Nature, in its essence, is far more than flora; it is the state of spontaneous emergence, the original form of all things. It is the ultimate ideal of Eastern philosophy—a mode of existence that requires no external force.
This time, as they journeyed toward Tianmu Mountain, they were not only walking among cedar trees, mist, and ginkgoes, but also toward themselves. Chen Dongcao’s lens captured the abnormal growths caused by cedar gall disease—twisted, swollen branches that bore witness to ecological imbalance and stood as monuments carved by nature’s pain. Dong Yingzi sought the mist in the forest—when it lifted, dappled light revealed itself; when it thickened, the world was immersed in hazy poetry. By releasing the fixation on “clarity,” the forest revealed subtlety, space, and imagination—a redefinition of “seeing” through the lens of Eastern aesthetics. He Fang, after the loss of a loved one, turned to Tianmu Mountain. The warm sunlight, the scent of trees, and the ripple of wind on her skin became nature’s solace. Through the cycle of the seasons, she finally understood: death is a part of birth, winter is a part of spring. Li Jin (whose works extend beyond Tianmu Mountain) gazed at the posture of plant growth—those unstoppable desires and vitality, the traces of shaping and use. Between humans and the environment, strength and fragility pull at a delicate tension in separation. It is an inner unrest, a gaze fixed on the cycle of life. Ye Tingting, traveling between Wenzhou and Tianmu Mountain, questioned: when the ginkgo, once a “living fossil,” becomes a “lifesaving remedy,” and when modern people effortlessly traverse hundreds of kilometers to reach this protected natural sanctuary, do we truly comprehend its value?
When we walk into nature, we walk not only among forests, plants, fresh air, and clean water, but also toward ourselves. In these images, nature is not a backdrop, not a resource, not even a landscape—it is a dialoguer, a healer, a mirror, and an answer.
Text/Lahem