Wuling Mountains Photography Collection -- Xiangxi Scroll

Author: Chai Huanbo (Photographer)
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2004-09-01
Features: Seeking Poetic in the Passage of Time (Preface)
Volume 1
At the western edge of the Dongting Lake Plain, there is a series of ancient ruins of the Chu and Han dynasties and earlier. Much of my archaeological career was spent there. Whenever the long rain finally cleared, standing atop the ruins and gazing westward, the vast mountains presented a clear silhouette: peaks competing in beauty, layers of green merging into blue. This was the Wuling Mountains, historically inhabited by the "barbarians." Later, fate connected me closely with these mountains, leading me through its hinterland—villages, small towns, mountain paths, and riverbanks. I climbed its peaks, gazing at the changing clouds, and searched for the epic of this land since ancient times.
Located at the intersection of Hunan, Hubei, Chongqing, and Guizhou, the Wuling Mountains are dense with forests and bamboo groves, ancient and timeless. "The misty and miasmic paths of the Xizhou region in the Wuling Mountains, where peach and plum blossoms float like clouds," as described by ancient poets, depict the ethereal beauty of this area. The Eastern Han general Ma Yuan called it "a place where birds dare not fly and beasts dare not tread," while Li Jifu of the Tang Dynasty described it as "mountains and rivers so obstructed that they are beyond human reach." The impassable mountain passes endowed this land with an air of mystery.
The "Wuling" name likely originated in the Warring States period, appearing in the Qin dynasty inscriptions of Liye. The Han dynasty people referred to this mountain range as Qian Mountain, Wushen Mountain, Wushan, and Wuling Mountain. In the fifth year of Emperor Gaozu of the Han dynasty, Wuling Commandery was established, solidifying the name "Wuling Mountains."
The Wuling Mountains had been densely populated since the Shang and Zhou dynasties. They were an ancient source of cinnabar, and the demand for mercury in the metallurgy of the Shang and Zhou periods brought this resource great attention, perhaps marking the beginning of its exploitation. The earliest inhabitants mentioned in literature were the Pu people, who fought in the war against Zhou and later paid cinnabar tribute to the Zhou dynasty. They were later called the Liao and Gelao people. During the pre-Qin period, the Miao and Man tribes, as well as the ancient Yue and Ba peoples, successively entered this land and made it their home. In the streams and ravines, they maintained their own territories, ruling autonomously, and their alliances or betrayals depended on the rise and fall of dynasties. After the mid-Warring States period, the struggle between Qin and Chu became the main theme of Chinese history. Beyond the Yangtze and Han rivers, the ancient salt road crossing the Wuling Mountains—Xi River—became a strategic route for Qin to "gaze down upon Chu from Bashu."
In June 2002, the stunning discovery of Qin dynasty inscriptions in the ancient city of Liye along the Xi River attracted worldwide attention, reigniting the legend of the "two Xi rivers storing books." No one had expected that this obscure mountain town would once be a focal point in Chinese history. No one had imagined that before the millennia of silence in the Wuling Mountains, there had been a time of drums and gongs.
Down the Xi River, at the confluence of the Xi and Yuan rivers, the ancient city of Yaotou in Yuanling is still considered by many scholars to be the seat of the Chu Qianzhong Commandery. At that time, the Qianzhong region was a military stronghold guarding against Qin and Ba invasions. The official inns and guesthouses along the riverbanks once housed large numbers of soldiers, merchants, and various travelers, including a banished poet described as "wearing a long dagger, a towering hat, adorned with the moon and jade."
In the first year of King Qinxiang of Chu (298 BC), Qu Yuan, at the age of fifty-six, was exiled to the south. He arrived at the eastern part of Dongting, then traveled up the Yuan River. He passed through this very place.
As a Miao girl followed Qu Yuan’s old waterway, or drifted up the Xi River, she would vanish into the mountains, leaving behind the ruins of the Fubo Temple in the evening breeze. In the wind, I reread Shi Jiang, letting the landscape and the verses intertwine. Some thoughts struck me deeply, piercing my heart. The white flowers by the riverside in the evening were so pure, just like Qu Yuan had seen them, and they reminded me of the fragrant grasses—Osmanthus, Lilac, and Orchids—repeatedly mentioned in Li Sao. These fragrant herbs, once imbued with poetic beauty, had long been in harmony with the human spirit, and they would surely connect with it again.
