A POETIC LIGHT ON THE HEROIC ACT

The first time I saw Wang Shunhua this year was at the scene of fire in Muli county, Southwest China's Sichuan province. It was early in the morning on March 31, and the Xichang unit of Sichuan Liangshan Forest Fire Brigade was about to break through the line of fire. At the time, I was taking pictures, and Wang patted me on the shoulder twice from behind.

We have known each other for eight years. We grew up near the border in Yunnan province. It was when we were 18 or 19 years old that we came to the Liangshan prefecture in Sichuan province, and served in the Forest Brigade of the Xichang Armed Police. It was later renamed Xichang Forest Fire Brigade. Wang looks fit and sunburned with shinny and bronze skin. His Yi ethnic heritage endows him with big round eyes and sturdy physique. I admire him for always being able to cross the heaviest thing in life with the most lightsome pace, but when he is quiet at night, he silently bears everything that life has imposed on him, and still maintains his principle and integrity.

The fire in Muli county on March 30 took away our 27 brothers. Since then, Wang has been particularly sensitive to the smoke and fire in Liangshan. In a slightly similar environment, he will be reminiscent of the people and things he once had. As for me, I always rebuild old memories in a new environment. Since last year, the number of times I have pressed the shutter has gradually decreased. Most of the time I was adjusting my relationship, distance and angle with my friends, the forests and the mountains. I tried to go deep into the mountains at night to record the corners that no one has ever seen.

I believe that only a living person who had been in that environment can try to understand it. Only when you pick up the camera and stand in the corner, you can see the people in the corner. Just like this time at the fire scene in Muli, every grain of sand and dust I ate in the small tent turned into one pixel after another, and finally converged to a meaningful photo. After a few years, these photos will become the clue to time, a key that can open the storage room of our memory, and enable us to rekindle the light of the past.

From photographing a forest to a tree, I integrated people into the scene, in which the nature works its magic, and where we have the sense of belonging. Now, all my deceased comrades-in-arms are transformed into the cloud in the sky, and they are my brothers. For me, they have merged with the forests, and they have turned into an integral part of the Liangshan Mountains.

When I am alone, I use my camera to record the footprints on which we once fought together, photograph the mountains and forests that evoke my lost memories, and those faces that are not so easy to forget.

In Liangshan, no matter how great the danger is, how long the dark night, my friends will always have a pure moment at the fire scene. Just like this time, at the Muli fire site with an altitude of more than 3,800 meters, fresh snowflakes drifted down upon them, so that even the campsite had a fresh dusting of powdery snow. My brothers in the campsite cheered instantly, whistling, screaming and singing, while snowflakes drifting through the air. All complaints and discomforts disappeared or went away with the wind at that moment. Even if everyone knew that snowflakes would stop in about a minute, it was an touching moment that hit our soft spot with the purest innocence.

I put down the camera in my hand and just wanted to immerse myself in this moment.

Wang said:"After I came out alive, nothing matters."