The Yellow River Surging Northward Rumblingly
Regarding it as a song. perhaps. has become a popular joke for a long time. Regarding it as a mother. or a root. probably ends by banishing such memory or cutting oft that relationship. We play and chase all day long in the powerful torrent of modernization. Yet the winding river has possibly been put out of our minds. There is no more gaze on it with quite and peace. even a second.
It is a river, with its unity of bend and straight, fullness and imperfection, rapid and slow. active or tranquil. majestic and elegant. simple and wonderful. bright and dark. light and color. form and spirit. visionary and real. Moreover, it also embraces people’s reality and fate, joy and sorrow, firmness and leisure. Then I determined to go and follow its pace, with all my courage and my only presentable equipment the large format camera. That’s the connotation and solemnness I can give. I know that it is improper for a photographer to make comments on mountains and rivers. It is a kind of bad manner to growl and to make a bowl pledge or a complaint on its plentiful history and such a constant exist. Now. it’s time for me to wake up my silent soul to quietly keep watch on it for the season. stare at it through this journey. have a cup of wine with it and sing a song. and sleep beside it.
Who will keep watch on whom? Who will flow with whom? As being alive. we all go by with time. But we are still here. and we may have a better consideration on the luture alter having a look at the past and present with heart.
In such a noisy world. only a lresh and simple song might possibly match with it original noble color. its past and present. and be well worthy of its drilting from place to place…
The Yellow River, by Zhang Kechun