The establishment of dynastic rule in the Wuling Mountains began in the Chu and Han dynasties, but the reach of these powers was limited to important transportation routes, and their relationship with the dynasty remained loose. Most of the region was inhabited by local tribes. The Waterways of the States records: "The Wuling Mountains have five streams—the Xiong, Tong, Xi, Yuan, and Chen—all inhabited by the descendants of the barbarians." The streams and ravines of the Wuling Mountains were deep and treacherous, easily disturbed yet difficult to subdue. The Miao and other tribes were fierce and uncontrollable, trade was blocked, and neighboring tribes encroached, making them a persistent headache for successive dynasties. From the Chu conquest of the Pu people to Ma Yuan’s campaign against the barbarians, and from the Xizhou War to the Qing dynasty’s suppression of the Miao, the expansion and counter-expansion of feudal dynasties, the struggle between unification and separatism, permeated the entire history of the Wuling Mountains. Even the name "Wuling" evoked memories of bloodshed and turmoil.
Following the gaze of history, I saw a figure of great power—Ma Yuan, the Eastern Han general who led the "Fubo" campaign. Supported by Emperor Guangwu, the old general ventured up the Yuan River to the perilous Houtou Mountain. At Qinglang Beach, the swift currents made it impossible to advance, and he encountered the Five Streams tribes blocking his path from above. "The Wuxi River is so deep, where birds dare not fly and beasts dare not tread. Alas, the Wuxi is full of poison and lust." This was Ma Yuan’s lament in despair. Along the banks of the Yuan River, rapeseed flowers bloomed yellow, water birds flew low, and no trace of that time remained. The Qinglang Beach of today has become a reservoir, its once-rapid streams now still, and Houtou Mountain has lost its former height. I searched for the stone room where the general once sought refuge from the heat by carving through the rock, but only the scorching sun of June and the thorns covering the mountains remained. In the eyes of the general at his death, he must have seen the iron horse and ice river that haunted his dreams.
During the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, the Wuling Mountains, like most of southwestern China, entered the era of local chieftain rule. Yongshun’s Old Chieftain City is a testament to this history.
In these years, I have returned to the old chieftain city, where I once conducted archaeological excavations, several times. Each time I stepped onto the white wooden bridge over the Lingxi River, a sense of belonging washed over me. This is a mountain village little touched by modern civilization. Though the forests are not as dense as in history, the rows of pine trees on the top of Fushi Mountain still resemble their former glory. The streams remain, turning deep blue in winter, reflecting the green of the surrounding mountains. The village is filled with old black-tiled wooden houses. Walking across the site of the Chieftain’s Palace, known as the Golden Hall, the mountain wind is biting, the sky vast, and the mountains appear somber as if sleeping. These familiar sights constantly evoke endless reflections on the past.
I stayed in the wooden building of the Chieftain’s Temple, from which I could overlook the "returning of ten thousand horses" mountain formations and read the genealogy of the chieftains and newly unearthed epitaphs by the light. High mountains, misty clouds, clear streams—the fierce winds that swept through the mountains, the battles of Wang Yingnan against the Japanese invaders in my hometown of Zhejiang, Wang Yangming’s conversations with the local chieftain in his tent during his campaign—these fleeting figures and scenes intertwined with the landscapes and times I had experienced, giving me a visceral connection to history.
Then, the great bell of history finally shattered the pastoral dream of the last local chieftain. As the Qing dynasty grew stronger, it initiated a political reform known as "changing the land to flow into the state" in the regions ruled by local chieftains. The lively dances and songs in the Chieftain’s Palace turned into dirges of national decline. In the "uncivilized" Miao regions of the Wuling Mountains, the era known as the "opening of the Miao frontier" was marked by slaughter and bloodshed. After the rain, the ruins of the Yabao Fortress still stood, the sky vast, and beneath it, something ancient and desolate. On December 24, 1794, dozens of people, including Shi Liudeng, Shi Sanbao, Wu Ba, Wu Longdeng, and Yang Guo’an, took an oath of blood here, marking the beginning of the violent Qianlong and Jiaqing Miao Rebellion. Though suppressed, the Miao frontier was left in ruins—"their houses destroyed, their young men and women killed, the elderly and children captured, not a single person left in the entire village," as recorded in the Guizhou Gazetteer.
