Dali is life
The world often says power hides peril and money holds temptation. Now that the bubbles have burst and the water cleared to reveal the stones below, life shows its truest face.
Here, a cup of coffee costs 5 yuan or a refined specialty 48 yuan; high-end homestays charge a thousand yuan a night, while shared apartments for young literati rent for a few hundred yuan monthly. Delicacies from across the country gather—light vegetarian meals and hearty meat dishes each have their appeal. What’s more, charitable folks have long offered free vegetarian feasts, warming countless hearts and stomachs.
No wonder they say, Dali is life. I believe it.
Postscript to Notebook Photo Exhibition
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Postscript to Notebook Photo Exhibition -
The year-end wind sweeps through the lanes of Dali Ancient City, softening the winter cherry blossoms’ vivid hues into subtle grace and shaking the last leaves off withered branches in villages and the old town. The alley dwellers are hard to label — some bear poets’ romance and artists’ perceptiveness, others brim with musicians’ passion and photographers’ clarity, and most are just ordinary, vibrant souls. They may be indigenous residents rooted here for generations, sojourners drawn by Dali’s charm, climate-driven migrants, utopian idealists, or determined entrepreneurs. Wandering Wenxian Road’s market, stalls run by young literati display ingenious trinkets, where daily hustle mingles with creativity, evoking the festive buzz of temple fairs and year-end gatherings ahead of time.
Nestled deep in the alleys is a spacious courtyard house, its blue tiles and white walls exuding understated elegance. Steeped in daily warmth, it blends contemporary vitality with earthly charm, and stands as one of Dali’s most storied corners. Countless cultural figures, poets and artists once lived, created and reflected here; numerous art events and anecdotes took root, and untold encounters, friendships and romances quietly unfolded.
I still recall the 10-yuan shared beds downstairs the exhibition hall, always bustling; the swimming pool ringing with laughter that cooled the summer heat; foreign girls sunbathing on flagstones, smiles crinkling their eyes; and wanderers lingering with beer from dawn till dusk. Hippie, punk, blues, hip-hop and Beatles tunes intertwined here, alongside folk music’s softness, rock’s fervor and country music’s simplicity — weaving this humble rural spot into a nexus connecting the world. Back then, Foreigners’ Street was barely a hundred meters long, with just a handful of cafes, bars and galleries, and few guesthouses. The earliest youth hostels and homestays — MCA and Tibet Coffee — were the predecessors of today’s Boxin Yunshe Guesthouse.
The Cangshan Mountains stand unchanged, their snow-capped peaks timeless, while my hair has turned faintly gray, another year passed. I often retreat to the bamboo groves, watching clouds drift and counting stars at night, finding the poetic “life elsewhere” amid the hustle of daily life.
The world often says power hides peril and money holds temptation. Now that the bubbles have burst and the water cleared to reveal the stones below, life shows its truest face.Here, a cup of coffee costs 5 yuan or a refined specialty 48 yuan; high-end homestays charge a thousand yuan a night, while shared apartments for young literati rent for a few hundred yuan monthly. Delicacies from across the country gather — light vegetarian meals and hearty meat dishes each have their appeal. What’s more, charitable folks have long offered free vegetarian feasts, warming countless hearts and stomachs.
No wonder they say, Dali is life.
I believe it.
Who posted a painting to Paris
On the last day of the year, Mr. Zero sends two folded cloth “paintings” from a remote Chinese town to the Grand Palais in Paris. Unsure whether to believe him, the narrator follows the quiet strangeness of the moment — a story suspended between doubt, hope, and the possibility of art.
Author: Mr. Nima / Emptiness, Ning
Photographer: Mr. Nima / Emptiness, Ning
December 31, 2025, the last morning of the year. I accompanied Mr. Zero to the town post office. He was sending a parcel from this remote southern Chinese town to Paris, France. The recipient’s info was all in French, which annoyed me as an English learner. He didn’t even have a mailbox or proper address, yet he dared to send something that far.
Opening his package surprised me. Inside were just two neatly folded, paint-stained pieces of cloth. Mr. Zero said earnestly they were two paintings he’d made during his mountain seclusion, to be sent to the Grand Palais in Paris for its February 2026 exhibition. The paintings were tightly wrapped, so I never saw them. I know nothing about art anyway, so I just took his word for it.
After all, who in this rural area would spend hundreds of yuan shipping a parcel to a major European city? Contemporary art and salons sound so far from our daily lives. I know LV and French perfumes, but I’ve never flown Air France. Fine, I believed him — at least he didn’t seem crazy.
It’s New Year’s Eve. Everyone is waiting for the New Year bell. I’m off to meet friends, wishing for years of peace ahead. I’m heading back to the city to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them. As for this story, I’ll pick it up tomorrow, in the new year.