A Chat With Jia Yuchuan
与贾玉川导演的采访

>> 请向下滚动查看中文采访原文。 

Photojournalist, photographer, and documentarian, Jia Yuchuan is a many-sided artist whose work is marked by unusual sensitivity and a sharp eye for China’s transformations. Born in Chongqing in 1961, he spent much of his childhood traversing the country with his mother in pursuit of his father, a soldier serving in Lin Biao’s division. A chance relocation to Shenzhen, in Guangdong province, in the early 1970s set him on the path to becoming a photojournalist.

Shenzhen—once hemmed in by the Second-Line Checkpoint (二线关), the barrier separating the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone from the rest of mainland China, would later become the fulcrum of his work as a documentarian. It was there that Jia began filming his first and most celebrated documentary, The Two Lives of Li Ermao (他她：李二毛的双重人生, 2019). The product of 17 years of participant observation, Li Ermao is a poignant and tragic portrait of a Chinese transgender woman wrestling with her identity in the early 2000s.

Since then Jia has released another documentary, Haze (霾, 2025), and is now occupied with several new—and revived—projects. I met him last summer to discuss Shenzhen’s vertiginous transformation between the 1980s and the 2000s, his method for recording history, and the counsel he offers young Chinese filmmakers.

Let’s start from the very beginning. Where did your impulse to create come from? You don’t come from a family of artists.

I think it may be a desire to 'live differently.' As a kid, drawing was a way to escape, but also a way to define who I was. Later on, picking up a camera became a way to 'speak' and express things through images that I couldn’t quite put into words. For me, creating is a way to survive, a way of confronting myself. Growing up in a very disciplined, structured environment, art helped me stay in touch with my sensitivity and kept me from losing my edges.

Since your father was a soldier and your family moved around a lot, how did growing up that way influence you?

My father was a soldier and my mother a librarian. Discipline and restraint were always part of my upbringing. Moving around a lot taught me how to adapt quickly to new places, but it also made me a natural observer from the sidelines. In new groups, I’d usually watch first before jumping in, and that habit naturally carried over into how I later looked at the world through a camera.

I inherited a certain introversion and resilience, but also I’ve been trying to move away from a mindset that prioritizes the collective over the individual. I’m more drawn to personal stories, and I prefer telling those of weaker, overlooked lives.

You've journeyed from painting to photojournalism, and now to documentary filmmaking. Have you ever felt torn between being someone who documents reality and being a storyteller?

I’ve loved drawing since I was a kid. In my sketchbooks, I was always drawing speeding cars on highways, trains, ships, and people rushing through streets and alleys. Those images are still very close to me: they really shaped how I began to understand society. As I got older, I started using a camera my father passed down to me, photographing what’s around me: friends on trips, the silhouettes of beautiful girls, old group photos with classmates. From that point on, images became a way to record life and express emotion.

At university, I studied photojournalism and learned professional photography. After graduating, I worked as a journalist. That’s when I truly understood that a photojournalist isn’t just recording information, but also witnessing history, and telling the stories of ordinary people and responding to reality through images became my direction.

As a journalist, I was trained to pursue factual truth. As a filmmaker, I’m often drawn into symbols and emotions, exploring ideas more freely. These two identities sometimes overlap and sometimes clash, but over time, I’ve realized they don’t have to be in conflict. In different works, they can collide, blend, and even support each other. 'Life is like a play, and a play is like life,' right? Images are both an extension of reality and a projection of my inner life.

At the beginning of the 2000s, you shifted to documentary filmmaking, and chose to take the path of independent cinema. Why?

Making films has always been my dream. Years of working in photojournalism sharpened how I observe and express things, and also helped me realize that documentary filmmaking might be the form that suits me best. Moving from journalism into documentary felt like a natural step, and also some kind of inner shift.

The experience I gained in news photography laid the foundation for my later documentary work, but I quickly realized that making independent documentaries comes with challenges far beyond those of photojournalism. Every stage is demanding, from technical preparation and shooting, to editing, and especially distribution and outreach. It takes a different level of persistence and endurance. Still, I’ve never given up. I think that documentaries are one of the most valuable forms of expression. They bring us closer to real life and deepen our understanding of others and ourselves.

Today, with advances in technology and increasingly immersive audiovisual experiences, we’re often overwhelmed by information. That’s why independent documentaries feel more important than ever. Even with limited screening opportunities and distribution challenges, I remain confident. Documentaries aren’t fast food—they’re a slower, more reflective form of expression, one that’s worth committing to for a lifetime.

What did it mean to be an independent documentary filmmaker in China back then? And now?

When I first started making documentaries, I didn’t have a clear sense of being an 'independent director.' I simply wanted to film what I wanted to film, and tell the stories of the people and things I saw around me. Slowly, that identity began to take shape, though. It meant not aligning with official or mainstream ideology, and independence from institutional resources. It meant expressing personal viewpoints and documenting overlooked realities in a relatively free way. In the post-reform era [after 1978], this was both a risk and a conscious choice. 

Your work has focused on orphans, amputees, drug users, the LGBT+ community, among others. How do you choose your subjects?

Sometimes it’s a chance encounter, sometimes it’s a choice made after careful observation. More often, though, it’s a kind of 'call' I cannot describe. I’m not driven by curiosity about the unusual, and I’m not deliberately seeking out people labeled as ‘weak.’ What draws me in is the life in their eyes. Their lives may be hard, but they often feel more real than those of more 'polished' characters, and they carry a certain light shining through the cracks of society. Filming them comes partly from concern, and partly from a deep urge to express myself. At the core, I guess I just want more people to see their lives, their struggles, their dignity.

