Human Paradise · Lijiang

Here, death is a public event. The deathbed, the funeral, the cremation, the "sacrificing to heaven" — each step has its protocol, each step has its people. No one dies alone, no one cries alone.

My father said: Naxi people are not afraid of death; they fear "dying badly" — with no family present, no ritual farewell, the soul with no road home. I did not understand then. Now, seeing a house full of relatives, the women at the fire pit, the clasped hands — now I understand.

Showing the Way (Dongba chanting)

Walk upward, walk high,

cross the white snow mountain, do not stop;

cross the black forest, do not be afraid.

When you see three clouds,

the white cloud is the ancestor's road —

follow the cloud;

when you see three birds,

the white bird is the ancestor's soul —

fly with the bird.

When you reach the "su" realm,

your father is there,

your mother is there,

your fields are there.

No need to labour —

the harvest comes of itself.

The farewell to my father was cruel and beautiful — unlike the farewell to my mother.

For six months, the artist stopped all creative work and devoted himself entirely to caring for his dying father. At the same time, he recorded daily life in charcoal: the state of his father regressing to a three-year-old child — the details of feeding, changing diapers, assisting with bodily functions — alongside the process of building a kitchen, a bedroom, and a garden for his father with his own hands.

This is a record that cannot be called a "work." It is the most honest emotional archive.