For this issue we invited photographer Chen Chuanduan from China and Alice Muratore from Italy. Taking their mutual interest in mysticism they agree to approach their A Visual Dialogue in a fresh way using narrative devices whilst  blindly building their tale with just 6 images each and in a limited time frame. Of course they start with no previous connection or knowledge of each other. Yet they weave together a delightful visual tale from opposite sides of the world. 

December 31, 2024
Chen:


Hi Alice,
I’m genuinely thrilled to be working with you on this exciting project. I deeply admire the imaginative spaces your works create, as well as the enchanting sense of empathy they evoke. It’s wonderful to realize the shared qualities and inspirations we have, such as drawing from mythology, science fiction, and other artistic mediums, and our fascination with experiences that transcend the visible world.

As we begin this dialogue, I’m quite open to ideas for themes. I currently have two broad concepts in mind, but I’d love for you to refine them or make the final decision:

1. A Collection of Mythical and Allegorical Impressions
This idea involves creating a series of images that subtly hint at myths, legends, and allegories without the need to provide a detailed study or narrative about the symbols or background. Through our daily lives and creative process, we could capture or produce images that suggest something otherworldly—be it a fable, a legend, or familiar story elements.

2. A Fictional Narrative through 12 Images
In this concept, we would act as “novelists,” using 12 images to construct a fictional story or narrative. Due to the limited number, we wouldn’t aim to fully depict all elements such as time, place, characters, plot, or resolution. Instead, our narrative dialogue would drive the progression of the story.

These are just my initial ideas, but I’d love to hear any additional thoughts or preferences you might have. I look forward to your reply!
Wishing you a Happy New Year and an inspiring 2025. I can’t wait to see where our dialogue takes us.

Warm regards,

Chen Chuanduan

December 31, 2024
Alice


Hi Chen,

Thank you for sharing these wonderful ideas. Both are intriguing, but maybe I prefer the second one because it has a particularly stimulating potential. I’d love to move forward with that concept. You can create the first image and I’ll respond with the second image, building upon the elements you introduce and continuing to expand the storyline. This approach feels like an exciting way to let the narrative unfold organically and collaboratively.

I can't wait to see how it turns out.
Wishing you a Happy New Year as well!

Best,
Alice 

the geography of the void

Chen
The streetlights in the town always go out on snowy nights, but the elders say that if you venture into the forest at such times, faint glimmers of light will appear, as if carrying some kind of message.

Alice
At first I thought it was just an old superstition, but one night I saw them. The snow-filled sky made the edge of everything disappear. My footsteps on the wet ground, mixed with dirty snow, made no sound. There was no fear, just a strange familiarity as if I had been down that path before. Near a tree a small light appeared with a trembling intensity as if it would go out at any moment. It was a strange light, as if that light source sucked in the light instead of emitting it. When I approached the light, for a moment the forest disappeared and everything became white. I had the feeling I was experiencing a memory. Was it taking me back to something I'd forgotten?

Chen:
“Hold out your hand, Alice.”
A faint, indistinguishable voice suddenly echoed, as if emerging from some kind of void.
Dazed, I complied, and in an instant, the surrounding whiteness vanished. I found myself back in the forest, with threads of an unrecognizable nature piercing through my palms. I realized that hidden memories were attempting to return to my mind in this strange and inexplicable way.

(Hi Alice, I was imagining—could this be the beginning of revisiting a childhood memory? Or perhaps someone else’s memory that was once lost in this jungle? It might belong to me, or perhaps to a stranger, someone with a story connected to the town. This mysterious forest could be a sanctuary for forgotten memories, or even a mystical realm that transcends time and space.
By the way, in my earlier caption, I used the name “Alice.” It reminded me of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and I thought it might be a playful nod to that story. Perhaps it’s also a clever double entendre in this dialogue with you! That said, feel free to change it to something else—it’s entirely open to interpretation.
Looking forward to your thoughts!
)

Alice:
I couldn't move. The thin threads seemed to pulsate, almost breathe, like living roots trying to burrow inside me. Then, suddenly, they tensed with a final shudder and disappeared under my skin, leaving a feeling of emptiness. The air filled with a dull sound, a crack, like ice shattering underfoot.  I looked at my hands: thin scars made irregular marks on the palm, like incisions left by something ancient. They weren't simple wounds. The lines intertwined with each other in a shape that seemed to mean something. A map? A symbol? What if it was a message? An unknown language etched into the skin or perhaps a memory imprinted by something that refuses to be forgotten? I touched the grooves with my fingers and for a moment it seemed to me that they were still pulsating.

(Hi Chen, I love the idea of the forest as a sanctuary for forgotten memories, something that holds traces of the past, whether personal or belonging to someone unknown. Yes it could be a childhood memory or even something the protagonist has never experienced but ties her to it in some way. I think that lights could be a sort of guide that drag the protagonist towards the unknown, into the depths of memory, to rediscover something lost. The double “Alice” reference is brilliant. It also adds an extra layer of ambiguity, as if we are entering a place where reality changes and things take on new meanings.)