Are you looking for personal stories that go against China’s big historical narrative? Do you agree with this way of putting it?

Yes, I would agree. History isn't a smooth highway, it's full of crossroads. What really interests me are those side paths that get lost in the official narrative. China’s development over the past few decades has been so fast that people barely had time to process what they’d just lived through before being pushed into the next era. What I want to do is carve out space for individual experiences, letting everyone see the ordinary people who were ‘knocked over by history,’ their confusion, their struggles, their quiet endurance.

You often break the fourth wall. For example, you once brought dumbbells to Peng Shuilin, a man with half a body, encouraging him to exercise and take care of himself. In Li Ermao, you often express your emotions on camera. What does this represent in your work?

The so-called 'objectivity' is an ideal, not an absolute. A camera always involves choice and direction. My very presence is already a form of intervention, and I neither deny nor shy away from this involvement. To me, documentary filmmaking has never been about detached recording, it’s about real encounters between people.

If trust is built between me and the subject, then that interaction becomes part of the work itself. And if a shot brings attention to someone overlooked, and even briefly alters their life, then that work has already gone beyond the category of 'art.'

Do you consider your subjects 'victims'? 

I don’t like the label 'victim.' It too easily pushes people toward pity instead of understanding. They’re not people waiting for sympathy. They have their own identities and dreams, and they’ve struggled against their fate in their own ways.

Rather than calling them victims, I’d say they’re people standing on the riverbank of history, watching the current. They can see where the current is flowing, and they know exactly where they stand. Sometimes, they’re even clearer-headed than those riding the crest of the wave.

Your works rarely tell stories of 'redemption.' Why?

True 'redemption' is uncommon in real life. What’s more common is struggle and repeated setbacks. I don’t want to decorate hardship with false hope. Of course, some people do manage to climb out of hardship, but that usually comes after countless failures and efforts to rebuild, it’s rarely as simple as a 'turning point.' I hope my work retains that complexity. Even without a conclusion, it still shows life as it really is.

Are there stories you regret not being able to film, or to finish?

Too many. Some people could have shared their stories more in depth, but due to broken trust or interference, the filming couldn’t continue. That’s what happened to the story of the transgender artist Liu Zhihua, for example, because the filming was interrupted by family and social pressure. 

Other projects were halfway through when funding dried up, platforms pulled support, or policies got in the way. But these unfinished stories often end up reminding me of the boundaries of creation, showing me how far images can go, and where they can’t.

When you’re making a documentary, how do you know when it’s time to stop filming and start telling the story, especially when projects can last for many years? For example, you filmed Li Ermao for 17 years.

It’s never a clearly-defined moment. Sometimes the subject no longer wants to continue. Sometimes life itself calls a halt. But more often, it’s when I feel this particular stage can be crystallized into a memory. A documentary can’t capture an entire life, we can only try to seize the truth of a certain moment. When I start going over the footage again and again, a voice naturally comes up inside me: 'It’s time to tell the story.'

In your 40-year photography retrospective, you said that you '...grew up together with Shenzhen.' What was Shenzhen’s starting point, and what has it become today? 

Shenzhen started out as a piece of barren land: raw, clean, and full of possibility. Today, it’s turned into a fast-moving, layered modern machine. It’s bigger and more complex, but it also feels further away from the warmth it once had.

I’ve changed too. I used to be a passionate young photographer; now I’m a calmer, more sensitive observer. I think I’ve become more careful in how I judge things and more nuanced in how I understand people. But I never want to see the world through a stale or jaded lens. I hope I can hold on to some of the warmth and innocence I had when I was younger.

From 1982 to 2003, Shenzhen was enclosed by the Second-Line Checkpoint [二线关, a physical boundary inside China separating the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone from the rest of the mainland]. How did this boundary shape the city? And how did it influence your work?

The Second-Line Checkpoint wasn’t just a geographical boundary; rather, it was a psychological one. It gave Shenzhen a unique sense of identity. It was a place full of outsiders, where order and chaos coexisted, where dreams intertwined with reality.

A lot of the people I filmed were struggling, kind of stuck between the “inside” and the “outside” of that line. Being around that really made me more aware of space, class, and identity. It showed me that behind every piece of land, there’s some kind of shared mindset shaping how people see and use it.

When you were inside the checkpoint, did you feel you had a certain privilege? What were 'outsiders' willing to do to get in?

Yes, we were in a privileged position. Back then, the second-line checkpoint made Shenzhen a small, special zone. You needed a special pass or residence permit to enter. The checkpoint was a long barbed-wire fence with patrol cars and designated patrol roads. I documented its dismantling, photographing the border posts and fences.

Inside the zone, you could find jobs that paid well, and access goods that weren’t available in the inland cities. More importantly, people’s ideas and mindsets were different. That’s why so many people desperately wanted to get into Shenzhen to work. I reported and photographed many scenes at the checkpoints. Some people couldn’t get a permit because of local bureaucratic restrictions or police records, some others had to pay extra fees. 

There were lots of scalpers. For example, if you were from the mountains in Sichuan and couldn’t get a pass, you had to find someone who could help, through relatives, connections, or by paying someone to make a temporary pass. That became a business. Getting a pass inland was difficult, especially in places where bureaucracy was very inefficient. But people were determined to go to Shenzhen to work and support their families. If they couldn’t get a permit, many would cut through the barbed wire or climb over the fence to enter illegally.

At the time, Shenzhen police would frequently conduct inspections, removing the so-called ‘three-no’ population — no papers, no job, no fixed address. They were rounded up and deported by bus back outside the checkpoint. These sweeps happened regularly. I was covering social news back then and took a large number of photos documenting this. People would do whatever they could just to stay in Shenzhen, like buy fake or expired passes. But once the police began sweeping rental apartments or urban villages [城中村], they would be evicted.

