• Touching Grass

      I was always a big city person. I liked nature, but not excessively. Now that I'm almost 5 years into being a Californian, that's starting to change. I don't just like the outdoors, I love it. I survived (and thrived) at a five day backcountry Yosemite backpacking trip with no toilets or showers. I scaled Half Dome. I go bikecamping a few times a year.

      a scan of a medium format photograph of some tents and bicycles in the woods

      Shot on Fuji GW690II on Portra 800, developed and scanned by Underdog Film Lab

      That's one of the joys of living in Northern California, and in being in San Francisco specifically. I can bike to the Golden Gate Bridge in 20 minutes or so, and cross it in the same time (I don't bike very fast). Across the bridge, I can go west to the Marin Headlands or straight into the small towns of Sausalito, Mill Valley, or as far as San Rafael or San Anselmo where I have some favorite spots for food and snacks; and in some areas, set up camp if I want.

      I'm thankful to have the opportunity to experience this, and to have found a bunch of folks who will come experience all of this with me.

    • Review: How Daido Moriyama Takes Photographs

      Finished reading: Daido Moriyama: How I Take Photographs by Takeshi Nakamoto 📚

      Daido Moriyama is one of the photographers I admire the most. His work (black and white street photography) is an influence on the kind of work I am trying to do in my photography; and his shooting style most resonates with me. He is known to mostly shoot with compact cameras, especially the Ricoh GR series.

      This photography book is unique in that it isn’t just a book of his published photos centered around a theme. Sometimes, I get quite bored of those types of books: Western photographers who go to India, for example, and shoot hundred page photo books that feel vaguely exploitative and white-gazey, are an example of the types of photography I very much dislike.

      Since I know Asia, and Asian cities quite well, I have a finely tuned nose for that sort of thing. I don’t find Asia exotic because, well, I am from there. So I tend to look to the Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Bangladeshi photographers I admire whose body of work situates them within places they work in, where, they have frankly far more interesting things to say. (Dayanita Singh’s photography, for example, does not need to rely on that pop and shock of India’s color or festivals or ‘weirdness’ to make a point: her long term work embedded in local communities tell me so much more about the place than, “India is so strange and exotic!”)

      So it is with Daido Moriyama. There’s no mistaking a Daido Moriyama photograph for someone else’s. No matter where he’s shooting, whether it’s Japan or Argentina. If there is a photographer whose ‘personal vision and style’ I want to learn most, it is his.

      This book is written by his collaborator, a Japanese author and photographer who shadowed Moriyama on several trips, all the while asking: what advice do you have? What are you thinking? What message are you trying to make?

      And all Moriyama says is:

      • Just go out and shoot
      • Shoot as much as you can (he believes in having quantity as a way to get quality photos)
      • He walks up and down a street both ways and he takes about a roll of film per direction
      • He thinks there is value in observing the mundane
      • Some basic tips, like ‘if you shoot a body of water against the light, the contrast is quite nice especially in black and white’ but he refuses to believe there are any specific tips that are applicable to all
      • He cares about doing the work more than talking about the technique or gear

      The book also says that he teaches sometimes, and many of his students are trying to break into fashion or avant garde photography. For those students, he advises that the work is the same as that of someone trying to do photojournalism or documentary photography. Go out and shoot mundane things. Find a building, take a hundred photos of it. Learning to see beauty in the mundane is the most important skill one can develop.

      Each part of the book is based in a certain location. So when he goes to Ginza, for example, there is a photo of the contact sheet that he shot. It was actually nice to see that a master has a ton of duds, too. Not that he ever pretended otherwise: but it was still assuring to know that Daido Moriyama isn’t getting 36 book or exhibition worthy photos out of every roll of 36.

      Lastly, he advises that the most important thing to do when you take a photograph is that you must have a desire to make that photograph. Not necessarily to tell a story or make a point (in fact, he says that arriving somewhere and having a pre-conceived idea of the location or community’s politics or social message is not a good way to take photos, that he prefers to just witness). But that you must feel that you have to take that photo.

      Moriyama also has a lot of things to say about film vs digital. He’s gone digital now, and there’s no going back! Having used both the Ricoh GR film and digital cameras, and also being agnostic to the film vs digital debates (currently, I am shooting more film to learn the darkroom arts specifically, but if I were to go back to working again as a photographer, it would probably make more sense to be digital-first, especially given film costs these days), I think he’s right. The Ricoh GR digital cameras are extremely capable, and they are my favorite film cameras. I do miss the contrasty T-Max grain and quality of his earlier work, but artists are allowed to evolve their vision and tools, and experiment. I appreciate this non-dogmatic quality about Moriyama.

      I would highly recommend this book even if you don’t love this type of street photography. It’s a good way to get an insight into how a great photographer works and thinks, beyond gear talk and such. The world has too much of the latter; but books like these are what I appreciate much, much more.

    • Borders Real and Imagined

      a color photo of the border of Chinatown San Francisco and the Financial District with Chinese shops in the foreground and TransAmerica pyramid in the background, a Muni bus at the bus stop at an intersection, people standing around or crossing the street

      San Francisco's Chinatown is one of the oldest ones in the United States. Chinese people, mostly from the "Sze Yap" region of Toishan and surrounding areas, came to northern California almost two centuries ago. They were boxed in in certain areas, within cities and regions, both in the city and outside it.

