My research began with a central inquiry: In today’s digital environment, can photography still capture profound and authentic human experiences and emotions, and even enhance our understanding of them? I turned to experiment with abstract photography aiming to move beyond mere representations of reality. One text that profoundly shaped my thinking is Vilem Flusser’s "Towards A Philosophy of Photography." Flusser argues that “there is no place for human freedom within the area of automated, programmed and programming apparatuses.” Human intention and creativity emerge when photographers actively challenge and transcend the capabilities of their cameras, essentially "playing against" them.

In my previous project, "A Mere Gesture," I used human hair to explore human interconnectedness across space and time during the pandemic. I examined how meanings can evolve within a consistent theme using various image producing methods. Starting with a flatbed scanner for picture-taking, I progressed to drawing pictures in Photoshop and creating animations. These animations were then imprinted onto a vine-covered wall along the Chicago Riverwalk. This experimentation led me to reconsider the perceived opposition between representation and abstraction in photography.

Photography has an intrinsic connection to the tangible world. Each photograph originates from a concrete event in reality, captured on a light-sensitive surface, inherently maintaining an indexical link to its real-world referent. Even seemingly abstract photographs are representational to some extent, containing absolute indexicality. Unlike documentary and realist photography, abstract photography transcends mere representation, eludes narrative functions, and invites viewers into a space of ambiguity and lostness, where the ineffable resides.

Also created during the pandemic, "How Would You Know If Today Is Tomorrow and If Tomorrow Becomes the Past?" marked a milestone for me in understanding the complexity of photographic abstraction. These are long-exposure cyanotype photographs of the sun’s passage, taken with a large format camera. It was a profound sensory photo shooting experience, during which I felt a momentary connection between my body and the exposed, burnt photographic paper, both bearing witness to the cruel passage of time.

The term "ineffable" originates from Latin. It combines "in-" meaning "not," and "effabilis," derived from "effari," which means "to speak out" or "to express." Thus, "ineffabilis" literally translates to "that which cannot be expressed" or "unsayable." In Chinese, it translates to “不可言说,” which denotes something that cannot be expressed adequately in words.

In the fundamental text of Chinese Taoism, Tao Te Ching (道德经, “The Book of the Way”), the opening line is “道可道，非常道,” which translate to “The Tao that can be told, is not the eternal Tao.” This phrase suggests that while the way of life can be discussed or described, its true essence cannot be fully captured or expressed in words. Conversely, it implies that the true essence of life resides in the 'ineffable.'"

The ineffable encompasses experiences, emotions, or ideas that defy complete verbalization due to their complexity, depth, or subjective nature. It is the silence pregnant with meaning, the soul can decipher. The ineffable also has a profound connection to lostness. Just as lostness implies a state of being without clear direction or orientation, encountering the ineffable can leave us in unfamiliar mental or emotional landscapes.

But what are the benefit of dwelling in such sense of lostness? For Rebecca Solnit, “getting lost is the beginning of finding our way or finding another way.” For Emma Cocker, “not knowing is the state from which we strive to make sense.” Though using different terms, both Solnit and Cocker both believes that we can claim authenticity and find truth in the realm of uncertainty, discomfort, and unfamiliarity. As Historian Aaron Sachs wrote to Solnit, “not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”

On such moments of profound lostness, we can dwell in the realm of the ineffable, where words surrender to the silence that speaks volumes. For in its whispers, we find the truth that defies definition and learn to embrace the richness in uncertainty at the edge of understanding.

Exploring abstract photography reveals the limitations of language and reason, as some truths are perceived only through sensory and heartfelt experiences. Wolfgang Tillmans' abstract photographs are examples that transcends verbal description, inviting us to feel rather than see. These visuals evoke visceral, sometimes erotic atmospheres, meaning different things to each viewer based on personal perceptions. Tillmans calls this the "brain-association tool," which works uniquely for everyone, freeing viewers from definite, encouraging a deeper connection with their own perceptions and emotions.