Were you documenting dreams or their side effects?

These two things actually coexist. Many of the people I filmed came to Shenzhen with dreams, and they contributed their youth and labor to the city’s growth. But as the city accelerated, they slowly became 'invisible.' So I’m documenting their dreams, yes, but I’m also trying to remind people: how many dreamers have been forgotten beneath the glamorous surface [of progress]? For example, in my film A Cai’s Sky of Dreams [阿蔡梦想的天空], where I follow the story of a street vendor [Jia recorded him for over 10 years]. Progress has never come without a cost. I just want to show those costs honestly.

Has society forgotten history, or has history forgotten people?

I don’t think we have the grand perspective to make that judgment. It’s more about trying to record them, preserve their images, and tell their stories. We simply do what we can to reflect the human side of things.

Take Ermao [Li Ermao, the eponymous subject of the documentary], for example. Filming her was incredibly moving for me. This seemingly small figure from the countryside carried an incredible vitality and an unyielding spirit. Her long, painful struggle to change her fate was a constant source of inspiration in my work.

I believe that whether someone is 'small' or 'big', they deserve respect, and they deserve to be documented.

More importantly, history has been simplified, and people have been reduced to symbols. We often say 'we must not forget history,' but what we remember are events and numbers, not the specific individuals who lived, suffered, and struggled. In our pursuit of efficiency, society has indeed overlooked personal feelings and memories. My work is about trying to bring those overlooked people back into history.

'...people have been reduced to symbols,' what kind of symbols?

What we usually absorb and record as history comes from grand narratives, from governments, institutions, museums, galleries. They tend to focus on major events, such as city development. But to me, a lot of it misses people who are 'flesh-and-blood'.

Maybe I’m not entirely right. Sure, many exhibitions highlight heroes and trailblazers, but they are chosen carefully. I guess I’m just tired of that kind of historical narrative and propaganda-driven reporting. I’d rather focus on ordinary people who usually go unseen. That’s always been my goal. These lists of influential people already get plenty of attention, and they have social resources and public platforms. They don’t need me to document them. I’d rather find interesting, real, everyday people.

I believe 'symbolization' is a real problem. For example, many of these 'influential citizens' chosen each year are treated as symbols rather than individuals. Also, I know some of their inside stories, which is why I’m not interested in commenting on them. In my archives and throughout my filming career, the people I’ve dealt with most have always been ordinary folks, and I remain closely engaged with them.

Back in Shenzhen, you could access places most people couldn’t. Has that door closed?

That door hasn’t completely closed, but the gap is getting smaller. In the past, thanks to my media credentials or personal connections, I could get into a lot of inaccessible spaces. Nowadays, not only has the system become more restrictive, but people are also more guarded, and many have grown accustomed to performing for the camera. But that has also pushed me to try new approaches, like spending more time with them, being gentler, and slowly earning their trust.

Earlier, you mentioned that after 1978, you were introduced to new ideas and values, also from abroad. Any foreign artists that deeply inspired you back then? 

Way too many, really. Back then our knowledge and horizons were pretty limited and kind of empty. Our whole generation especially looked up to the Soviet Union, we were quite influenced by it.

Then, after the Reform and Opening Up, it felt like a window had suddenly swung open. We could see so much more, and we were eager to take in all kinds of new ideas. There was just so much coming at us: French New Wave films, Hollywood blockbusters, fiction and documentaries, literature, rock music, painting, photography. All of these foreign influences hit us hard and kept stirring something deep inside. You could say they had a huge impact on our lives and the way we thought, across every field.

As for me, I was especially into European culture, like French New Wave cinema. Of course, the classics are all beautiful too. A lot of Greek films, Spanish films, Swedish films…many of them really stuck with me. These were all movies I picked up from bootleg DVDs. Back then, we were obsessed with hunting down discs and watching them nonstop. Besides the big epics, war films, and commercial melodramas, I also watched a lot of more niche, award-winning films, the kind that are more artistic and exploratory. Those actually inspired me more, and they leaned more toward realism.

Through all this, I kept learning and growing. At first I didn’t even have a video camera, so I used a still camera to shoot documentary-style photos, doing photo reports and photo stories. Later, when I finally got a video camera, I started using moving images to make documentaries and special features, recording the times, telling people’s stories. There was just endless material.

Around us were so many outstanding colleagues, classmates, and close friends. Some went on to win the Pulitzer Prize or the World Press Photo awards in Amsterdam. Back then, we were always getting together, exchanging ideas, not just about photography, but also about how to make films and documentaries. We also had several opportunities to meet great masters who came to China to shoot or give lectures. I’m talking about people like Owens, Luc Moullet, Cartier-Bresson, Antonioni. They were all names we deeply admired. And so many others, like the amazing photographer Sebastião Salgado, who just passed away. There were just too many to name. All of this has been motivating me to do work that I find truly interesting and joyful. 

Oh right, I just remembered, do you know Lü Nan? He's a very good friend of mine. Maybe you know his Four works on Tibet? [referring to Lv Nan’s four books: Four Seasons, The Forgotten People, On The Road, and Prisons of Northern Burma.]

Yes. Actually, some of your works make me think of him. 

Yes, Lü Nan is a close friend of mine. Every time he came to Shenzhen, we’d meet up. He influenced me deeply, not so much through direct instruction, but through real inspiration. His books on Tibet, his work in psychiatric hospitals, and the series on prisons in Myanmar are all outstanding. He’s truly an amazing artist. The way he sees the world and composes his images shows a deep care for people and a tragic sensitivity. His work has really stayed with me.

