Seeing the world, Seeing Myself

Story of Qin Xiaoyue

Hello everyone, my name is Qin Xiaoyue, and I’m a documentary filmmaker.

But for a long time, I didn’t feel much sense of identity with that title.

To explain how I came onto this path, I need to start from the so-called “end of the world.”

The World and Me

On December 21, 2012 — the final day of the Mayan calendar —

I was on the streets of Shanghai interviewing strangers.

I asked them:

“If today really were the end of the world, what would you regret in your life?

And if there is something you regret, what has stopped you from doing it?”

I hoped to use these questions to encourage people to face their true inner desires.

I did this not because I cared that much about other people’s dreams,

but because I wanted to live in a world where ideals are encouraged.

At the time, I had just graduated from college and was about to step into society.

I felt a strange kind of fear and deep confusion.

My friends around me all seemed unhappy —

doing jobs they didn’t like,

giving up the possibilities of life early,

all for the sake of a distant, so-called stability.

I didn’t want to blend into a society where it seemed that nobody was living the life they truly wanted.

That idea frightened me.

Fortunately, the “end of the world” interviews gave me confidence.

I discovered that filming wasn’t scary at all.

On the contrary, the camera seemed to have a kind of magic.

Because of the camera’s presence, I suddenly had the courage to ask those naïve questions.

And in front of the camera, people seemed to take those questions more seriously, too.

The camera opened a new window through which I could see the world again.

“The world” was no longer a vague and abstract word;

it became one person after another, each with their own face and story.

After feeling the joy of filming for the first time,

the next summer, I set off alone on a train trip around China.

I wanted to see more stories of strangers —

to understand what led them to the lives they were living,

and what their dreams were.

I saw this as a kind of social research before officially entering society,

and I hoped that by the end of the journey,

I’d better understand what kind of life I truly wanted for myself.

Along the way, China’s magnificent landscapes gave me visual stimulation,

and the strangers’ stories gave me spiritual strength.

I filmed train vendors, backpackers, beggars, massage technicians —

people who normally would have no intersection with my own life —

but in front of the camera, they opened their hearts.

The first person who made a deep impression on me

was a seventy-six-year-old beggar I met at the Guangzhou train station.

Every time I saw a beggar,

I never knew whether I should give them money or not,

because I wasn’t sure what was “right.”

There were also professional beggars — hard to tell apart.

But this man was different.

He didn’t shout, didn’t play pitiful,

he just sat there quietly.

The next day, I saw him again in the same spot.

I gathered my courage and decided to talk to him.

When I lifted my camera,

everyone around him scattered away,

but he stayed calm,

speaking in dialect, telling over and over how he had become a beggar.

When he was young, he gave his farmland to his younger brother,

who promised to support him in old age.

But when that time came, the promise wasn’t kept.

In anger, he left home to beg,

walking all the way from Shandong to Guangzhou.

That was the first time I realized

that even begging could be something done with pride.

I asked if he had ever met fake beggars.

He said no.

He said some people had children but still came out to beg,

because asking for money from relatives was even harder;

rather than begging people directly, it was better to beg on the street.

A question that had puzzled me for years was suddenly answered.

Even in a situation despised by everyone,

that could still be the most dignified way for someone to live.

The second person who stayed in my memory

was a train vendor I met on the way to Kunming.

That day I changed my ticket at the last minute

and ended up in a carriage next to the staff’s.

In the morning, he saw me eating a piece of bread with a sausage inside and said,

“That bread looks special — must be expensive.”

That made me curious about him.

After the train arrived, we arranged to film.

He told me he was just over twenty,

had cut ties with his family,

and had come alone from Qujing to Kunming to work.

He’d done all kinds of labor jobs but learned nothing.

Only recently had he passed the interview to become a train vendor,

wearing a neat uniform that made him proud.

His dream was to build his own airplane and fly it around the world.

At first, I thought he meant model airplanes,

but no — he meant a real one.

He said he had the talent to do it.

I froze for a few seconds.

In that pause, I was afraid he’d think I was laughing at him.

So I kept talking,

and found out he had gone to high school for one year,

but when he found out he was nearsighted, he decided to drop out.

This caused a big fight with his parents.

Only after leaving home did he realize

how huge the difference was between the city and the countryside,

between one person and another.

It might sound absurd — quitting school because of nearsightedness —

but looking back,

he was probably just trying to protect his dream of flying.

In his mind, if your eyesight was bad, you couldn’t be a pilot.

He didn’t realize he could have gone to college and left the countryside that way.

That one decision took his life down another path.

When we said goodbye, he asked me to take his picture

in front of the golden bull statue at the train station.

He said the bull was like himself — struggling forward.

His name was Wu Zhuoyuan —

a name he’d chosen for himself.

