Tieshanzhi Vol. 3 — Changhe Ji (Anthology of Poetic Correspondence)

After embarking on the Tieshanzhi creative project, I came across several texts: the History of the Xu Family written by Xu Yunyuan, the zhiwuai tablet inscription ("love of plants") composed by Xu Tiande, and the Tiefeng Shanfang Changhe Ji (Anthology of Poetic Correspondence of the Iron Peak Studio), written and published by Xu Tiankui.

Old-Road Photography

At first, what struck me was a route described in the History of the Xu Family:

其時，后里地方並無水田可耕（中略）清早出門往東勢收買藤條，一擔擔回后里，隔日又是清早往大安港，售給唐山船；回時買一擔鹽回后里，隔早又擔往東勢出售，如此繼續不休。 ——— At that time there were no paddy fields to farm around Houli (passage omitted). Setting out at dawn for Dongshi, he would buy up rattan canes and shoulder a load back to Houli; the next day, again at dawn, he set off for the Port of Da'an to sell them to the junks from the mainland, and on the way home bought a load of salt to carry back to Houli; and the following dawn shouldered it once more to Dongshi to sell — and so it went, on and on without rest.

This passage describes the trade route along which the Xu family's pioneering ancestor, while living at Maozaikeng in Houli, threaded his way between the mountain and coastal lines of central Taiwan — rattan canes carried from Dongshi on the mountain line down to the Port of Da'an on the coast, and salt carried back the other way. In terms of today's administrative divisions, the route would pass through Dongshi, Houli, Waipu, Dajia, and Da'an — roughly the extent of the Houli Plateau. It is a route I know well, for in making images in Waipu I am often out on my scooter across the Houli Plateau, taking photographs. Once this dawned on me, I began to wonder how the route might be brought into relation with photography.

I began to study the literary works of Xu Tiankui and Xu Tiande, and found that much of what they wrote had to do with the things of the Houli Plateau. I lived in the same region as these literati of a hundred years ago; in words they set down their thoughts and feelings about living in this place, and for me that medium was photography.

The phrase "old-road photography" surfaced in my mind, and I began to photograph along the route in earnest. As the project went on, I gradually came to feel that photography had become a kind of bridge, joining me to these works of literature.

This image is a schematic map of the old-road photography route: setting out from Wangyou Valley beside the Dajia River, it runs west from Houli, passing the pineapple garden, the Mystery Cave, and Iron Anvil Mountain, and at last reaches the Port of Da'an.

Crossing the Dajia River in Rain

Camera in hand, I set out from Waipu on my scooter. Riding from the southern side of the Houli Plateau toward Wangyou Valley, I could look north and make out Iron Anvil Mountain; along the road the rows of bamboo swayed up and down in the wind, like a crowd of people bowing without end. There was a house by the roadside, a great grove of pines before its gate, the needles drifting down in the wind like a fine green rain. Across from the house stood a Zen temple, wrapped in a hush of stillness, where a Buddhist nun was sweeping the ground outside. I came to the floodplain of the Dajia River. In the rainy season, the rushing Dajia was a natural barrier that those before me struggled to cross. Xu Tiankui once wrote a poem, "Crossing the Dajia River in Rain," telling how hard it was to ford the river in his day; the poem is also an allegory for the inner conflict he felt serving in officialdom under Japanese colonial rule.

"Beyond the hills a light rain is falling still; the startling waves race toward the river's mouth,

the broken bridge, washed away, draws no traveller; the little skiff on the river pitches wildly, chilling the heart,

the swift current beats without rest at a boulder on the verge of toppling, and the swollen waters leave their mark upon the collapsed dunes of sand,

yet however treacherous the waters, I am resolved still to cross this river."

Turning my gaze from the Dajia River back to our journey, I went on eastward along the floodplain. To the left lay a broad sweep of rice fields; to the right, the embankment of the Dajia River. Along the way one meets herds of goats grazing the wild grass of the wasteland, the herders in their bamboo hats, short staves in hand, watching from a distance. At times one comes upon an excavator poised like a praying mantis, raising its sharp foreleg to hack down a tree that had long since taken root in this land.