I’ve always tried to learn from him, though there’s a kind of tension between us. Because my job was as a photojournalist for a local newspaper, I had to provide cover photos on the daily. The competition between media outlets was fierce. Breaking news or anything immediate and visually striking was obviously ideal and always in demand. But we didn’t have breaking news every day, so most of the time we ended up shooting images that fit into the mainstream and would appeal to readers.

But I longed for the freedom and independence that artists like him had. They could just follow their hearts and shoot whatever really mattered to them, with little interference. Artists like Lü Nan, Yan Changjiang, Yang Yankang, and many others – I really admire them. In news photography, He Yanguang is another veteran who is also a close friend I deeply respect.

You both focus on marginalized groups. But it seems to me that in your photos and documentaries, you focus more on their everyday struggles. His work, on the other hand, somehow elevates the 'everyday' into a kind of 'event,' it feels more cinematic.

Yes, I agree. It had to do with my job: I couldn’t really calm my mind. On site, I was always thinking about shooting more, trying to capture the most intense moments. After finishing, I’d rush to submit or dive straight into the next assignment. My headspace back then was restless, not steady at all.

Lü Nan is different. When he shoots, he  observes quietly to capture interpersonal dynamics. He somehow disappears as the creator, letting the viewer step right into the scene. In his work, you don’t feel the photographer’s presence, while my lens back then felt too forceful, even a little aggressive.

Time to draw to a close. At the beginning of our conversation, you mentioned that the space for Chinese independent filmmaking is shrinking. What advice would you give to young documentary filmmakers or directors today?

That’s a big question. We really feel like the space is shrinking, especially coming from the media. I think there are a few reasons for that.

First, a lot of reporting on social issues and investigative journalism has been restricted. There’s direct control, and clear political red lines. Even though, officially, we were allowed to do cross-regional public-opinion supervision, many of the topics we selected and were able to cover were national or even international in scope. Now, almost all investigative and public-opinion supervision reporting has essentially stopped. That’s the larger context. At the same time, with the rise of the internet and social media, many breaking stories or exposés are quickly taken down or censored. Compared to the days when we were doing news reporting, the media environment today has changed dramatically. 

But I do believe that if a creator, director, or journalist truly cares about journalism, society, and public life, and as long as they have a sense of responsibility and professional ethics rooted in compassion, they will keep observing and documenting what’s happening. It might be stories about people, the environment, or the government. And they’ll follow them over the long term, because that’s still what people need.

So, my advice is: be patient, be sincere, and persevere. It’s hard to predict things in today’s climate. Both the media and public discourse are extremely sensitive, and a lot of content is being suppressed or controlled. But this isn’t new—it’s been like this for quite a while. And sometimes, turning off the camera can actually bring you even closer to the truth.

What is your ultimate goal or accomplishment before retiring (if ever) from filmmaking?

Let me think... 'accomplish.' That’s hard to answer. The work I do now is entirely driven by personal passion and professional habit. I’ve shot a lot, because I love film, I love documenting stories, and I enjoy observing different people and their stories. That’s why I’ve filmed so many people in Dali [Yunnan Province, Southwestern China]. After shooting so much, the biggest headache now is how to organize, summarize, sort through, and present the material. That’s what I’m working on now, this process of archiving and reflection. Recently I’ve also been collaborating with friends to rewrite a script. I want to try making fiction movies. One friend already wrote a great short screenplay, and I’ve adapted it into a storyboarded script. 

So before I completely stop working, I hope to direct one or two fiction films, with actors, a script, and the whole process. The one I’m working on now is set in the Nujiang mountains [range in China's Yunnan Province]. It’s based on local legends and tells a story about life and death in a mountain village. I’ve already gone into the mountains two or three times for this project, and even done fieldwork with a friend.

The investment is daunting, though, not necessarily in terms of money, but in terms of complexity. A fiction film involves actors, lighting, set design…so many elements! So my wish is that before I fully stop, I can make at least two narrative films, films in the style of documentaries, like those by Jia Zhangke.

***

对话贾玉川导演

身兼摄影记者、摄影师与纪录片导演多重身份的贾玉川，是一位气质复杂而多面的艺术家；其作品以罕见的敏感与锐利的洞察，捕捉中国巨变中的人事沉浮。1961年生于重庆的他，童年时期常随母亲辗转各地，追随在林彪部队服役的父亲。上世纪70年代初，一次偶然的迁居将他带到广东深圳，也由此开启了他的摄影记者生涯。

深圳——这座城市曾长期被“二线关”所环绕，这一道关卡将深圳经济特区与中国内地其余地区分隔开来——后来成为他纪录片创作的核心现场。正是在那里，贾玉川开始拍摄他的首部、亦最负盛名的纪录片《他她：李二毛的双重人生》（2019）。这部作品历经17年的参与式观察而成，以动人而悲怆的笔触，刻画了一位中国跨性别女性在21世纪初与自我身份艰难搏斗的人生。

此后，贾玉川又推出了另一部纪录片《霾》（2025），目前仍同时推进数个新旧项目。去年夏天，我们与他坐下来长谈，内容涉及深圳自上世纪80年代至21世纪初的剧烈嬗变、他记录历史的方法，以及他给予中国年轻电影人的建议。

