dream in practical life, you have to find something truly beautiful to maintain your psychological equilibrium," he asserted. And his photographs led us to a rainy night in a Taiwu village, a simple mountain road at Yuanfeng, a luxuriant growth of green grass at Meinung, the fish harbor at Tamsui, a corner of railings, a vast expanse of fish ponds.
His finger flipped rapidly through the album and stopped at a photo of two men selling watermelons in the night market at Shihlin, in the suburbs of Taipei. "This shot was important for me. Before this, I didn't dare to take a photo of a man face to face. I always felt that only the unintentional reaction was most natural, most real. But when I came to this watermelon stand, one of the men said: 'Hey, young fella, take a photo for me.' I did, and it turned out pretty good. I discovered that my target was faithful to the lens. I adjusted my concept, because now I was no longer sure just what is the truest moment—waking, sleeping? pleasure, anger, sorrow or happiness? I finally realized that the truest moment is the instant of reaction—even a funny face is good."
He passed by a rice paddy at Meinung and decided to take a photo of four women working in the field. One of them stood up: "Hey, let me stand up and pose for a picture for you." Hsieh nodded. But she summoned her companions to stand with her. "You may notice that the one on the extreme left is the most self-confident, and the one on the extreme right is hesitant, not knowing what to do. That is what I call honest and natural reactions."
Strict structure is another feature of his works, a facet, too, of oil paintings. An old aboriginal woman at Chihpen in Taitung County wears a purple and white scarf and a dark suit. Wrinkles creep around her eyes, forehead, and cheeks, and a faint smile has stolen upon her face. The lighting and the color have a strong Rembrandt flavor.
Time was also frozen on a winter afternoon in Lukang when he pictured three aged men in heavy overcoats—one with his head bent, another resting both hands on a wood walking stick, the third thrusting his hands in his pockets, his eyes squinting in the brilliant winter sunshine. You could almost hear the steps of time move through their gray hairs, stamp blue vines on their hands, and abrade their coats and even bamboo chairs, walls, and doorframes in the background. "My intention is to present human beings as they really are, without distortion," he said.
As time has passed, he has learned to treat his subjects with a more "normal heart," and without special arrangements.
For Hsieh, the stark window of a house in Meishan sends out a strong message, no help needed. "Basically, human beings are lonely. The red curtain inside this window pleads that it wants to communicate with the outside world."
Though he has not yet accomplished any of his major projects, the man has never regretted any of his undertakings. He is in no haste to publish the album. He sees there is a long way to go and a lot to do into the future. His wife says, "Photography is his substitute life."