DRAWERTYPE PHOTOGRAPHY
About DRAWERTYPE PHOTOGRAPHY
Avoid dust entering the camera, every camera guide book says. But, it is never possible to stop dust getting into that little room.
Any space has the potential to be occupied by something. The same is true for the interior of cameras. By placing objects in a camera, the sacred code of a photographic system is broken. Therefore, the passage of light is no longer the primary concern for the internal space in a camera. Tangible objects have the same right to enter and occupy this space. At this point, the camera becomes somewhat of a drawer, which can be regarded as a container of materials. I call it DRAWERTYPE PHOTOGRAPHY.
A Story about Metaphor
This booklet is about my practice of DRAWERTYPE PHOTOGRAPHY. The image produced by DRAWERTYPE PHOTOGRAPHY, allows the objects in the box to be layered with the background image, creating a kind of ambiguity of subject, a doubt of which is truer. This kind of layering can also come from using metaphors in writing, as there is a separation between noumenon and metaphor.
"A Story about Metaphor" is a creative process made up of images as well as writings, which comes from an unexpected dream.
Every night
The policemen clean up all those people they don’t like
Every time he's on a mission
Memories from his childhood come back to him
A new-born bird stumbled out of its nest
Right under his nose
Under a summer tree
The sound of its little head hitting against the concrete ground
Like a penny dropping into the ocean of dead leaves in autumn
The hair of the girl
Soft as silk
Sparsely sticks at the top of her head
Snow-like scalp
Bared
Her arm was covered with fine hairs
Smells like the creamy kernels of macadamia nuts
The mother cuddled her baby girl in their room
Shh
She heard some imperceptible footsteps
Deep in the dark hallway
Through the keyhole
She had to get her girl out of this place
The next day
They boarded a silver express train
There weren't many people on the train
A man was sitting by the window reading a map
As he walked
The mother noticed the same slight tread
Just like an earthworm in the grass after rain
Paused and disappeared
The train stopped at a crude dock
The mother rushed ahead into the jungle
With her daughter in her arms
The policeman followed closely
Mother rushed out
Poked him blind with a grape stick
He can see fire in the darkness
In an atmosphere of mutual destruction
A plane was found in a cave by the sea
The pipe-like engine had a bad cough
Six minutes later
The mother drove it to the deepest part of the ocean
In the sunset
An orange arc in the sky
The police habitually follow the sound of the airplane
Even knowing it is a trick
One summer
When he was twelve years old
He carried a net to catch insects
Wandering in the hot and humid forest
A rare blue butterfly
Nothing was caught
The policeman took out a roll of map
There are only four matches left in the box
One beaten out by the egg-white spray
Another is snuffed out by a sea breeze that smells of fig trees
The spark of the third one lit up a quarter of the map
The last one burned one-third of the rest
Looking down from the airplane
She saw the policeman fall in a swirl
Ripples like the heart of a rose
Melting in the bubbles of the waves
The sky was turning navy blue
The plane ran out of gas
The island was so far away
Almost drowned out by the noise in her eyes
‘I can never go back’
The mother began to sing softly
Is this the whole story
The reporter asked
It is as far as I know
Said the girl
Do you want to stay for dinner
I got some fish freshly caught this morning
As her blade cut across the silver belly of the fish
A scrap of the burnt map fell out