让我们从头说起。你的创作冲动从何而来？你并非出身于艺术世家。

贾导：可能是一种“想活出不同”的欲望。我小时候画画是逃避，也是自我建构。后来拿起相机，是为了“说话”——用图像来说那些我说不出口的人和事。对我来说，创作是一种求生的方式，是一种自我对抗的路径。在一个充满规训的成长环境中，艺术使我保持了对个体感受的敏感，也让我没有被日常意识形态磨平棱角。

你父亲是军人，因为工作调动频繁，你小时候也跟着部队辗转了许多地方。你觉得家庭给你带来了哪些影响？又有哪些是你想要放下或逃离的？

贾导：父亲是军人，母亲是图书馆的管理员，我的成长环境里始终有一种纪律性和克制感。不断搬家让我学会了迅速适应陌生环境，也让我养成了“旁观”的习惯——在一群新朋友中，我总是先观察，然后才靠近。这种习惯可能也影响了我后来用镜头观察世界的方式。我继承的是那种内敛和坚忍，但我也一直在试图挣脱那种单一的、强调集体大于个体的思维方式。我更在乎个体的命运，也更愿意讲述那些被忽略的弱小声音。

从绘画、新闻摄影，再到纪录片创作，你一直在不同领域中穿行。有没有在“历史的记录者”和“故事的讲述者”这两种身份之间感到过矛盾？

贾导：我从小就喜欢涂涂画画。在画本上，我常常描绘道路上行驶的汽车、铁路上奔驰的火车、江河里穿梭的轮船，还有都市街头巷尾行色匆匆的人们。那些图像构成了我童年最初的快乐，也开启了我用视觉观察理解社会的方式。

长大后，我开始用父亲传下来的相机，拍摄身边的人和事：伙伴们外出郊游的嬉戏打闹、美丽姑娘的倩影、同学们的纪念合影……影像从此成为我记录生活、表达情感的工具。

进入大学后，我系统学习了新闻摄影，掌握了专业的摄影技能。毕业后投身媒体，开始以记者的身份观察社会、记录现实。那时我才真正意识到，一名合格的新闻摄影师不仅是信息的记录者，更是历史的见证人。讲述普通人的故事、以影像表达对现实的关注，逐渐成为我一生的志业。

作为新闻记者，我习惯于追求事物的真实性；作为影像创作者，我也时常沉浸于观念意识象征与情感表达之中。这两种身份在我内心交织、拉扯，撕裂。但我也意识到，它们并不冲突，可以在不同作品中可以彼此碰撞、交融，甚至相互成全。就像“人生如戏，戏如人生”，影像既是现实的延伸，也是精神的投射。

二十世纪初，您开始转向纪录片创作。虽然作为新闻摄影师可以接触到更大的观众群，但您仍选择走上一条未知而充满挑战的独立电影之路。是什么让您离开新闻摄影？

贾导：拍电影一直是我的梦想。多年来在新闻摄影岗位上的历练，不仅锻炼了我的观察力和表达力，也让我逐渐意识到：纪录片可能是更适合我内心表达的一种形式。从新闻到纪录，是一种顺理成章的转向，也是一种内在的蜕变。

过去拍新闻摄影时积累的经验和反思，也为我后来的纪录片创作打下了坚实基础。但我很快发现，独立纪录片面临的困难远远超出新闻摄影的范畴。无论是前期拍摄的技术准备，后期的剪辑制作，还是成片后的传播与发行，每一个环节都充满挑战，尤其在独立创作的条件下，更需要坚持与耐力。

然而，我始终没有因为困难而动摇。我相信纪录片是这个时代极其珍贵的表达方式，它让我们更加贴近生活、感受真实，也更能让我们重新认识人们和自我。

在当下，技术手段突飞猛进，视听体验本该更丰富，但我们所接收到的真实信息却越来越模糊，影像中的噪音与幻象愈发严重。正是在这样的背景下，独立纪录片的存在显得尤为珍贵。尽管它的生存空间在收紧，传播途径在受限，但我对纪录片的未来依然充满信心。它不是快速消费的快餐，而是一种缓慢而深刻的表达，它值得我们用一生去探索追求和坚守。

当时在中国做独立纪录片导演意味着什么？现在又意味着什么？

贾导：最初走上纪录片道路时，并没有“独立导演”这种明确的身份意识。只是想拍自己想拍的故事，讲身边的那些人和事。慢慢地，这个身份开始被赋予一种意义：不依附于主流意识形态，也不依赖于体制资源，而是以一种相对自由的方式表达个人观点、记录被忽略的现实。在“改革后”时代 [1978年以后]，这是一种冒险，也是一种选择。

你的作品一直关注孤儿、截肢者、吸毒者和LGBTQ群体等等。你是怎么选择拍摄对象的？

贾导：有时是偶遇，有时是长久观察后的决定。更多时候，是一种难以言喻的“召唤”。我并不是猎奇或刻意寻找“弱者”的存在，而是常常被这些人的生命状态和眼神吸引。他们的生活可能沉重，但往往比那些光鲜的主角来得更为“真实”，更能折射出社会裂缝里的光泽。拍摄他们，既是出于一种人道主义的关怀，也是一种深切的表达欲望——我希望让更多人看见他们的存在、挣扎与尊严。

那您是在寻找与中国宏大历史发生冲突的个人历史吗？您认同这种说法吗？

贾导：是的，我认同。历史并不是一条平滑的公路，而是由无数“岔路口”构成的。我关心的，正是那些被主旋律遗忘的岔路。

中国过去几十年的发展太快，很多人甚至还没明白自己曾经历过什么，就已经被推向下一个时代。我想做的，是在这种宏大叙事中，留下个人经验的缝隙，让人们看见每一个“被历史撞倒”的普通人，他们的困惑、挣扎、甚至沉默。