Every summer, the drought wrings the moisture from the plants of the valley until they are all but desiccated. At such times the smallest spark is enough to set the whole valley ablaze. This stretch of floodplain, called Wangyou Valley, kindles into fierce flame on summer nights, glowing in answer, from afar, to the headlights strung along National Highway 3.

At the easternmost edge of Wangyou Valley stands a great boulder, some six feet high, its face sprayed in red paint with four large characters: "Democracy is dead." After taking in the stone, I rode north, back onto the Houli Plateau, where a soapberry grove stretched beyond sight. The orange winter sun warmed the trunks of the trees, like a troupe of dancers at sundown.

Love of Plants

After winding my way out of the soapberry grove, I turned onto Jiahou Road, and following it to its eastern end I came upon Houli Station; turning left from there leads toward Maozaikeng. Riding south along the main road of Maozaikeng, I reached a grove planted with orange trees — the farthest point a scooter can go. After parking, I walked into the orchard, where green and yellow intermingled, and in the dense green woods beside it a withered, ashen dead tree still strove with all its might toward the blue sky.

At the turn from autumn to winter, the haze that had hung over the whole year lifted, and the ridgeline of the Snow Mountains, east of the Houli Plateau, ran on into the clear, cold air. The brilliant sun lit the mountains, rivers, and plants of the plateau; red earth and green trees, wrapped in blue sky, each blazed with its own color in the light.

Leaving Maozaikeng, I rode west toward Waipu. At the midpoint of the old route stands the "love of plants" (zhiwuai) tablet, its inscription composed in 1936 by a member of the Xu family, Xu Tiande.

夫草木之類繁多世之學者難罄其奧如大者參天蔽日小者箘生細眼莫查而吾人資為糧食衣住器抑直接間接莫不利用賴以生活者於戲植物資予吾人其功之大莫得而名也矣 斯園自闢草萊亘歷十幾星霜乃區劃阡陌略就有序栽果之餘並蒔群芳影竹風松丹楓碧柳桃腮杏臉嫣綠嬌紅終年伸展還似首陽薇蕨大宛蒲萄因時亦發每逢季節遷移尤多興懷而感念造物表現於植界之大不可仰止也夫 維茲植物茁芽伸幹開花結實生生在理故願吾人體同有生益復輸情秉心加護而刀斧以時攀折以度竊定年年仲春佳辰薄餚醪飲于斯間祝他生日如同盛事僶望來者勿嗤其謊繼和其後歷世不渝其作有加至為緬仰爰 諸石聊誌其意云爾 ——— The kinds of grasses and trees are beyond counting, and the scholars of the world can scarcely exhaust their mysteries: the great soar to the heavens and blot out the sun; the small sprout in clusters too fine for the eye to find. Yet from them we draw our food and clothing, our dwellings and our tools — directly or indirectly, there is not one we do not use, not one on which we do not depend to live. Ah! The plants, in giving themselves to us, have done a service so great it cannot be named. This garden, since I first cleared it of bramble and weed, has weathered more than ten frosts and stars. I laid out its paths and plots, bringing them into some order; and beyond the fruit I planted, I sowed every kind of flower. Bamboo casting shade, pines in the wind, crimson maple and emerald willow, peach-cheek and apricot-face — tender greens, delicate reds — they unfold the year round, like the ferns of Shouyang or the grapes of Dayuan, each blooming in its season. With every turn of the seasons my heart is stirred the more, in gratitude for the way the Creator shows himself in the realm of plants — a grandeur one can only look up to, never reach. These plants put forth their shoots, lift up their trunks, blossom and bear fruit — life upon life, all in keeping with the natural order. Therefore I would have us know that we share with them in being alive, and so should give them our affection and set our hearts to guarding them, taking up the axe only in its season, plucking a branch only in due measure. I privately resolve that each year, on a fair day of mid-spring, with simple dishes and a cup of unstrained wine, here among them we shall keep their birthday as a grand occasion. I earnestly hope those who come after will not scoff at it as folly, but will carry it on, generation after generation never wavering, adding to the practice, holding it in the deepest reverence. And so I inscribe these words upon stone, simply to set down this intention — that is all.

