Xin Jiang

When I was a child, the novels I read often spoke of a place called the Western Region. In my imagination it was impossibly far away: deserts, tents, camels, jade cups, lamb, wine, unfamiliar faces and languages I could not picture clearly but wanted badly to see for myself.

Years later, after I had fallen in love with photography, I finally travelled there. Deep inside Xinjiang, I often could not understand the languages around me. The food, customs and daily rhythms were different from those I had grown up with, yet much of what had lived in my imagination since childhood suddenly had a real landscape in front of it.

The deserts, grasslands and snow mountains felt vast and unfamiliar, and the customs and languages around me made Xinjiang feel like a world of its own.

This place once called the Western Region is Xinjiang.