In 1938, every person living in the areas under Japanese occupation was ordered to have a picture taken to be attached to their "Good Citizen Certificate." My mother and father, then in their early 20s, walked the four kilometers from their home to Liuquan Village. The village photographer took each person's photo and passed these along to the village government. They first paid the photographer and then paid the village official. Still, Mom never saw her thumbnail-sized photo. Dad lost his somewhere along the way. Over the next 30 years, neither had a single photo taken.
In 1977 I was married and teaching in the city. My father-in-law gave me a German-made Zeiss. Ikon camera he had salvaged from a battlefield during the war against Japan. I took the camera along on a visit to my parent's home. It had been 30 years since they had seen a camera, and they thought of the small box as magical. When I tried to take their picture, they turned away and hid their faces. "Why take our picture?" my mother asked. "We're old and ugly. We don't deserve the use of the film." I snapped a few shots, but their evasive tactics thwarted my attempts. Nothing really came out well. Again and again I brought the camera along when I visited. I captured a few precious moments in those early days, such as Mom teaching my baby to walk, Dad working with wood, and my parents sitting side-by-side. The looks on their faces in that first portrait shot speak volumes about their reluctance to be photographed.
In the spring of 1983 I decided to approach my habby from a more serious angle. I bought several books on photography and began to teach myself. That same year, the contract responsibility system was adopted in rural China and my parents signed on for a small tract of land. They were sohappy to have something of their own to work, and they treated the grain as if it were gold. They wanted to lead the village in grain production from their little plot and expected me to spend my school breaks helping them with the crops. But my hobby was beginning to take up more and more of my time. My visits became shorter and farther apart. My father often complained to Mom that I was forgetting my home and my family. On those occasions when I did travel to the village to help on the farm, Dad would scold me for bringing along the camera. "Can't you take the farm work more seriously? Look at yourself. It's more like you're playing than working. You should do something meaningful and decent." But Mom would come to my defense. "How can you say taking pictures isn't meaningful and decent? Does everyone in the world have to be like you, only knowing how to use a hoe and an axe?"
Later, the pictures I took began to appear on newspaper. I wanted my parents to share with me the excitement and sent the newspapers carrying my photos home by mail. However, none of my mails got a response, like a stone dropped into the ocean.
It's autumn again, and a good harvest in my home village was expected. I should have returned home to lend support to my parents gathering in the corps, but, unfortunately, I was sent to an important meeting to do photography by my employer. To my surprise, I did not receive a word from my Dad urging me to come back. I felt little bit worried. As soon as the meeting was over, I hurried home, hiding my camera in my luggage to avoid possible embarrassment. Upon arriving at home, Dad and Mom had finished gathering in the crops and growing the winter wheat. I felt so sorry for being late, watching aged and dog-tired Mom and Dad. Mom comforted me by saying, "It's just OK. Nothing too hard for us. Dad stopped me from sending you a letter to press you to come back. He said you were busy with your serious and decent work."
My mountainous village is very beautiful in autumn. I wanted to capture its beauty, and I also wanted to include my parents in the photos. But I was unsure of their cooperation. I was pleasantly surprised when they agreed, saying, "Whatever you say, son." I asked them to try and look natural, to pretend that I wasn't even there. The first shot I captured was from inside their home looking out on the small courtyard. Outlined by the dorrjamb, my mother sits beyond ears of corn hung out to dry, winnowing the chaff from the grain. I entitled the photo "window" since it seemed to open a window on the lives of my parents and ordinary life in rural China. I also captured a moment of great pride for my father as he held up two giant sweet potatoes grown in his small plot. That autumn, I reaped a bumper harvest of my own.
I began submitting pictures to local and national newspapers and magazines. As more and more were published, Dad picked up the hobby of following these publications and looking for my photos. He learned the word "photograph" from reading some of the magazines. Later, when his neighbors asked if I could "take a few pictures of them," Dad immediately corrected them and said, "You mean, 'Can he photograph us?'" When I did photograph their nieghbors, my mother and father took on the roles of photo shoot directors, instructing their neighbors to "relax. Don't look so serious."
After some time, I was hired as a photographer for a city newspaper. My old-fashioned box camera was replaced with a modern 35mm. Although Dad continued his habit of seeking out my pictures, he could not come to grips with the idea that his son was a professional photographer with a growing national reputation. Still, he continued to cooperate with me on my visits to the village. He and Mom would go about their daily chores playing the role of experienced models, doing everything naturally although my lens followed them like a third eye. The resulting photos were the genesis of this collection.
As we were beginning this exercise, the entire Chinese nation was beginning a new course of opening and reform. Over the ensuing two decades, my parents went on with their lives, and I continued to record their daily routine. As we live our lives, change can often go hardly noticed. But as we looked back from time to time at the pictures I had taken of my parents, we could feel the tremendous changes sweeping across the rural areas of China. My parents were amused by the photos and enjoyed looking at them with friends and neighbors. Over time, my career blossomed, and I was hired by a major national newspaper based in Beijing.
In the autumn of 1994, I took my wife and son home to celebrate Dad's 80th birthday. Again I looked at my parents through the lens of my camera. I tried a few different techniques and was rewarded with some terrific shots of my parents. I had two images enlarged and sent them to Mom and Dad. On my next visit to the village, I was amazed to find these two enlargements framed and hung on the wall of my parents' bedroom. But something seemed odd about the pictures. They had been altered. When I looked closer I found my father had penned in the corner of each, "photo by Jiao Bo."
I had taken pictures of Mom and Dad for 20 years, recording the fine details of their changing lives. It suddenly occurred to me one day in the spring of 1998 to organize an exhibition of this work. We scheduled the grand opening of the exhibition at the National Art Gallery for Mom's 86th birthday. I asked my parents to come to Beijing and cut the ribbon at the opening ceremonies.
During the months leading up to the exhibition, my parents grew ever more excited. Unfortunately, Mom fell ill just before they were set to leave for Beijing. Her doctors insisted she stay in bed for several weeks, but she refused. She gathered up her medications and boarded a train for the long ride into the capital city.
When the big day arrived, three beautiful young women in traditional red gowns held out the ribbon for my parents. I offered my mother the silver shears we had prepared for the event. But Mom has never been one to rely on others. She produced a pair of worn but sharp scissors she had brought with her from home. Although they were the center of attention among the crowds gathered for the exhibition, they were not self-conscious. After all, they had spent a good deal of the last two decades in front of the camera.