In this inscription Xu Tiande gives voice to his wonder at the diversity and importance of plants, observing that even scholars find it hard to fathom their mysteries in full. Plants, great and small, bring direct or indirect benefit to humankind, giving us food, clothing, shelter, and more. Xu Tiande describes his own garden, which after many years of cultivation is now planted full of fruit trees and flowers of every kind — bamboo, pine, and the rest. These plants change with the seasons, revealing the grandeur and mystery of the natural world. Human beings, he urges, should learn from the way plants grow, should cherish and protect nature, and should honor the life of plants each spring — in the hope that this spirit and practice might be carried on by later generations. To this end Xu Tiande set down these words, to convey his awe of, and gratitude toward, plants and the natural world.

The "love of plants" tablet sits on Meishan. East of Meishan lies a vast cemetery, its bounds held in by retaining walls. Over these walls grow purple morning glories. On the eve of the northeast monsoon, the purple sunset of early winter casts its light across the drifting layers of cloud, blooming together with the flowers below.

Reflections on Crossing the Da'an River

Setting out from Meishan I rode west, and after passing Mamingpu went on toward the unpeopled stretches. Then I came upon a signpost reading "to the Mystery Cave," set beside an unremarkable little path; one has to dismount and walk in along the trail.

At the midpoint of the trail the path forks in two. One branch leads to a viewing platform, from which one looks out over the broad rice fields of the south bank of the Da'an River. In the fallow season each paddy takes on a different color: some the green-gold of sunflowers, some the orange-red of cosmos, and more often a bare earth strewn with the deep-brown stubble of cut straw. Beyond rises Mount Huoyan, the Flame Mountain — gullied and furrowed, draped in green or bared to its red earth — its foot meeting the dried-up bed of the Da'an River.

Xu Tiankui once described the terrain along the Da'an River in a poem, "Reflections on Crossing the Da'an River":

Through its picture of the Da'an River and its surroundings, the poem reflects the changes of history and the vicissitudes of the age, suggesting that beneath a placid surface the events of the past leave their traces still, shaping the present and the days to come.

The other branch of the trail leads downward, and after about a minute's walk the Mystery Cave comes into view. Built up of cobblestones, the cave, seen from its mouth, is like the gaping maw of some monster, its throat studded with fleshy lumps, ready to swallow any who trespass. Lean one's head inside, and the drip-drip of falling water sounds now near, now far. When the north wind pours in, a low droning rises endlessly within, forming with the dripping water a slow and sombre duet.

Meditation on the Past at Iron Anvil Mountain

Continuing downstream along the Da'an River, a striking summit drew nearer and nearer. Seen from the open sea beyond the Port of Da'an, the shape of the mountain resembles the anvil a blacksmith uses to forge iron, and so it is called Iron Anvil Mountain.

Reaching the southern side of the foot of Iron Anvil Mountain, I followed a small road west, with paddy fields and graves along the way. It was early spring; the paddies had just been set with seedlings, and Qingming had only lately passed. On the graves, weeded and tidied, fresh flowers still lay, and where the soil had been turned, a scent that belongs to the earth seeped into the faintly floral air.

By late summer, the flowers people had left at Qingming were reduced to withered stems, or to clumps of blackened matter, buried once more under the vigorous weeds. In this season typhoons often strike; a deep-gray sea of cloud, heavy with the coming storm, sweeps over Iron Anvil Mountain and follows the mountain wall down into Tieshan village. At the southwestern foot of Iron Anvil Mountain stand two withered trees side by side. One looks as though it had been struck by lightning, only half its trunk remaining. The other was more fortunate, its body still whole; in a branch at its crown a black plastic bag had snagged, and as the strong wind blew it open, it looked like a ninja crouched at the treetop.