您曾给“半截人”彭水林送去哑铃，鼓励他锻炼身体、重新照顾自己。在《李二毛》中，您也多次“打破第四堵墙”，在镜头前表达您的情绪。您觉得“客观”真的存在吗？

贾导：所谓“客观”，在现实中是一个理想，而非绝对。镜头总是有方向、有选择的，我的在场本身就已经是干预。但我不否认，也不回避这种介入。对我而言，纪录片创作从来不是冷漠的记录，而是人与人之间的真实相遇。

如果你和被摄者之间建立了信任，那么这种互动就是作品的一部分。至于拯救，我不敢说自己有多大的力量，但如果一个镜头能让某个被忽略的人获得关注、哪怕短暂改变命运，那这部作品就已经超出了“艺术”的范畴。

您认为您的拍摄对象是“受害者”吗？

贾导：我不喜欢“受害者”这个标签，它太容易让人陷入怜悯而非理解。他们不是等待同情的人，而是有独立人格、有过梦想、有过与命运抗争的人。与其说他们是受害者，不如说他们是时代浪潮中站在岸边的人，他们看清了水流的方向，也看清了自己所处的位置。有时，他们比身处浪尖的人更加清醒。

您的作品中却很少讲述“救赎”的故事。是因为这样的故事太少，还是因为它们无法代表现实？

贾导：现实中，真正意义上的“救赎”并不常见，更多的是挣扎与反复。我不愿用虚假的希望去装饰沉重的生活。当然，有些人确实走出了困境，但那往往是无数次失败与自我重建的结果，而非某个“转折点”那么简单。我希望我的作品能保留这种复杂性——即便没有结局，也是生活真实的样貌。

有哪些您遗憾没能拍到的故事？

贾导：遗憾太多了，有些人本可以讲述更深的故事，却因为信任的破裂或外部干扰无法继续，（比如：我拍摄的变性人艺术家刘志华，她就是因为家庭和社会压力原因，中断我的拍摄。）；还有些影片拍到一半，资金中断、平台限制、政策原因都可能让项目夭折。但这些未完成的故事，也常常反过来提醒我创作的边界，告诉我：影像能到哪里，不能到哪里。

在拍摄纪录片时，尤其是当一个项目可能持续多年，你是如何判断什么时候该停止拍摄、开始讲述故事的？比如说，《李二毛》这个项目你拍了17年。

贾导：这从来不是一个明确的时刻。有时是人物自己不再愿意继续，有时是生活本身给出了一个“句点”。但更多时候，是我感到这个阶段已经可以“凝结”成一段记忆了。纪录片无法记录完整的人生，我们只能尽力捕捉某个瞬间的真实。当我开始反复翻看素材，心里自然会有一个声音告诉我：“可以开始讲述了。”

在您四十年的摄影回顾中，您说自己“与深圳一起成长”。在您眼中，深圳的起点是什么，如今变成了什么？您自己又发生了哪些变化？

贾导：深圳是我摄影和影像人生的起点。它见证了我从青年走到中年，也让我直面城市化进程中最真实的一面。这里有梦想的生发地，也有幻灭的荒原。在个人层面，它让我成长；在艺术层面，它提供了我最初也是最复杂的叙事场域。我在这里拍摄的每一个人，都像是在镜头里照见了我自己。

深圳的起点是“什么都没有”的荒地，那是一种原始、干净、充满可能性的状态。如今，它成了一座高速运转、层层叠叠的“现代机器”。它更大了，也更复杂了，但也更远离了它最初的温度。

我自己也从一个充满激情的年轻摄影师，变成了更冷静、更敏感的纪录者。我对事物的判断更谨慎，对人性的理解更复杂，但我始终不想变成一个“老去的镜头”——我希望自己仍然能像年轻时那样，保持一种热度与天真。

从1982年到2003年，深圳曾被“二线关”围起。这个边界如何塑造了这座城市，尤其是如何影响了您的创作？

贾导：“二线关”不仅是一个地理边界，更是一个心理分界。它让这座城市形成了一种独特的自我意识：外来者众多、秩序与混乱并存、梦想与现实交织。

我拍摄的许多人物，正是“关内关外”文化夹缝中的挣扎者。这个边界让我对空间、阶层和身份有了更敏锐的认知，也让我意识到每一块土地的记忆背后，都是一种集体心理的塑造。

当你在检查站里面的时候，有没有觉得自己算是有点“特权”？那些进不来的人为了能进去，愿意付出到什么程度？

贾导：有。那时候二线关，你也知道，它是那么小一个特区，需要办理特殊的通行证、居住证才能进到二线关。二线关是一条很长的铁丝网，拉着巡逻车，有专门开辟的巡逻路。我在二线关拆除的时候也拍摄了，比较客观地记录了测岗、铁丝网等相关的情况。

那时候确实有特权。因为在特区内，可以找到很多挣钱的工作，也可以买到一些内地买不到的商品。更重要的是，观念和思想意识也不一样。所以那时候很多人拼命想进入深圳，办证进入特区。

我当时也在几个关口采访和拍摄了很多情况。有些人因为在当地办不了通行证，或者在内地受到公安的限制，不给办证，或者要额外收费，所以他们拼命想进深圳来找工作、挣钱。

那时候有很多“黄牛”。比如你是四川山区的人，没办法办证进深圳，就只能找黄牛。他们可能在关外的某些地方，通过熟人、亲戚或者一些关系，帮人办临时通行证，然后拿这个证来做买卖。

在内地办证很困难，特别是一些官僚作风严重的地方。他们不给办，但很多人特别希望进入深圳来打工、赚钱、养家，就必须办这个证。如果办不到，就有很多人偷偷剪铁丝网、翻越二线关进入深圳。

