What're You Staring At? A Herdsman's Wildlife Photography

Senna, a herder who moved his whole family from the rangeland, is a lover of nature. He first began using a camera by chance to record the living things around him. This might have been an innate gift, though I would rather call it the pull of his primitive life. Whatever the case, his work from the outset carries a natural, intrinsic emotion—quiet, uncomplicated, and honest—that invites viewers into the philosophical wonderland of nature.

On one tour, I escorted a foreign couple who were especially passionate about photography. At every stop, they would get off to take photographs. After watching them for a bit, I decided to try taking some pictures myself. When I showed them the photographs, they told me I had a good eye and praised me repeatedly. This happened when I was working mainly as a tour guide, in the period after our family moved to the city twenty years ago so that our child could attend school more conveniently.

Looking back, what drew that foreign couple in wasn’t really my technical ability—it was the unique way I saw things, my perspective through the lens. After that, on every shooting outing, they came along and captured photos from the very spots I had picked. That pleased me even more, and I began to wonder if I truly had some talent. That’s how my photography career got its start.

I was a herder once, and this is the life recounted in *My Life in the Pasturelands*. For me, as for all herders, the sky, the grasslands, the livestock, and the tents meant everything. I never deliberately adopted that outlook; rather, it was something imprinted on me by my past, a natural outcome of what I had experienced. Up until age 20, my job was tending livestock—each day I drove the animals up the mountain and then brought them back down. During their grazing, I spent my time dreaming or simply taking in the scenery.

From an early age, I developed a strong environmental awareness, likely because my life was simple and steady, with no shocks or fluctuations. I never felt separate from nature; these elements were part of my life. At the same time, I recognized that I was one piece of nature—perhaps not essential, but completely united with it. That is why damage to the environment around me was unbearable. To this day, I still carry that habit.

Even now, when work takes me to pastoral regions, I still guide my team in collecting trash on our own initiative. During that period, aside from letting my mind wander and enjoying the views, my main pastime was carving Mani stones. From a young age, I displayed an innate gift for stone carving. As you know, among Tibetans, carving Mani stones ranks among the most meaningful ways to offer blessings.

From a young age, I was drawn to technological products. At the same time, we held the belief that a Six-Syllable Mantra, meticulously chiseled into stone, protects the peace and well-being of all living things and the surrounding environment. So during that period, I almost never went out without a chisel and hammer; whenever I had free time, I would search for suitable stones, and my childhood steps ranged over every hill in the area.

At that time, I had very limited access to such devices, but I treasured what I did own, especially my radio. Tinkering with radios was my greatest passion, and over time, I became the first person in the neighborhood they'd bring broken radios to. Later on, after I met that foreign couple, they presented me with a Canon 76D—the very first camera I ever had. I felt immense gratitude toward them. I eventually wore that camera out. I used it with three lenses of varying focal lengths: a 13-35mm wide-angle, an 18-200mm zoom, and a 100mm prime.

Despite never having any formal photography training to this day, I discovered what these numbers meant and how they influenced my connection to the subject through experimentation with my iPhone's camera. Once I acquired my Canon 76D, I took it everywhere with me, shooting daily. On many days, after a full day of shooting, I'd return home to find that none of the photos were satisfying—yet I remained undeterred. My passion for photography was innate.

Once, while on Mount Zari—the renowned sacred mountain—the fog on its slopes was so heavy that the lens kept misting over, leaving me unable to shoot. To work around this, I wrapped the lens in a clear plastic bag and continued taking pictures. That trick, unexpectedly, caused my dear camera to burn out. I hurriedly brought it to Lhasa for repairs, but at that time there wasn't a certified service center in the city. I then took it to Xining, yet it couldn't be fixed there either.

Since I had run out of alternatives, I contacted that foreign couple again—incidentally, they had made their home in Guangzhou. Once I had laid out the whole situation to them, I shipped the camera their way. The repair ultimately set me back over 8,000 yuan. My shooting is done without any deliberate intent. A lot of people claim that my images carry both emotion and thought. Emotion, I'll grant—but the so-called thought usually surfaces later, when I'm exporting the files and notice that a particular shot has a certain atmosphere. I never go out to shoot with a preconceived idea.

Even at the sky burial site, where I went to photograph vultures, the situation was unchanged. Beforehand, I contacted the person in charge and guaranteed that I would photograph nothing prohibited—just the vultures. My request was approved. Upon arrival, I observed that every vulture was taller than a full-grown person. I closed in for shots; neither they nor I showed any fear of each other.

My photographs are emotional—and that is because, in addition to my passion for photography, I love everything I photograph. Even now, I still remember the dust stirred up when they beat their enormous wings and took off, and the occasional feather that floated down as they circled overhead. As someone passionate about photography, faced with such a scene at that instant, I could do nothing but shoot them right away. There was no time—or space—to think about life, death, or reincarnation.

According to our belief, every being is like one's own mother, and that serves as a beautiful approach to valuing life. For instance, while I am lying in wait to hunt animals, observing them from afar in silence, I often experience a twinge of sorrow. Even when they merely nibble on grass, they look around warily, as if fearing that a predator might suddenly appear to attack them. Seeing this, I find these creatures pitiable, trapped in perpetual fear.

My deep love of nature and photography has, over the years, left my footprints across most of Ganzi, Yushu, and Tibet. Although I have given up being a herder, I still follow a herder’s habits. In particular, each winter when work eases up, I make a point of spending one or two months shooting in various places in a nomadic way. And whenever I look at them and photograph them with that attitude, my emotions naturally pour into the work.

Whenever I head out to take photographs, I usually reach out to local people ahead of time—especially herders—to find out where good scenery and wildlife might be encountered. Consider this recent example: a white deer was said to have shown up in a location well beyond my hometown, and that thought has stayed with me day and night. I traveled a long way and kept watch at that spot for two days, yet I still haven’t been able to see it. Eventually, I came to understand that my photos could also help the local residents see what life is like for these animals.

Looking back at my earlier photos now, I frequently feel regret, with thoughts such as “I was in such a beautiful place—why did I shoot it like that?”, “If only I had framed it wider,” or “This angle is too low” coming to mind. Before, I had never considered that photography could hold this kind of meaning. For example, from my observations, I could remind them that some of their habits might unintentionally harm the animals.

Born in the pastoral region of Nangqian County, Senna Herder-Photographer now runs the "Tibetan Xi Wedding Culture" company. From childhood, he has had a deep love for all things in nature. At twenty, after his family moved to the county town, he happened to meet a foreign couple and became passionate about photography. He says, “I can’t say whether the shift from then to now comes from a change within me, but one thing stays true: my affection for everything I photograph remains as strong as ever, and photography is how I show that love.”

His affection for his subjects comes through clearly in every image he captures. Each year, he journeys across different regions of Tibet to photograph its natural scenery.