Riding up the mountain by the road on its southeastern side, I felt the faint coolness of late summer; on an ordinary day, with no visitors about, it is a lonely mountain road.

霸氣鯤南久寂寥 鐵砧山上柳簫簫 ——— The lordly spirit of the southern isle has long lain desolate; on Iron Anvil Mountain the willows sigh, forlorn.

殘碑一角荒祠外 付與斜陽咽暮潮 ——— A broken stele leans at the corner of a ruined shrine, given over to the slanting sun, sobbing with the evening tide.

This poem by Xu Tiankui, "Meditation on the Past at Iron Anvil Mountain," carries a note of lament. For Xu Tiankui, a man of the Yiwei generation, the very presence of the Japanese colonial government was a constant reminder of the pain of being abandoned by the motherland; all he could do was pin his hopes on another Koxinga (Zheng Chenggong), come to drive out the foreign rulers.

Xu Tiankui's fifth younger brother, Xu Tiande, once raised a Confucius tablet on Iron Anvil Mountain. In contrast to the lament of Xu Tiankui's poem above, the Confucius tablet inscription composed by Xu Tiande was written after Taiwan's retrocession, and the joy of returning to the motherland runs through its words.

日月霜露四運成焉山川草木萬類育焉修齊治平群生 康焉故曰聖人與天地合其德吾華文教賴先師孔子刪 述整飭遂得晃曜宇宙涵煦古今而民蒙其休自漢高帝 至魯祀以太牢歷代弗替台民遷自諸夏記載足徵可三 百年惟散見野乘者固已謂始於三國矣是以典章文物 一乃漢俗吾家世治儒術於先師儀行尤嚮往焉清光緒 甲午台淪於日聖跡微晦民國丙戌返我侵地道復大彰 逾三歲值先師二千五百年聖誕東瀛西歐之士以及南 洋吾僑咸稱慶祝憶信乎所謂凡有血氣者莫不尊親台 民際曆象重光勝緣千載其誠其愉又必超越乎各地者 矣吾宅之北有山曰鐵砧披雲眺海為村高阜春秋佳日 遊人時登爰擇山陽私土建樹貞岷敷陳時事以紀其盛 且以識吾欽崇先師至意過而覽者或有同感云爾 ——— Sun and moon, frost and dew complete the round of the four seasons; mountains and rivers, grasses and trees nurture the myriad living kinds; through cultivating the self, ordering the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to all under heaven, the multitude of beings attain their well-being. Therefore it is said that the sage's virtue is one with that of Heaven and Earth. The letters and learning of our China rest upon the Former Master, Confucius, who edited, transmitted, and set them in order, so that they came to shine throughout the universe, warming past and present alike, and the people received their blessing. From Emperor Gao of Han, who at Lu offered the great sacrifice of the tailao, dynasty after dynasty has kept the rite unbroken. The people of Taiwan came here from the lands of Xia (China); the records bear witness, and may be traced back some three hundred years — though what is scattered through the unofficial annals already holds that it began in the age of the Three Kingdoms. Thus its institutions and culture are wholly of Han custom. My family has for generations devoted itself to Confucian learning, and to the conduct and example of the Former Master we aspire above all. In the jiawu year of the Guangxu reign of the Qing (1894), Taiwan fell to Japan, and the traces of the sage grew dim; in the bingxu year of the Republic (1946), our occupied land was returned to us, and the Way was once more greatly made manifest. More than three years on came the 2,500th birthday of the Former Master, and scholars of Japan and the West, together with our overseas compatriots in the South Seas, all joined in the celebration. Truly, as it is said, among all that draw breath there are none who do not honor and hold him dear. At a time when Taiwan's calendar and constellations shine anew, this is a rare bond of a thousand years; its sincerity, its gladness, must surely surpass that of every other place. To the north of my dwelling there is a mountain called Iron Anvil, parting the clouds and gazing out to sea, the high ground of the village; on fair days of spring and autumn travelers often climb it. And so I chose a private plot on the mountain's sunlit southern slope and raised this enduring stele of fine stone, setting forth the affairs of the time to record this grand occasion, and to make known my utmost reverence for the Former Master — that those who pass by and read it may perhaps share in this feeling. So it is.