Chen:
Suddenly, a memory that is not limited to any specific place surged into my mind.
On a beach where the waves roared, a crowd of people speaking an incomprehensible language was carrying an old and decaying fishing boat across the sand. The boat, ancient and worn, had carvings on its sail resembling the patterns in the palm of my hand. The crowd around me was at times noisy, at other times murmuring what seemed like an ancient chant.
I could not understand the words, but the sounds flowed with prayers and reverence.

Alice:
Every sound seemed to wave in the air as if it belonged to another time. Yet it was as if I had heard that song before.  As I approached the crowd and the boat I realized that the incisions in the sail coincided perfectly with my scars. It was as if my body and that vessel were linked. When my cast shadow touched the carvings on the boat's sail something happened. The waves retreated as if the sea was holding its breath. A blue flame suddenly lit up on the sand. Its light did not illuminate but revealed. 
I understood that it was a funeral boat. That boat wasn't just crossing the sand. It was passing through time. And perhaps, even my very existence. For an instant, the beach disappeared and fragments of other places overlapped in my memory. It was like a journey through memories where I could move and live or relive those moments. It seemed like something unreal, but it was really happening.

Chen: 
The flames were not the end. In a half-dream, half-awake state, towering deities emerged, their forms like mist, each bearing a third eye on their foreheads.
‘Sacrifice,’ a solemn voice echoed, ‘your soul will burn and transcend time. We have come to take you to the sea.’ I felt an irresistible force pulling me into the flames. My body gradually turned transparent, dissolving into specks of light, linking indistinguishable threads together. I am the boat—I suddenly realized.

Alice: 
I was dissolving, or perhaps transforming, as my consciousness expanded into something larger. I was wood and sail, current and wind. I was no longer on the beach. Now I was sliding on a sea that did not reflect the sky, but fragments of memory. The waves were not made of water, but of forgotten memories. Looking around me I saw the past intertwined: unknown faces, places I didn't remember having seen, lives that seemed to belong to someone else and, at the same time, to me. The voices of singing on the shore had not vanished, but echoed on the water like a continuous reverberation, a thin thread that kept me anchored to something indefinite.
The deities followed me without moving, their three eyes fixed on me. The sea dragged me forward, yet I felt I was moving away, as if I were twirling in space while the land beneath me became smaller, more distant, indefinable. Time bent like the waves beneath me, and every fragment of memory dissolved into the water.
Then, a whisper cut through the wind, faint but inescapable: ‘‘Listen. They know. Do you remember?’’

(Hi Chen, I wanted to create an image that resonates as a fusion of memories, so I layered different photos together, blending past and present. The idea was to evoke the feeling of something slipping through time, just like the story itself, where memories are not just recalled but relived, transformed, and reshaped. The flames, the sea, the carvings, they all speak of something lost yet never truly gone. I find it fascinating how these elements intertwine, almost as if the story itself is guiding its own course.)

Chen:
Since entering the forest, everything that has happened before my eyes, everything my body has felt, seems to be trying to give me new memories. But these memories feel more like a 'substitute,' replacing my original memories. I’ve begun to forget, unable to recall why I came to this town, why I walked into the forest on this snowy night.
'Do you remember?' The voice asked again. 'Do you remember your name?' 'My name?' I began to struggle. 'Ali…A? My name?'
I tried to remember. Images of my parents when they were young started to appear in my mind. They grew up in this town, fell in love, and even got married. But I had never seen my mother. Wait, what was my mother’s name? I began to feel a headache. The real memories grew blurred. I remember my father saying that my name was connected to my mother, but I couldn’t remember my own name, and it seemed I had never remembered hers.

(Dear Alice, In this reply, I have attempted to provide some more "documentary" images. Currently, all of our images are rather abstract or elusive. Since we still have three final pieces to complete, the parents I’ve introduced here are just a part of the memory, not central to the main storyline—an ethereal mix of memories and experiences.)

Alice: 
"Not remembering is part of the process," the voice said, closer this time, almost tangible. “Let the forest guide you.”  The snow began to fall more heavily, enveloping everything in a muffled silence. I looked around and saw that the contours of the forest were changing. The trees, bare and naked, now seemed to be made of glass. They reflected a pale, vibrant light and shadows could be seen through their transparent surfaces like fragments of lost memories. In every reflection there was a piece of existence that I didn't fully remember, but it seemed to belong to me: a set table, an open window through which a spring wind blew in, a hand holding a flower. 
"Don't stop." The voice returned, deeper, more decisive.  "Who are you?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.  "It doesn't matter who I am. It matters who you are." 
The wind blew harder, pushing me insistently towards something that seemed to lie beyond the forest. With each step, however, I felt that something inside me changed, as if I were leaving pieces of memory along the path. The flickering lights appeared again, this time dancing among the trees. I knew I had to follow them, but fear was starting to creep into my chest. What memories would they take away from me this time?  Despite the fear, my feet began to move, driven by an energy I couldn't control. The forest transformed with each step and with it my identity seemed to crumble.  That perhaps remembering meant forgetting?