That two-month journey shaped my sense of purpose in life.

The world revealed to me a new spiritual reality —

that no matter what condition, age, or profession a person is in,

deep down there is always an instinctive longing

for an ideal life — even if life has failed them before.

I called the film The World and Me,

because I believed the world is the sum of all the “me’s.”

As long as each person loves life,

they are creating a better world.

After the trip, I seemed to understand what kind of life I wanted to live.

I wanted to use the medium of film — the most emotionally powerful form —

to awaken people’s innate longing for a life they love,

and to inspire them to cherish their own existence.

Actually, I had never studied filmmaking.

Facing piles of footage, I didn’t know where to begin.

By the time the film was finally finished, it was the end of 2015.

Forty-some minutes long,

it had no technical sophistication — only emotion.

But in 2016, I received over a hundred screening requests from across China.

Anyone who had a projector and could organize a showing

could request to screen it for free.

I wanted this story of self-discovery

to take root and grow all over the world.

I also actively took part in post-screening discussions.

I believed the faith in ideals was being raised and magnified

through every screening.

Once, I even saw my poster placed next to Jia Zhangke’s.

I began to feel full of expectation for my own future.

The Other Side of Idealism

But it felt like fate was teasing me:

since you love to encourage others to pursue their dreams,

I’ll put someone before you who’s completely trapped in harsh reality—

so you can see what lies on the other side of ideals.

At one Shanghai screening of The World and Me,

I met a viewer named Fang Junrui.

After everyone else had left,

he came up to me and said his dream was to work in cultural relic restoration.

But he had never found a job related to it.

Every museum or auction house he was interested in required higher education.

Even when he tried ordinary jobs, he couldn’t last more than three months.

So he was gloomy all the time,

living with his parents and two cats

in a 30-square-meter old apartment in central Shanghai.

He had a slight stutter,

his face would flush red as he tried to speak but couldn’t express himself clearly.

That made me curious about his inner world.

I thought maybe I could make a film

about a young man in Shanghai chasing his dream of cultural relic restoration —

perhaps even help him find a job.

But during the very first shoot,

I caught the father and son arguing in front of the camera.

The son couldn’t find his dream job,

was deeply depressed,

sometimes so low he couldn’t even get out of bed.

He poured all his energy into buying books;

there were so many that there was barely room left for a person to stand.

His father thought he never actually read them — that it was just escapism.

For a new director,

this was terrifying —

to suddenly stand in the eye of such a family storm,

completely unprepared.

But I couldn’t escape;

my camera just kept recording.

When I went back for the second shoot and saw an even worse argument,

I hesitated whether to continue.

Clearly, this wasn’t going to be

a story of redemption through chasing dreams.

Fang’s father once encouraged him to pursue his dream.

He even paid a lot of money

for him to take a course with a famous Shanghai restoration master.

One of the assignments was to repair a porcelain bowl.

Pointing to the half-fixed bowl, the father said,

“If you really loved this craft, that bowl would’ve been finished long ago.”

So I said,

“Then let’s wait until you finish fixing the bowl before filming again.”

I meant to encourage him to take action.

But he saw right through me.

He said,

“You’ll never get an inspiring story out of me.”

If I already knew it wouldn’t be an inspiring story,

was there still a reason to keep filming?

That was the question I wrestled with then.

Meanwhile, I realized the father also saw the camera as his chance to speak.

He was desperate to make his son face reality,

to stop having unrealistic fantasies.

He said,

“‘I want to live a meaningful life’—that’s just empty talk.

How many people can really live a meaningful life?”

He said it to his son,

but it felt like a slap across my own face.

Encouraging people to chase their dreams isn’t wrong,

but at that moment it felt hollow.

Who doesn’t already know that dreams are good?

Fang sat there, dejected yet hopeful,

and asked me,

“Do you think my father is right?”

I was speechless.

I didn’t know what to say.

I wanted to disappear.

But if I ran away now,

everything I built in The World and Me —

my belief in life, my desire to show human goodness through film —

would collapse.

Then Fang said,

“If you want to film, I’m willing to tell you my story.

We’ll be like Jiang Taigong fishing — those who wish to bite will bite.”

At the time, we both thought we were the one holding the fishing rod.

Filming a documentary, I’ve learned, is like temptation.

For both director and subject,

you’re driven forward by an irresistible pull,

unable to stay rational.

Once a camera enters life,

everyone wants to prove something in front of it.

Fang’s father, desperate to wake his son up,

made his final attempt before the camera.

His mother disagreed,

believing that scolding such a fragile person

might break him completely.

So she joined the fight.

The three of them argued constantly on camera.

As an observer, my emotions were unstable too.

Fang often talked about suicide in front of the lens,

and I was terrified I might film something I’d regret forever.