In this piece Xu Tiande dwells on the importance of Confucius to Chinese culture and education, and on the reverence and inheritance of the people of Taiwan toward him. He opens with an evocative image:

日月霜露四運成山川草木萬類育焉修齊治平群生康焉 ——— Sun and moon, frost and dew complete the round of the four seasons; mountains and rivers, grasses and trees nurture the myriad living things; through cultivating the self, ordering the family, governing the state, and bringing peace, the multitude of beings attain their well-being.

"Sun, moon, and stars; frost, snow, rain, and dew — the four seasons revolve and turn; mountains, rivers, grasses, and trees give birth to all things in the world; and only through cultivation of the self, on up to peace under heaven, can all living beings come to their well-being."

Because of the return to the motherland, Xu Tiande was full of hope for a bright future for Taiwan.

台民際曆象重光勝緣千載其誠其愉又必超越乎各地者矣 ——— The people of Taiwan, at this moment when the calendar and the constellations shine anew, enjoy a rare bond of a thousand years; their sincerity, their gladness, must surely surpass that of every other place.

"The people of Taiwan, after the turning of the reign-eras, find the light restored to them through the retrocession — a good karma gathered over a thousand years. This heartfelt joy must surely be something the people of other lands can scarcely feel."

He goes on to speak of the scenery of his home — the very place where we now stand: Iron Anvil Mountain.

吾宅之北有山曰鐵砧披雲眺海為村高阜春秋佳日遊人時登 ——— To the north of my dwelling there is a mountain called Iron Anvil, parting the clouds and gazing out to sea, the high ground of the village; on fair days of spring and autumn travelers often climb it.

"To the north of my home there is a mountain named Iron Anvil; its heights are shrouded in cloud and mist, and from it one can gaze out over the distant sea. It is the highest mountain in this region, and in spring and autumn, when the weather is fine, travelers often come to climb it."

Back on the road, I went on up the mountain along the asphalt, and once again came in sight of the northern face of Iron Anvil Mountain — the red sand and gravel laid bare in great swaths, as if forever on the verge of collapse. I rode, riding to the very end of the road, where I caught the burnt smell of wood. I walked, walking into the woods, where I saw a wall of fire surging skyward, coming toward me. I raised my camera and took a photograph of fierce flames blazing at the summit of Iron Anvil Mountain.

The Roar of the Sea

After coming down the mountain, I rode toward the sea, and my view onto Iron Anvil Mountain swung a hundred and eighty degrees; now the mountain looked like a black whale resting on the Houli Plateau. The nearer I rode to the shore, the more pine groves appeared, their green light and shadow swaying in the sea breeze; the pines held strange postures that brought to mind the lines of the marvelous trees so often seen in ink-wash paintings.

I reached the shore, and saw a pack of black dogs swimming, one after another, across the water between the sandbars to the far side. On the sand of the opposite bank was a fair-sized dune, covered with a thin layer of growth; once the pack had swum across to that solitary, world-removed dune, they would be troubled no more by the affairs of the ordinary world. On that lonely ground they rested or roamed at ease, while behind them the embankment ran on to the very end of the coastline, and the pounding of the sea against the embankment was carried, salt-laden, into my ears on the howling sea wind.

海濱人听慣 清夢總無驚 ——— The folk of the seashore are long used to it; their pure dreams are never startled. — from "The Roar of the Sea," by Xu Tiankui

Text: Wei-Chen Li, Tsai Chia-huan

Photography: Wei-Chen Li

Image editing: Wei-Chen Li, Chou Fang-yu