A Soul-Cleansing Experience: Post-95s Photographer Liu Wei in Tibet
From a rural village in Chongqing, Liu Wei was born in 1995. He made his first trip to Tibet at age 20 alongside a CCTV documentary crew. Over the past two years, he has traveled through remote farming and pastoral zones, witnessing what may be the last Tibetans who still preserve their native way of life. His images may lack the sweeping grandeur of National Geographic-style shots, yet a closer look shows each photograph conveying an insight that goes beyond his years.
When I first arrived in Tibet, what left the deepest impression on me? That trip, my first, took place in 2016, right after I turned twenty. I got the chance to go there through my role as a photography intern with a CCTV documentary team. Our first destination was Zoigê, where we encountered a family residing far out in the grasslands. Looking back, that encounter echoes with a genuine emotion—a sincere outpouring, a reverence-born resonance that mirrors the same pure-heartedness evident in the work.
I had a good relationship with them. I shared meals and lodging with the children, and I helped the woman of the house pick mushrooms. When the father was forced to sell the horse the boy had grown up with, I saw the little boy’s heartbreak, and his younger sister’s sadness mirrored her brother’s grief.
Everything was silent. What stays with me most is the gaze in the children’s eyes as their uncle walked away—it felt like I was encountering something authentic for the first time, a pure and honest feeling, immense and vivid akin to the grasslands outside their home. What affected you most while filming?
Since my initial visit to the Tibetan region, both my projects and the people I have encountered have evolved—no longer just ordinary herders, but environmentalists ready to dedicate their lives to safeguarding an ecosystem or a particular species. In the beginning, I saw them as kind, uncomplicated, and naturally satisfied; that was simply their character. Later, however, I encountered a herder who caused me to think more deeply. Through my work with the Three-Rivers Source Protection Association, I spoke with a conservationist who was, at the same time, an ordinary herder.
When I recall the many questions I put to him, the last one stands out: “What are your hopes for the rest of your life?” His reply was, “I hope to live the rest of my life in good health.” At first, that answer disappointed me a little. He then explained to the translator that by “health” he meant his heart, hoping it would never become ill—untouched by material cravings or the outside world.
After listening to him, I found myself in tears, unable to speak. His words prompted me to examine “us” and reflect on what we are. From that moment on, my outlook changed. I realized that I had never truly understood the Tibetan people—not even close. He argued that environmental protection is not merely about safeguarding the external world; it is about tending to the human heart and awakening our respect for nature. Only then, he believed, would the environment become pure once more.
What do I hope to convey to the world through my work? I've been pondering that myself. Expressing myself is important, yet I don't want it to stop there. Lately, my photos feel more like a window into my own mind. Regarding the cultural divide between me and the people I photograph—why the strong resonance? I think it comes down to meeting heart to heart: you must be willing to give whatever you wish to receive.
I grew up in a rural village in southern China, and my childhood there was a very happy one. At a young age, I learned how rice seedlings turn into grains, how to recognize which sweet potatoes are sweet, and that water spinach thrives in watery soil. Do those early experiences influence what I do now? And what kind of environment did you grow up in? My deepest hope, however, is that one day the images I make will act as a mirror—casting outward and then returning to reflect back on me.
My childhood experiences instilled in me the courage to pursue and accept what is genuine. I was also taught by my mother not to hurt dragonflies, since they were “spirits of the sky.” Walking barefoot on damp earth and sensing the ground under me was something I loved. I consider myself lucky to have witnessed the growth of food, felt the land’s rhythms, and observed nature’s changing seasons. The cycle of planting in spring and harvesting in autumn—everything follows cause and effect—led me to believe that life ought to be uncomplicated and honest.
To truly live, I believe one must engage with life at full depth, drawing every bit of meaning from it, while remaining firmly anchored in an everyday, ordinary existence—since it is exactly that ordinariness which holds lasting vitality. That connection to the simple and real, I think, is what naturally links me to the herders of Tibet. As for restlessness? I’d say I am restless, yes, but it’s for that very reason that I push myself all the harder in seeking calm within. And I hold a distinct vision of the person I intend to become down the road.
Your favorite photo? Why? I love this photo, captured inside a black tent. Black tents are becoming increasingly rare as traditional nomadic life fades with time. In this world, there are too many people who own cameras, and too many who can take beautiful pictures, but I truly believe very few can become photographers. Photography, I think, is not just about creating beautiful images made of countless pixels; it should be about implanting emotion and conveying perspective. This path is a long one, and I will keep walking it.
Why did you shed tears several times while filming in the pastoral areas? Because under the sunlight, their emotions are always laid bare with such simplicity and sincerity, and I had no idea how to reply—so I cried. As for the future? I used to be endlessly occupied with wondering what freedom is. Through this photo, I hope the herders will forever hold on to the memories of their days within these black tents—and I carry that same hope for myself.
Liu Wei, a native of Chongqing born in 1995, has been employed in Tibet since 2016 and is currently with Dragon Cloud Union. After visiting numerous places and fulfilling many of his ambitions, he ultimately concluded that genuine freedom has to do with the inner self rather than external liberty. He aspires to remain committed to the path of "seeking inner freedom" at all times, even though such freedom may not really exist.