The Documentarian: John Choy
Veteran photographer John Choy has experimented with different forms of imagery, from commercial portraits to street snapshots. For Choy, however, Hong Kong’s cityscape is his most fascinating subject—he never gets tired of it. He is best known for his photo series of the now-demolished Lower Ngau Tau Kok Estate, which portrays the lives of the residents of the one of the last resettlement blocks in the city.
How did you get into photography?
I discovered my passion for photography when I was in Form Three [about age 15]. After matriculation, I enrolled in a photography course at the Hong Kong Christian Service Kwun Tong Vocational Training Centre. In fact, many news photographers are graduates of this institution. I had no idea about the different branches of photography at that time, but I wanted to make a living by taking pictures. After graduation, I worked for a few publications, including City Magazine, Ming Pao and Next Magazine. I once opened a studio to do commercial photography, but now I am freelancing.
Tell us your philosophy of photography.
I like to take thought-provoking pictures, but I don’t think it’s necessary to provide answers in my work. Recently, I want to take pictures of a semi-completed, broken bridge. The audience might ask whether the bridge is a by-product of poor urban planning, or whether the construction will be finished in the future. To me, the broken bridge is very symbolic. I came across an article online, and the author described Hong Kong as a broken bridge. Migrants fled to Hong Kong in the 1960s and planned to leave within a short time. However, the bridge became disconnected, and they were forced to stay. I think the photo gives the readers room for imagination.
What sort of equipment do you use?
I also take infrared photographs [captured on film that is sensitive to infrared lights], but I turned totally digital after 2007 because digital cameras can be modified to do infrared photos. When using film for infrared photography, a lot of things—for example, the film speed and the exposure—cannot be controlled. You have to take a large quantity of photos before getting a satisfactory image; what it takes to process the film is also tiring. Like film, digital images have a surprise element, too. I use the technique of stitching [taking a couple of shots and putting them together into one image], and I am only able to find out the real effect of the pictures after retouching on the computer.
Tell us more about your Lower Ngau Tau Kok Estate project.
In the beginning, it was a commercial project commissioned by the Housing Authority. But the panoramic images of the interiors of flats there, which are in my book, are not related to that project. I told the officials about my approach, but they thought I was glamorizing the lifestyle of the residents. I spent a year in the estate, and the residents trusted me.
Some people say there are fewer things to be photographed in Hong Kong than before. Do you agree?
Yes and no. The contrast between the new and old is not as strong [because of the demolition of old buildings]. However, there are a lot of other absurd things in Hong Kong. For example, the Nan Lian Garden is located near the Chi Lin Nunnery in Diamond Hill, and it is surrounded by Buddhist pines, a very expensive tree species imported from the mainland. There is a wood museum inside the garden, but all the exhibits originate from the mainland. Even though the garden looks pretty and everything, it seems out of place in Hong Kong. Such instances present a lot of interesting elements for photographers.
How do you feel about the growing popularity of photography in Hong Kong?
The fundamental problem is how people define photography. In my opinion, photography means painting with light. The Chinese word for photography literally means “capture the shadows,” and it carries a strong connotation. It has an impact on the behavior of some photographers, who are not aware of their intrusive manners.