那时深圳经常会有公安查证，清理“三无人员”，清除在二线关内没有证件的民工或者从业人员。如果没有证件，就会被遣返、被抓，用大巴车送回关外。这种清查经常发生。

我当时跑社会新闻，拍了大量这样的图片。那些人想尽办法，花钱买通行证，有些是假的，有些是过期的，还是赖在深圳。但一旦清查出租屋、清查城中村，他们就会被清走、拉出去。我拍下了很多这类的图片和故事。

您是在记录梦想，还是在揭示梦想的副作用？

贾导：这两者其实是并存的。我拍摄的那些人，很多都曾怀抱梦想来到深圳，也为这座城市的发展贡献了青春和汗水。但在城市高速运转的背后，他们却逐渐成为“看不见的人”。所以我既是在记录他们曾经的梦想，也是想提醒人们：在光鲜的表象下，有多少梦想者被遗落？（比如：我拍摄记录的摆地摊《阿蔡梦想的天空》）【贾导持续记录了他的生活十多年】，进步从来不是没有代价的，我只是希望能把这些代价真实地呈现出来。

是历史忘记了人，还是社会忘记了历史？

贾导：至于说是否是“被历史遗忘”，我觉得我们其实也没有那么大的宏观视角去判断。更多的是想记录他们、留下他们的影像，讲述他们的故事。我们只是尽自己的能力，去反映人性的一面。

比如说像二毛【李二毛，导演的一部同名纪录片的主人公】，我在拍摄她的过程中，就深深地被打动。这样一个从农村出来的小人物，她身上体现出一种强大的生命力和不愿言败的精神，在她苦苦求生、努力改变命运的过程中，一直在鼓励着我。

我觉得，无论是小人物还是大人物，都应该被尊重，都值得被记录。

我更愿意说，是历史被简化了，而人也变成了符号。 我们常说“历史不能忘”，可很多时候我们记住的只是事件和数字，而不是那些具体活过、痛过、挣扎过的人。社会在追逐效率和未来的过程中，确实忽略了个体的情感与记忆。我的创作，就是试图把那些被忽略的“人”拉回历史当中。

你刚才提到“…人也变成了符号”。你指的是什么样的符号？

贾导：我们感触到的、能够输入历史的，往往都是一些宏大的叙事。比如社会、政府、机构，还有博物馆、艺术馆，它们现在多在记录和展现一些宏大的事件，比如城市的发展历程。

但我觉得，很多东西都缺少“有血有肉的人”。

也许我的看法不一定对。也许这些展览中确实有很多英雄、弄潮儿，但那都是经过筛选的“高大上”的人物。我可能是看腻了这种历史观、这种带有宣传性质的报道。所以我更愿意把镜头对准那些不被常人看到的小人物。这是我的初衷。那些被选出来的“伟大人物”已经有很多人关注了，也有社会资源支持他们，也有舆论的机会，不需要我去记录。而我更愿意去寻找那些有趣、有血有肉的小人物。

我认为，“符号化”是个问题。比如我们每年评选出的许多“先进人物”，里面充满了符号化、概念化的成分。我也了解里面的一些内幕，所以觉得没意思，也不愿意去评论他们。所以在我的档案里、我的拍摄经历中，接触最多的，都是那些小人物，我也始终跟他们打交道。

当年，您可以进入许多人无法进入的地方。今天的您还能拍出那样的作品吗？那扇门是否已经关闭？

贾导：那扇门没有彻底关闭，但缝隙越来越小了。早年凭借媒体身份或人情关系，我确实进入过许多“封闭”的空间。如今，不仅制度更紧，人物也更有防备。很多人已经习惯于“为镜头而活”，真实变得更难靠近。但这也逼着我去寻找新的路径，比如用更长期的陪伴、更温和的拍摄方式，去慢慢接近一个人的真实。

刚才你提到，1978年以后你接触到了新的思想和价值观，其中也包括来自国外的。当时有哪些国外艺术家对你产生了深刻影响？

贾导：那太多了，因为我们那时候的知识、眼界都很贫乏、空洞。那时我们那个年代特别崇尚苏联，受苏联的影响，能够看到他们的一些绘画、电影。后来改革开放以后，窗户一下子打开了，我们可以看到了更多的东西，我们也在努力学习更多的知识内容，实在太多了。如法国的新浪潮电影、美国好莱坞的商业大片，从剧情片到纪录片，从文学到摇滚乐、绘画、摄影，这些外来文化冲击着我们，在我们内心里长生激荡。可以说在各种领域都对我们生活和思想产生了极大的影响。

像我自己，就特别喜欢欧洲的那些文化，比如法国新浪潮电影。当然古典的也都非常美。很多希腊的影片、西班牙、瑞典的影片，都让我记忆深刻。这都是我从走私光碟中淘来的影片。那时候我们都拼命地淘光碟、看光碟。除了那些宏大的史诗巨片、战争大片、商业情感片之外，我还有很多的小众获奖影片，就是所谓文艺性探讨类的片子，对我更有启发性，也偏纪实。

在这个过程中，我不断学习、不断成长。最开始没有摄像机，我用照相机拍摄图片，纪实风格，做一些摄影报道、图片故事。后来有了摄像机，就逐渐用活动影像来拍纪录片、专题片，记录时代，讲述人生，素材太多了。