I began to judge myself morally,

wondering if my presence had intensified their conflicts.

Sometimes I had nightmares.

I backed away.

After all, why get myself trapped in such a vortex?

I stopped filming, went traveling, found a job.

But the videos I made at work, or even the travel videos,

felt meaningless.

It seemed the essence of life

was hidden exactly in those relationships

you can’t escape yet can’t break through.

I reviewed the footage again.

My plan to make an inspirational film was gone,

but a real story was calling out to be seen.

I decided to accept the challenge,

drop all expectations,

and let the camera lead me toward the truth.

But before that, I told myself:

It’s not that I caused anyone’s pain—

it’s that the camera gave pain a chance to be seen.

Eight months later, I returned to Fang’s home.

This time, I learned that his father’s family had once been Shanghai compradores.

His grandfather ran a rickshaw company,

and his mother’s ancestors owned a large paint business.

But political upheavals had brought both families down.

Fang’s father had loved painting since childhood,

but political background checks kept him out of art school.

He never gave up painting,

though he worked for over twenty years in jobs he hated.

When job mobility was finally allowed,

he found a position doing medical illustration at a hospital.

That experience became his badge of honor,

a story he used to encourage his son to persist in his dreams.

But Fang saw it differently:

he saw how his family had once been wealthy,

and became more bitter about his own life —

blaming fate, blaming his era.

By then, he had a new friend from church, named Yang Guang,

who often visited, talking for hours each time.

The film finally shifted

from endless family quarrels

to deeper discussions about life —

philosophical, religious, social, and familial.

All the confusions one might encounter in life

emerged through their dialogues.

This was the most enjoyable phase of filming.

The camera felt like it had given me a god’s-eye view.

I watched him struggle, suffer,

and wondered if he’d ever find his own path.

Having a camera around made everyone feel special.

One day, Fang told Yang,

“I think God sent you and the director to me,

to help me out of my troubles.”

Filming itself seemed to become a force for change.

Everyone began hoping the future would somehow be different.

In that dim, cramped apartment,

his mother was always busy in the kitchen,

the TV played endless world news.

Fang and Yang discussed Trump, Taiwan, Western democracy, human desire,

and even Mencius’ rebellious spirit.

But two years passed—

and the bowl still sat there.

I began to worry that the filming

hadn’t brought him hope,

but had only encouraged unrealistic expectations.

I kept waiting for a positive ending,

but four or five years went by.

The bowl wasn’t finished.

His life hadn’t changed.

I decided I had to end the film.

When I awkwardly told him

that the shooting might have to stop,

he looked surprised, thought for a while,

and asked,

“What do you want to say through me?”

I reminded him,

“You told me from the start — this wouldn’t be an inspirational story.”

If he knew that from the start and still agreed, why?

I think it’s because people would rather have their pain seen

than be ignored.

Both father and son were deeply lonely.

The camera gave them a sense of presence.

During the long filming,

Fang must have imagined that his life might change.

But I — like an executioner — froze that moment,

telling him silently:

you were right, your life isn’t an inspirational story.

It was an unbearably cruel feeling.

In the final shoot,

Fang again said he saw no hope for the future.

He had called a suicide helpline recently.

Even his church friend could no longer comfort him.

This time, I said firmly,

“I have to go.”

The film ends with me slowly leaving their home,

fleeing almost.

Fang stands behind the security door,

the metal frame closing him in —

like a cage woven by family itself.

Self-Education of an Idealist

It looked as if the director got out safely,

but outside the camera, I was under immense pressure.

For a long time, I doubted myself,

thinking I had spent years on something meaningless.

No one would watch this film —

and even if they did, they might accuse me

of exploiting someone else’s pain.

Worse, I realized I was becoming more and more like Fang.

Just as he couldn’t finish that bowl,

I couldn’t finish this film.

Even my relationship with my parents grew tense.

When a person becomes full of resentment,

blaming the world,

what they really hate is the version of themselves

who failed to realize their ideals.

My parents once asked me two piercing questions:

“If you really love documentaries, why are you suffering so much doing it?”

“If you’re truly talented at it, why haven’t you finished the film?”

This film became my bowl.

Making documentaries can feel arrogant —

as if, with a few years of observation,

you can define someone’s entire life.

I believe anyone’s life can turn around at any moment,

but a film must have an ending,

and that’s painful for me.

Maybe accepting that there isn’t a “positive” ending

was itself the greatest meaning of this film —

my self-education as an idealist.

When everyone glorifies heroic success stories,

pain gets ignored —

as if it doesn’t exist.

But most of us are like Fang:

lost, struggling between ideals and reality.

Though documentaries record others’ stories,

the process of filming is also a chance

to examine your own life.