Standing atop the ancient city of Huangsiqiao, looking through the battlements, parapets, and loopholes at the white roads and hills around me, I was filled with images of swords and spears. Gazing at the bustling Miao frontier walls, I read the weight of history and sorrow.
Volume 2
Amid the towering mountains and deep valleys of the Wuling Mountains, winding mountain roads often lead to secluded basins every few or several miles, where dozens or hundreds of families live together, nestled by mountains and rivers, surrounded by dense forests and bamboo groves. Or there are a few families, with bamboo fences and thatched houses. Though once marked by dramatic events, these places are mostly tranquil. They were the "remote frontier lands beyond the Nine Provinces," where "sages left nature to its own devices, avoiding distant lands and refusing tribute." Here, people lived by farming, believed in gods, and were isolated from the outside world. As recorded in the Chili County Annals: "Beyond the Mo Flower Boundary, the local people do not know the cycles of the moon, they clear fields without boundaries, there are no litigious people, no strong suits, no village agreements or mutual surveillance systems. All year round, no officials or soldiers come knocking, and they often gather ferns and wisteria for food, keeping bees as their livelihood. Those who lived there seemed to resemble the era of Xi Huang."
For thousands of years, these people have maintained a simple, self-sufficient life, relying on favorable weather. Their natural economy has been passed down through generations, resembling the basic units of the ancient "rural commune." These villages used dense shrubs like thorns, brambles, and hawthorns to build defenses, surrounding their fields with thorn walls to protect against and invasions, which were called "dongs" or "stream dongs" in historical texts.
Since the Shang dynasty, people’s fear of corvée labor led them to flee to the deep forests and bamboo groves of the south. After the Wei and Jin dynasties, the common people, unable to bear heavy taxes and wars, also followed this ancient road into Qianzhong. Thus, the Wuling Mountains, with its mountainous terrain and difficult roads, beyond the reach of successive dynasties, became a refuge for the people of the Central Plains.
The fragmented landscape of the Wuling Mountains lacked the conditions for a unified civilization, and for a long time, its social development stagnated at the late stage of the primitive society. The local Pu people, as well as the Miao, Yue, and Ba peoples who later entered this land, had their cultures little impacted by other civilizations. The ethnic groups lived in harmony yet remained separate, preserving their own languages, traditions, religions, and rituals, creating a colorful tapestry of coexisting cultures that became a treasure trove for anthropologists. Their rise and fall formed a fascinating human story.
As recorded in Wang Yi’s Commentary on the Chu Ci: "In the southern part of the Chu state, between the Yuan and Xiang rivers, the customs are to believe in ghosts and perform many rituals. Their rituals must involve songs, music, and dances to please the gods." As recorded in the Book of Han’s Geographic Treatise: "The Chu people believe in shamans and ghosts and hold numerous." These rich cultural phenomena of ancient times are still evident in the religious and ritual customs of the Wuling Mountains.
The Nuo ritual dates back to ancient times. "Nuo means to drive away," and "one day before the festival, a grand Nuo is held, called the 'driving away of plagues.'" The name and form of the ritual both signify expulsion and pursuit. During the Han dynasty, the Nuo ceremony became a common annual ritual for officials and commoners alike. By the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, the court Nuo ceremony was gradually replaced by other rituals, but its form and function spread to the, merging with the original folk rituals of driving away evil spirits and the rites and rituals of Taoism and Buddhism, forming the current "folk Nuo" in the Wuling Mountains.