      Great acts of discrimination and violence happened to them. In nearby Antioch, Chinese residents were prohibited from walking on the streets after sundown. This led to the development of secret tunnels that brought them to and from work. I recently learned about the town of Locke, just outside Sacramento, formerly known as the last rural Chinese town. People fled there to flee the racial violence in Sacramento and San Francisco.

      As a much more privileged ethnic Chinese immigrant to this country who came with far more money, a better passport, I have it a lot easier, of course.

      But that doesn't mean I don't feel the occasional challenges of living here at a time of increased anti-Asian hate. I've had far less of a problem living in California than in parts of Europe, Australia, but there are some among of us who never miss a moment to let others know that they are not welcome.

      In the shadow of the Transamerica Pyramid, Chinatown stands with its lower rise buildings from an earlier time. The Financial District to one side, the Italian community of North Beach to another. Borders real and imagined are continually defined here. Some decades ago, a minority within a minority resided on the edges of Chinatown and the Financial District, not far from here.

      Manilatown was in Chinatown, San Francisco, until one day it was no more. It was the site of a fierce battle between those who wanted to build high rise buildings, and those who wanted to keep a home for the 'Manong Generation', the Filipino men who came here, were discriminated in many ways (they were not allowed to bring their families), who then aged out. It was said that they were not welcome outside the borders of Manilatown, for a long time. So this was literally a refuge and a home away from home for them.

      I'm reminded that borders are defined not only in maps, but also in minds. Walking away from Chinatown and into the Financial District, when I see signs for 'French Laundry', I'm also reminded of how, not too long ago, that was thinly veiled code for 'no Asians', but now it's just one of the most famous restaurants in the world. California is weird like that. Everyone tells you you are welcome, until you're not, but until then you're free to build your community, until you're not. For what it's worth, it's now home.

    • A Sense of Home

      a color photograph of the insides of a Vietnamese Chinese restaurant in San Francisco, with Chinese words on the banner

      Rollei QZ 35T, Ektar 100, developed and scanned by Underdog Film Lab in Oakland.

      I talk about this sometimes: for various reasons, my cultural identity as a Teochew / Chaoshan / Diojiu / Chiu Chow person is important to me. Speaking the language regularly is important to me. Being able to eat this food is important to me.

      I am now 8000 miles from home but I am anchored by this Vietnamese Teochew noodle house near me. People speak to me in this language on the streets. My dog has a Teochew name. I speak it with my neighbors. On days when I am extremely homesick, I come here and order what I always ate with my grandparents, almost ten thousand kilometres away: dua kway teow tah, mai tau geh, keh ark tui.

      (干捞大粿条 / 不要豆芽 / 加鸭腿 / wide rice noodles, soup on the side, no bean sprouts, add a braised duck leg)

      The roasted chilli oil (not sriracha), and the soup on the side, makes it especially close to some early childhood memories.

      I was especially close to my paternal grandparents, and they were my link to that culture. I felt especially thankful that I got to form these ties with them, the land they came from, and the language they spoke, in ways that many of my peers did not. By the time I was in kindergarten, I realized I was one of the few people of my generation who were able to communicate fluently with them in their first language. The political and education system in Singapore had sought to destroy all ties to non-Mandarin Chinese languages around the time I was growing up. They were largely successful: today, I speak more Teochew on the streets of the Tenderloin in San Francisco, and even more of it in Bangkok, or in Paris, than I do in Singapore (I don't know more than five people under the age of 50 who speak it well, other than my relatives).

      Even as I mourn language loss in one home, I have also cultivated strong links with the community that mostly comprises Vietnamese and Cambodian Teochew people who have moved to the West Coast of the United States. I am thankful to Mr Hua, who reminds me of my late grandfather in his movements and his speech, and in his family members Nancy, Randi, Amy and others who keep these traditions alive so that somehow someone from somewhere else is able to feel like I can live in this country because I am not all alone here.

    • Fisheye at Pak Ou Caves

      a scan of a color photograph shot with a fish eye lens showing the river and boats outside a buddhist cave in Laos in Southeast Asia

      I had the good sense to have brought a toy camera then, since I was concerned about my nicer cameras falling into the river. No such concern for my own physical safety... Holga fisheye, probably.

      When I was in my early 20s I thought it would be a super swell, super safe idea to get on the 'fast boat to Laos'. I met T, a very old friend who was by then living in Australia, in Bangkok. He wanted me to plan an adventure that would reflect the kind of fun things I get up to, something he might never be able to plan or do on his own. And he wanted me to take him with me.

      So I put us on a bus from Bangkok to Chiang Khong, near the border with Laos. We were going to take the fast boat. The slow boat was too slow (two days! I was in a hurry all the time back then. For what? Who knows!), so we would take the fast boat. Only five hours if we take this boat, I said.

      T thought it was exciting too. We got on the fast boat from Huay Xai, threw our bags into the back, and we were given a life jacket and crash helmet each. Other backpackers who wisely got on the slow boat looked mildly concerned for us. I had not a concern in the world. I was young. And dumb!

      I fell asleep on the boat the entire time. T, however, looked quite sick. I got off the boat refreshed and in no worry at all. The next day, we went to look at some caves.