我们周边很多非常优秀的同事、同学、好友，有的获得了普利策新闻奖、阿姆斯特丹（荷赛）新闻摄影奖     。那个年代我们经常在一起相互交流。不光讨论摄影图片，还有如何拍电影、拍纪录片，我们也接触到很多来华拍摄讲课的影像大师们，像欧文斯、吕克马布、布列松、安东尼奥尼这些，都是我们非常崇拜尊敬的大师。很多很多，比如刚去世的摄影大师萨尔加多等等，太多了。

这些在内心里一直激励着我去做非常有意思、令人欣喜的工作。对，我刚刚想起来，你知道吕楠吗？很好朋友，他的摄影集“西藏四部曲”。[指吕楠的四本摄影书《四季》《被遗忘的人》《在路上》和《缅北监狱》]

对，其实 你的一些作品让我想起吕楠。你觉得你的创作或灵感和他的有共同之处吗？

吕楠是我很好的大哥。他每次来深圳，我们都会聚会、吃饭、聊天。他给了我很大影响，不一定是教导，但是真正的启发。吕楠的四部曲、精神病院的作品，还有缅甸监狱的拍摄都特别棒。他真的是一个伟大的艺术家。他的镜头语言、画面呈现，都透露出一种深厚的人文关怀和悲剧色彩。他的作品一直深深印在我的脑海里。

我一直在努力学习，也在互相“撕扯”吧。因为我的工作是媒体摄影记者，每天要为都市报提供封面大图，媒体之间也有竞争。我们当然希望有突发事件，那种现场感强、画面生动的内容最受欢迎，但不是每天都有突发。所以平时我们要拍一些符合主流价值、吸引读者的照片。

但其实，我内心更向往那些自由、独立创作的艺术家。他们能遵从自己的内心，不受干扰地去拍自己想拍的东西。我特别崇拜他们，比如吕楠、颜长江、杨延康，还有很多。新闻摄影方面，像贺延光这些老师，也是我非常尊敬的朋友。

你们都关注边缘群体。但在我看来，你在照片和纪录片中更关注他们日常生活中的挣扎——那些持续的艰难。而他的作品似乎把“日常”提升成某种“事件”，带着一种更强的电影感。

贾导：对，我是因为工作的原因，静不下心来。在现场时，我总想着多拍一些，尽可能抓到更刺激的画面。完成之后，又急着交差，或者马上投入下一个任务。其实那时候内心是浮躁的，不够沉稳。

吕楠老兄不一样，他拍摄时能静静观察，敏锐捕捉人物关系。他能忘掉“作者”的存在，让观众进入画面本身。你在他的作品中看不到创作者的干预，而我那时候的镜头太用力了，甚至有些侵略性。

刚开始聊你说中国独立电影的生存空间在收紧，那您对年轻的纪录片着、导演有什么建议？

贾导：这个问题——空间缩小的话，因为我是媒体人，我们的感受非常强烈。空间缩小来自几个方面，在我的认知里：

你看，媒体中很多社会新闻和调查新闻的报道都受到了限制和制约。国家方面有管控，虽然允许异地的舆论监督，但我们原来做选题时，很多都是全国性的，甚至国际性的内容，我们都可以去做。现在几乎所有调查新闻和舆论监督类的报道都基本被停止了。这是从大的背景来说。

另外一方面，随着网络的发展和自媒体的盛行，大量突发事件或网络上的揭露，也会被很多网控及时下架或控制。所以现在国内的媒体环境，在我看来，和我们当年做新闻报道时相比，有很大差距。

但我认为，一个热爱新闻、关注社会、关注民生的作者、导演或记者，只要有责任心，有同情苦难、关心疾苦的职业道德，就还是会用心关注社会中发生的事情。这些可能是人文的，环境的，也可能是政府决策方面的内容，他都会长期跟踪、拍摄。这也是人们所需要的。

所以我的建议是：需要耐心、用心、坚持。

因为有时候不好说，国内媒体这块、舆论监督这块都非常敏感，很多东西确实是受到打压和管控的。不过想想，这种情况也不是一天两天了，一直以来都是这样。

你刚才说的那个问题——你说我现在不像以前那样，是一个特别热情地去拍摄的人，而是变得比较谨慎了。

记住你为什么开始。记住你想看见什么，而不是别人让你看见什么。保持敬畏，保持好奇，也保持耐心。有些真相不是靠追问就能得来的，而是靠陪伴、靠等待。有时关掉镜头，反而更靠近真相。

那您最终想达成的目标是什么？如果您有一天退休，在此之前您最希望完成的是什么？

贾导：我想想个问题……完成的。我很难回答这个问题。我现在拍的这些东西，完全是出于自己的爱好和职业习惯。我拍了很多，因为我热爱电影，也热爱记录，喜欢观察社会生活中的不同人物和故事。所以我在大理拍了大量的人。拍了这么多以后，现在最头疼的就是怎么归纳、总结、梳理、呈现这一群人的东西。我现在也在做整理和梳理。 我最近在找朋友，一起改写剧本，想拍一个剧情片。已经有一个朋友写了一个很好的短剧，我也把它改成了分镜头剧本。我希望在我还有能力之前，能指导一两部剧情片。

对，一两部剧情片。我现在不是在拍纪录片吗？但我想拍剧情片。剧情片就是有剧本、找演员来演绎的那种。

我现在改写的这个剧本，是关于怒江那边山民的故事 【云南省的山脉】，和他们当地的传说有关，讲的是村庄里的生与死。我已经为这个项目进山两三次了，也和一个朋友去做过考察。但投资太大了——不是说钱多，而是剧剧情片比我想象的复杂太多。要找演员、灯光、场景，各种东西。所以我希望在我还没完全停下工作之前，能拍成两部剧情片。就像贾樟柯那样，拍两部类似纪录片风格的剧情片。