I love green peppers fried with sliced pork. Sometimes I go to the market for
fresh green peppers. Some fulgent and firm; some, wrinkled like an
old man, can't bear a simple touch.
Green peppers should belong to the hands.
Edward Weston's Pepper No.30. A black-and-white photo, yet
sculpturesque. I think of Rodin, who said to perceive, one has to
reach an object's soul. This green pepper looks like it is implanted in
the nucleus of annular darkness. The uterus, for instance.
I see two naked human bodies, standing, embracing, twisted in the dark with
a gleam of muscularity. One bends to bear the weight of the other,
He lies on his chest, lowers his head. He turns himself into a crane, neck
extended, turned, gently touching its head, as if it were a way to
I think time crowds their skulls. Bright, smooth, hard but sensitive, as if
inside there were light, rocks and drifting streams.
translated from the Chinese by Nicholas Wong