When I Took a Point-and-Shoot Film Camera to Antarctica I.

This is a point-and-shoot film camera that went to Antarctica with me. At the end of last year, I was planning to sell it, but it was delayed for various reasons. Before I could find it a new home, it was hurriedly packed in my bag, crossed the equator, passed through Chile and Argentina, and then followed me to this wonderful continent at the southernmost tip of the earth. The four rolls of Kodak Gold 200 film that accompanied it traveled seven more time zones after leaving Antarctica, going north with me back to Paris, and finally being developed in Shanghai. This long and unique migration trajectory has given this camera and film immeasurable value and irreplaceable meaning. I think even if they are put aside and gather dust, I will always cherish them. When I received the scanned files, I jumped out of bed excitedly and rushed to the computer on my desk. Actually, as a photographer determined to get good shots, I also took digital photos as backups with my DSLR for almost every scene. But I haven't organized the piles of material yet. Instead, I've been looking forward to those unclear, imperfect, slow, and few unknown images. To be honest, I don't understand it myself, but I have a vague feeling that the latter is more special. Perhaps what I'm fascinated with about film is not the nostalgic filter, but the idea of "limitation." I can freely use the high-speed continuous shooting of a digital camera to record the entire process of a penguin entering the water, almost accurately capturing every tiny displacement and subtle change in form. But film cameras are different. Because of the 36-exposure limit, I often only capture one moment in a scene, and I often have to hold my breath and observe for a long time when pressing the shutter. I would choose the most elegant arc of the floating ice as it drifted by, the most intense moment of a sea lion fight, and the most interesting penguin that waddled past me. So, my hard drive stores thousands of high-definition, standard, and correctable images of Antarctica, but those four rolls of film are covered with my thirty-six careful gazes and precious choices, revealing deeper meaning due to their "limitations" of not being able to preview or delete. I'm very glad I took this pure and simple machine to Antarctica. Preserving memories in the purest way in this earthly paradise is perhaps also a sign for me. In the days to come, in my creations, I will become myself at all costs, and like that isolated land, I will always try to maintain my original intention.