Eating the bull, or zhuiniu, is the largest and most solemn ritual in the Miao region. Historical records show that the custom of zhuiniu among the Han people can be traced back to the Shang dynasty, an era of belief in ghosts and shamans. At that time, almost every ritual to ward off disasters, present captives, pray for a good harvest and rain, or worship mountains and rivers required the use of bulls. During the reign of Wu Ding, the most bulls were used in a single sacrifice—up to "three hundred laos" or "five hundred oxen." Since the Western Han dynasty, with the establishment and strengthening of Confucianism’s dominance in the realm of thought, the zhuiniu, belonging to the category of shamanism, was suppressed and forbidden in the folk. However, it was completely preserved among the Miao people, who gave it various theological and mythological interpretations.
The Tima is the core of Miao activities. Most Miao villages have a "Ban Shou Tang," a large open space in front of which serves as a gathering place for collective rituals. The Tima is the master of the ritual. One important ritual of the Tima is the Mao Gusi Dance, which imitates the labor life of ancestors—clearing land, farming, fishing, and hunting. It is recognized as the oldest shamanistic drama and a living fossil of ancient social life.
These ancient cultural phenomena, in addition to the rituals and religious customs mentioned above, are also expressed through material carriers such as unearthed artifacts, architecture, and clothing patterns.
The ruins of the vast and desolate high temple, unearthed in the Wuling Mountains, revealed pottery patterns from 7,000 years ago, with themes of tigers and birds. Tigers were an objective part of the Wuling Mountains environment, and their presence posed a great threat to human survival. In this gaping maw, humanity’s primal fear was frozen in time. The totem of the tiger became the most prominent carrier of the huiniu during the Warring States and Han dynasties and continued to exist in the folk customs of the Bai people’s white tiger worship.
The worship of the phoenix was recorded in full in the Post-Han Book: "After Pan Wu’s death, the couple became husband and wife, weaving wood bark and dyeing it with grass seeds, loving five-colored clothing, with tails in their garments. The people of Wuling Commandery are descendants of Pan Wu." This five-colored clothing, with its "tail shape," was a depiction of the phoenix’s form, and the patterns and colors preserved in the clothing of the Miao and Dong people of the Wuling Mountains were rooted in the ancient spirit of the phoenix worship, embodying the dream of flying through generations.
The unique ancient architecture of the Wuling Mountains is characterized by gannan or gelen-style houses. Historical records describe, "people live in multi-story houses, climbing ladders to enter, called gannan," "cliffside houses without structures, called gelen," and "dwelling in rock crevices, relying on cliffs for support." The wooden houses of the modern Dong people and the of the Tujia people are their living fossils.
During my days in the Miao village, I sometimes napped on the morning of a wind bridge and even lay in the evening stream, gazing up at the sky of my childhood. The elders in the village told me that one year, a dragon crossed the mountain peak, and the children, startled by the cries, hid fearfully in their homes. Surrounded by high mountains, the local people naturally developed a worship of "floating clouds." The first time I saw a flock of butterflies flying among the maples under the sun, I realized that the "maple tree" and "butterfly mother" in the origin myths of this nation were deeply intertwined with daily life. The misty mountains, with rock caves piled with coffins on their slopes. Wells on the slopes of the village were the lifeblood of the community, naturally revered as "dragon pools" or "divine water." The ancient trees above, standing there long before the village was built, were revered as "divine trees" or "fengshui trees," the Goumang of the pre-Qin era. Red cloth strips were tied around the branches, and incense paper was strewn below, with people praying and worshipping there all year round. In the past, every May during the Zi sacrifice, after the ritual, the entire family would "hide in mountain caves to avoid tigers and ghosts," avoiding speaking to passersby, not daring to turn their sides, and not even daring to move when mosquitoes bit their skin, fearing the ghosts. The dead cats and tree spirits hanging from ancient trees on the evening paths of frightened children—this was just one corner of the Miao people’s spiritual world.
When other ethnic groups had already entered the "classical society" with new values, new fears, and new religions, this nation still clung to its ancient primitive religion. Its spiritual world was still deeply controlled by natural disasters, and reason had not fully awakened. Yet, this land had its own moving chapters—the life-giving fire that inspired generations of people.
The Strange Tales from the Studio by Liu Yi is elegant and poignant, brimming with the charm of the Xiang Mountains and waters. Though ancient legends have faded, the love in life remains eternal and ever-renewed. The beauty of a Miao girl in traditional attire is not on the city stage but against the somber backdrop of the Miao village, with her moving movements turning between the mountains and waters, adorned with colorful attire that radiates youthful vitality. A timeless beauty quietly settled in my heart.
