The first time Xie Yanning met Ji Xuan was at Jingzhe's scrap recycling station. He was squatting in a pile of cartons and looking through old cameras when he suddenly saw a young man in overalls carefully taking apart a deformed copper telescope. When his fingertips rubbed against the rust, he felt like he was caressing a forgotten time. That day, there was a blurred back in Xie Yanning's lens, and there was a lens cap that he had left behind in Ji Xuan's toolbox.
Later they became neighbors across the street. Xie Yanning's attic is always bathed in moonlight, and undeveloped films are drying under the red light in the darkroom. He said that light and shadow are the wind that cannot be caught; Ji Xuan's repair shop often opens its door to the morning sun, and the wrenches and parts collide with each other, making a crisp sound. He said that everything has cracks, and that is where the light comes in.
One is a photographer who chases nothingness with his lens, who is used to flushing memories late at night, and believes that beauty never belongs to a fixed frame; the other is a repairman who relies on his hands to repair reality, firmly believing that everything that is broken can be restored, and feels that cherishing things lasts longer than owning them.
Their familiarity began with an old Leica - Xie Yanning regarded it as a treasure but broke the lens. Ji Xuan spent three nights calibrating the gears bit by bit with homemade tools. Xie Yanning laughed at him for wasting his time guarding old things, but when he stayed up late, he would quietly put hot milk on the window sill of the repair shop.
The moonlight and the morning sun were originally two ends of day and night, but at a certain moment they discovered that they had become the beam of light on each other's shoulders that they were most reluctant to move away from.
Intention: I feel there is no benefit.