(Dear Chen, The forest seems to play a more significant role in shaping the protagonist's memory. I’m looking forward to seeing how we conclude the story.)

Chen:
I continued walking through the snowstorm, each step reshaping the ground beneath me, yet it seemed to grow familiar. The chaos and unpredictable changes I had feared did not seem to occur.
I turned back to look at the path I had come from, and through the blinding snow, I thought I saw my mother's face. The face I had never seen before suddenly became clear, gentle and unfamiliar. She smiled, holding a bouquet of wildflowers, as if she had never left.
"Go back," the voice suddenly softened, "Don't forget me, Alice." In an instant, everything turned white, just like when I first entered the forest.
Before me stood the streetlights of the town, gazing out into the night, casting a blurry, diffused glow. I stood there, staring at them blankly.

(Dear Alice, It did begin with me and will end with you. Everything has turned out to be unexpected - such a unique experience.)

Alice: 
I turned to the forest, now distant, its perimeter dissolved in the light. “Remembering means losing something,” I told myself. It was as if the forest had not given me back my memories, but had shaped them, intertwining them with those I had let go.  Perhaps it was never my memory that was at stake, but the forest itself: a living entity that existed to create and sculpt what others forget. Who was I really? I asked myself once again. My name seemed to belong to another person, or perhaps to all the people who had walked in that forest before me. 
Maybe it was never me who decided to enter, perhaps it was the forest itself that called me. I took a step towards the city. The forest was silent now, but its silence spoke louder than a thousand words. I felt that when I returned to the city I would no longer remember all this, perhaps not even my mother's face. 
With a last glance at the shadows reflected on the snow, I advanced towards the uncertain glow of the city. Each step was lighter, as if the weight of my memories was dissolving, making room for something new.  When I reached the first streetlight, the white behind me completely dissolved, swallowed up by the night. The voice whispered, soft as a breath of wind: “Remembering is an act of creation. And now it's your turn.”

(Dear Chen, this is my last image. It has been a truly wonderful experience collaborating with you and sharing this journey. I feel the story has taken on a life of its own, and I’ve enjoyed every step of shaping. Thank you for everything, it’s been inspiring to work alongside you.)

Following the collaboration we asked Alice and Chen about the experience.

What was your personal experiences of A Visual Dialogue process?
Alice: The process was incredibly enriching and surprising. Collaborating with someone I had never met before, from another part of the world, allowed me to explore new ideas and perspectives. The interplay between images and text felt like an ongoing discovery, where each step continually reshaped the story and further pushed narrative and creative boundaries.

Chen: It was a very novel experience. I didn’t have similar creative or collaborative experiences in the past. This uncertainty was almost nonexistent in my previous photographic work. I’ve always been 'ambitious' in making my pieces, and each frame would first be planned in my mind, playing a different, but definite role in the project. Each one was imbued with meanings that I had pre-designed.
This conversation has broken many of my past creative habits. It feels fresh and unique, and I believe it will become a very special part of my creative memory.

How do you feel about the outcome?
Alice: 
I am truly happy with the outcome. At the beginning I was a little hesitant but as the exchange went on it almost seemed like the narrative was building itself perfectly. The story that emerged feels personal and universal at the same time and I think it strikes a good balance between the abstract and the tangible. It became more than just an exchange of visuals; it turned into a deeply layered narrative.

Chen: 
As for the final result, I am already very satisfied! But to be honest, if not for the time and quantity limitations, we could have done even better. For example, we could have designed the story to be more thought-provoking, introducing more characters and events (which would require more time for creation), making the story more complete and enriching the visual experience. Once again, I’d like to thank you for providing such an opportunity, and I’m especially grateful to Alice. She always responds quickly, is enthusiastic, and creative, and I truly appreciate that.

How will it affect the way you work, or think about making work in the future?
Alice:
 This experience has reinforced the idea that collaboration can be transformative. It reminded me of the importance of letting go of control and trusting the process, which often leads to unexpected and inspiring results. I will definitely apply this approach to future projects, especially the idea of integrating multiple voices into a cohesive creative expression.

Chen: Entering 2025, I have come to realize that as an independent creator, relying solely on 'photography' as a medium might sometimes be limiting. I am considering the possibility of collaborating with more artists, including those working in other mediums such as installation art, textile art, and performance. I have recently been exploring these fields as part of my practice.

alice muratore @muratorealice
chen chuanduan @chenchuanduan

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