Recalling the "You Fang Po," young men even traveled a hundred miles through the mountains to meet their beloved girls. Under the moonlight, the girls, invited by the boys, danced gracefully to the sound of the lusheng. Silver ornaments sparkled, and their robes swayed in the breeze. The rocks and flowing water entered the mountain, vines entwined with trees, and trees with vines, intertwined until death. Spring wind, spring rain, rain like gauze, drop by drop, watering tea. Bees flew over the high peaks and cliffs, fearless of the steep rocks and cliffs, in love with the flowers. The passionate pursuit, bold disclosure, and beautiful aspirations—all appeared with the authenticity of laborers, without pretense or affectation. Love was like fire, warming the hearts of generations. The touching love songs left people lost in thought.
Urban life has left behind its passions, leaving only the material reality and greed. Many urban people’s sense of superiority is merely that they are more exposed to fashion, not representing modernity in judgment or knowledge, and many have yet to touch the essence of life. Compared to those who live in harmony with nature, life has a greater parasitic quality. Instead, it is they who, with their rough hands, make a living in nature, carrying something moving in their lives. The severe natural environment nurtured their social ethics and religious beliefs. The ancient mountains and rivers preserved the spiritual elements of farming, wild unions, shamanistic songs, and traditional customs of marriage and death. Their lives were both bitter and sweet, their emotional lives full of laughter and tears—a living of life.
Although in the context of the great era, they were merely of history, those beautiful things often seemed fragile, even gradually becoming mere remnants, yet there was something in them that made people look back. In the hazy state before sleep, a scene again floated before my eyes—ancient cedars towering at the mountain peaks, darkened tiles, layered wooden houses, a group of girls in colorful attire, adorned with shiny silver necklaces. I shook hands with four girls, the generous one looking directly at me, extending her entire palm to shake hands with me. Her hand was a bit rough, but her feelings were gentle. When will you come again? Next year or the year after, next time you come, I will sing for you, whatever you want. The taciturn village head followed behind, and as I was about to leave, the lusheng began to blow, seeing you off to the mountain behind my house. I lingered, wanting to take a closer look, but you were like dragons returning to the sea, while we wished to build dams to hold them back. The singer was no longer young, the lyrics were improvised, but the tune was ancient. I listened intently, and as soon as I heard the sorrowful melody, my heart ached. This nation had no written language; their only way to express emotions was through these mountain songs. One should stop and listen carefully—here was the epic.
At that moment, I didn’t know who the scholars and artists were, I was merely a listener, a person fortunate enough to listen across time. The colorful clouds and mist, the gentle heart of the beautiful girl, made me feel the nation’s unchanging love songs.
Volume 3
My career as a laborious archaeologist was mundane and monotonous, but after spending a long time immersed in it, a light would seep into my heart, a feeling like something growing from rocks and soil. For a long time, I excavated a Shang and Zhou dynasty site in a cave by the Mengdong River. From the cave, I poured out basket after basket of soil, searching for pottery fragments under the sun, bronze arrowheads for hunting, fishing sinkers, snail shells, oracle bones, and bone flutes. A child who died in infancy was not buried in a grave but placed in the living quarters—a gesture of parental affection. I felt I was restoring the life and struggles of an ordinary family or a corner of life in a certain era.
From another perspective, the understanding of history through archaeology, after all, is also a kind of chewing on life, the richness of human life. This is not a bad kind of poetry. This work also allowed me to avoid a superficial glance and fleeting impressions, entering this land at ease and integrating my own years, experiences, and talents. Whenever I grew tired from traveling, I would return again and again to my small mountain village. At night, when I heard footsteps and voices, the wooden door would open warmly. Those times, the gaunt Saint-Jean-Pierre, a Caribbean man, appeared before me: he had a beard, rode a horse, and was thirty-three years old, the same age as I was at my prime. He went to Outer Mongolia and later wrote The Expedition. In his life, I saw the path I was walking.