The “me” in The World and Me who encouraged others to chase their dreams wasn’t wrong —

but through filming Fang,

I realized that no one exists independently.

Dreams cano many years?”

That film became my bowl.

Making documentaries is like trying to define someone’s life after just a few years of observation.

It’s an audacious act.

I still believe that life can change at any moment —

but a film needs an ending,

and that was unbearably painful for me.

Perhaps the greatest meaning of making this film

was learning to accept the absence of a “positive” ending.

That acceptance itself became my self-education as an idealist.

When everyone is busy celebrating heroic, inspirational stories,

pain becomes invisible — almost as if it never existed.

Yet most of us are actually like Fang Junrui:

lost, struggling, and aching in the gap

between our ideals and our reality.

A documentary records someone else’s life,

but in the process, it forces the filmmaker

to examine their own.

The version of me in The World and Me —

who encouraged everyone to chase their dreams — wasn’t wrong.

But through filming Fang Junrui,

I realized that a person never exists alone in the world.

Ideals cannot be carried out by will alone,

because “you” are not only yourself —

you’re also part of a web of family and society.

Those three forces intertwine to shape who you are now.

That film, about an ordinary Shanghai family of three,

is titled Nest.

In 2023, it won the FIRST Film Festival Award for Best Feature Documentary

and has since traveled to many places with the festival.

After screenings, many audience members told me

they saw their own reflection in the film.

At one Shanghai showing,

Fang Junrui and his parents attended the post-screening talk.

His father said,

“Why do so many people come to watch this film? Because it’s real.”

In that moment,

the stone in my heart finally fell away.

I began to accept my identity as a documentary filmmaker.

But I also became gentler —

no longer waving flags for dreams,

no longer trying to push others to pursue theirs.

I just want to show people

the many different ways a life can be lived.

A New Journey

In 2022, I started a new project called Where to Settle Down.

It’s a documentary series about people who leave big cities

to start new lives in smaller towns.

It began when I read an online article

about young people buying homes in Hegang —

a small northern border city — for 50,000 yuan.

Hegang had been portrayed by the media

as a “haven for those who lie flat.”

Curious, I went there to meet some of the real people who had moved.

That became the short film Settling in Hegang.

Unexpectedly, this short film — barely over ten minutes long —

received an outpouring of responses online.

In my footage, these migrants were no longer the “social losers”

that headlines had described.

Low housing prices merely gave them

a chance to start over.

What truly moved me

was their tenacious vitality.

The key word of migration shouldn’t be “lying flat” —

it should be courage.

It’s courage that makes their stories so uplifting.

This treehouse in Shaxi is one of the most recognizable ones in the area.

It’s home to a couple and their two children.

Luna once taught children’s art in Shanghai.

Her husband, Xiao Ke, loved music

and used to run a bar in Lijiang.

After some years in Shanghai,

they planned to travel the country in a camper van.

But an unexpected pregnancy disrupted everything.

Eventually they settled in windy Shaxi,

opening a small dye workshop.

Yet life there wasn’t as romantic or free

as I had imagined.

On our second day, the couple quarreled.

Our arrival, along with some guests,

excited Xiao Ke.

He drank and chatted until late at night;

empty bottles rolled on the floor the next morning.

Luna scolded him lightly,

but he ignored her,

then complained to his friends:

“Getting married just means being controlled.”

That evening, Luna broke down in tears before her close friend.

She said,

“We’re filming Where to Settle Down,

but my own ‘where to settle’

has never followed my own will.

Whether in Dali or here in Shaxi,

I’ve always been following him.

I don’t understand —

why, after giving so much,

am I still the one accused of controlling him?”

It seems that everyday troubles

don’t vanish just because you move to a “romantic” place.

It’s easy to escape for a moment;

it takes far more courage

to truly build a life somewhere new.

Where to Settle Down is, in a sense,

a continuation of The World and Me — ten years later.

Both ask the same question:

What kind of life do I want to live?

But Where to Settle Down reflects my new understanding

of both the world and documentary filmmaking.

It strives to avoid preaching any ideology —

instead, it uses vivid human stories

to show the multiplicity of life itself.

Documentary and Me

Making documentaries can easily give one a sense of superiority —

as if we, by observing the “marginalized,”

hold answers for the world

or can rescue those who suffer.

But I’ve come to believe:

the meaning of making documentaries

must first be personal before it can be social.

It’s these vivid, authentic lives

that teach me what the world really is.

To explore the world while expressing oneself —

that’s an incredible privilege.

It may not yet be commercially sustainable,

but my experience of life

has been immeasurably broadened.

And when such life experiences

take shape as works of art,

they gain the power

to resonate with many others.

In that process,

as a creator,

you too are seen.

Thank you, everyone.