In April 2011, I arrived in Nanjing with a camera and stayed for almost three weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Spring had just begun. The city was slowly turning green, with rows of plane trees sending out fresh shoots along the streets. Every morning, bicycles filled the roads as people made their way to work and school. There was a sense of renewal everywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Nanjing is a city where the present constantly meets the past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As one of China’s ancient capitals, its old city walls, historical sites, and streets carry the traces of centuries. It is also a city deeply marked by the painful history of the Second Sino-Japanese War. During those weeks, I travelled mostly by metro, carrying my camera through the city and visiting places where history seemed to remain quietly present. A visit to the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Hall left me particularly heavy-hearted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One day, I found myself at Xuanwu Lake. The wind was unexpectedly strong, and the temperature dropped sharply. I had checked the weather forecast, but somehow still failed to dress warmly enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, I bought a bottle of baijiu.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Whenever the cold became unbearable, I took a small sip to warm myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was a strange moment when I felt connected to the people who had stood beside this same lake centuries before me. Looking across Xuanwu Lake, with the wind moving across the water, I imagined ancient scholars gathering here, drinking wine, writing poetry, and talking about life and history.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Elsewhere, simple rice rolls and shaomai brought warmth to the mornings. In the parks, elderly residents practised tai chi as the city slowly came to life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nothing extraordinary was happening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And perhaps that was precisely what made those moments worth photographing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
More than fifteen years have now passed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The city has changed. People have changed. I have changed. Then came the pandemic of 2020, reminding us again how fragile and unpredictable life can be. Places that once felt permanent can suddenly become distant memories, and ordinary moments can become things we can never experience again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Looking back at those photographs today, I realise that perhaps this is one of the quiet gifts of photography.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Life is constantly moving forward, leaving very little behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Photography cannot stop time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But perhaps, in the middle of all that impermanence, it can leave us a few moments to remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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