"Now, I have returned to my hometown. Only the history of the heart is history. Only the freedom of the heart is freedom. There, in the passage of time, with the、、， these most humble, most illusory things as companions, it is as simple as that." (Saint-Jean-Pierre)
In the stillness of the isolated mountain village, my thoughts were free from the bonds of trivialities, soaring into the sky.
The of modern society is heading toward commercialization, and what is called success mostly refers to commercial success. It takes away the sentiment of life that the classical society had for life, but my choice remains classical: to keep a heart that trembles with the feeling of beauty, to observe the ancient sky, dust, and light, thereby deepening my understanding of the depth and breadth of life. I take this as the starting point for feeling history. In my travels and pursuit of the past, I have enjoyed the roots of humanity and confirmed the existence of the life history of a cultural person.
In my youth, in the field days, I was captivated by the colorful tapestry of landscapes and people. In my middle age, passion had subsided, and many things that once moved me no longer did. Instead, I truly understood the poetic charm and appeal of archaeology, and the objectivity of history that could be touched by hand—skeletons, smoke, horse neighing, sword dancing, and also peach blossoms in spring and my youthful poetry. The valuable part of my work was precisely what my career gave me. The career let me restore memories of the past and artistic traditions, broadening my vision for artistic thinking. The joys and sorrows of ordinary people, the sunlight and shadows of life, nurtured the sincere part of my art. This is the link between my life and art.
Master Ou Yi’s Lingfeng Zonglun says: "Only with extraordinary insights can one possess a character that lasts through the ages." Proust said: "The only true travel, the only true bath of youth, is not to see new scenery but to gain a new perspective. The task of a great writer is merely that of a translator." Matisse said: "The role of the artist is like that of the scholar, existing in the truths that both are familiar with and deeply rooted in the human heart. He simply presents these truths in a new form and compels him to grasp their profound meaning." They all say the same thing.
Photography has its own intrinsic regulations. Technical perfection, skillfully using every ray of light and the texture of light and shadow to make it a flash of personal spirit, is only a basic premise. The part that moves people is never technical. Truly moving and heartwarming works require a person’s true understanding of nature, life, and art.
For many years, I have been pondering a question: is there a channel between the creation of images and the retrospect of history? Is it an objective existence or merely my rational fantasy? Through years of practice, I feel that this 'channel' does exist. It is realized through learning and thinking, and in the heart of the creator. In this process, I found that my images gradually moved away from formulaic architecture, ethnic customs, and clothing, focusing on images more closely related to the lives of the nation: the farming on the paddy fields, the greys of morning and evening mist, the mountain scenery in the rain, the faint glow of the edge of a, the sleeping plow, a pair of old shoes, the ripples in the pond, a face full of traces of life, the cracks on the fingers of a peasant woman, the eyes of a girl in a wooden window, and those of the Nuo ritual altars, patterns, and metaphors of the shaman’s underworld.
I feel that things that are fleeting have no value. I strive to see things in the passage of time, not seeking or novel scenes, but finding the normalcy of life, the recurring years, the joys and sorrows of people, and the totems of the soul in the、， which are the embrace of the people of all ethnic groups. This is the humanistic scroll of the Wuling Mountains in my lens.
The passion of a person needs to be supported by a humanistic spirit. Great masters gazed at nature, comprehending the subtle changes of light and shadow, Huang Binhong’s "searching for all the strange peaks to draft," "observing the night mountains," all stemmed from such beliefs. I shoot with an old-fashioned camera and alone, preparing the chemicals, developing the film, and printing the photos. When I repeatedly do this in the darkroom, I experience Adams’s "performance" and the "brush and ink" of our nation’s long-standing tradition. Through it, I feel that I touch the great artistic tradition of my own nation and the souls of the ancients. I have never deliberately pursued innovation in technique. I feel that the artistic spirit is not there. The techniques left by the masters of the past embody the intrinsic regulations of photographic art. Our efforts are not to break these norms. The sky, clouds, time—they have always been like this, without change, but no one gets tired of its repetition.
What matters to me is to follow the direction of the heart. What I want to do is to place the heart in time and space, on the land I am familiar with, let the profound memory of a nation surge like rolling waves from my heart, and then, at a moment, connect and solidify in the negative. This is more of a creation than a "meeting" or "generation."