Hiroshi Sugimoto, also adopted abstraction, using monochrome to evoke a profound sense of timelessness and infinity and encourage reflection on the history of time and the essence of existence and nature. The repetition and subtle variations in them prompt viewers to slow down, inviting them to go into a contemplative state.

To further explore the relationship between abstraction and representation in photography, I studied how Chinese landscape paintings approach abstraction. Unlike Western landscape art, which often seeks to faithfully reproduce the real world, Chinese landscapes aim to capture the essence and spiritual dimensions of the landscape through mental impressions rather than literal depiction.

Despite the apparent differences between abstract photography and Chinese landscape paintings, I discovered a parallel at their core. Both mediums delve into the intricate interrelationship between representation and abstraction to evoke profound emotional responses and stimulate thought beyond the immediate visuals. They create a space where absolute indexicality and abstraction can coexist. Between what Chinese painters call "mental impressions" and Tillmans's "brain-association tool," I see a shared emphasis on using subject matter not as a narrative tool but as a conduit for exploring broader, intangible concepts and eliciting emotions.

In "Fragmented Sceneries," I revisited photographs taken during my road trips across China last year. Growing up, my family frequently embarked on these journeys. However, after leaving home at fourteen to study abroad in America, opportunities to travel became scarce over the next seven years. Upon returning to China after completing college, I felt a profound disconnection from the land that shaped my upbringing. Hindered by quarantine restrictions for an additional year, I embarked on five road trips spanning twelve provinces, seeking to rekindle that lost sense of belonging.

I took many photographs during my journey, captured scenes from the frozen forest in Mountain Paektu in February to the endless dunes in Gobi Desert in July. I once again could feel a deep connection to my homeland through experiencing it physically and intimately. However, upon reviewing my photographs, I realized they fall short of conveying the true depth of my personal journey. Although beautiful, the images seem inadequate to fully express the rich and complex emotions I felt along the way.

For a long time, I didn't know what to do with these photographs until another perspective emerged from studying Tsung Ping’s texts. Unlike the Western tradition of plein-air painting, Chinese landscape painters believe the true landscape exists in the mind rather than in front of the eye. They observe nature closely and then return indoors to paint their impression of the landscape. This approach, with its vagueness, emptiness, and sense of a continuous loop of becoming, mirrors the state of our memory.

From there, I began experimenting with printing techniques to disrupt the clarity of my travel photographs. I developed a method to transfer these images onto Xuan paper, the traditional medium for Chinese ink paintings. The results are panoramic prints of fragmented sceneries, some with a single layer, others with two layers. These prints do not precisely depict the locations but rather convey the strongest impressions they left on me and how I perceive their interconnectedness. The delicacy and imperfections of the Xuan paper and the print enhance the ephemeral nature of our memories, adding depth and a sense of transience to the images.

When I Think of My Mother’s Love, I Think of the Desert is a visual essay exploring themes of motherhood, maternal love, and intergenerational relationships. Inspired by the contemplative techniques of Chinese landscape painters, this piece examines how the artistic process itself can serve as a form of meditation. I adopted a method that emphasizes slowness and the continuous circular loop of becoming, rather than focusing on clear completion or the demonstration of a single idea. This approach reflects the fluid and evolving nature of maternal love and deep, complex connections that span generations.

The photographs that serve as an entry point to a mental space are drawn from my family album. This series of photos were taken of my mother and me in the Taklamakan Desert in Xinjiang when I was one year old. These pictures captivated me because the desert seemed a fitting metaphor for the dual nature of maternal love. My mother’s love provided immense care, but her emotional instability also posed potential danger, contributing to my depression during adolescence. The video I created explores this metaphor, portraying the desert as a symbol of the complexity of maternal love—a love that encompasses profound care within a context of potential peril. It illustrates the need to develop survival mechanisms to navigate and endure the depths of such love without being overwhelmed.