He grew up in a small town on the Chengdu Plain in Sichuan.
In the evenings of his childhood, his father would sit by the doorway, working with bamboo. His movements were slow and steady. The blade followed the grain, and the bamboo opened layer by layer, gradually turning into thin, delicate strands. The process was almost silent. Occasionally, a breeze would pass through the doorway, gently carrying the shavings across the ground.
He was still very young then.
To him, the material felt stubborn and direct—difficult to split, unwilling to bend, its edges sharp enough to cut into the skin if he wasn’t careful. It carried a quiet sense of resistance in his hands.
He would sit nearby and watch.
At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. He only knew that those moments felt unusually calm. Looking back, what stayed with him was not a specific technique, but the rhythm—the way the bamboo slowly opened in his father’s hands.
This was part of Daoming bamboo weaving, something that had always existed in everyday life. People used it to make baskets and containers, objects meant simply to be used.
His first involvement started small. Passing bamboo, clearing scraps, aligning the prepared strands one by one. The work was repetitive and slow, requiring steady attention. Over time, he found himself arranging the strands more carefully than necessary, straightening even the slightest misalignment.
Later, he tried weaving a small basket himself.
It wasn’t perfect. The edges were uneven, the shape slightly tilted. But when the final strand was tightened, it held its form. It stood quietly, without loosening or collapsing. He placed it on the ground and watched it for a moment.Then he called his father over. Neither of them said much. But you could feel the pride in that moment.
The process did not always go smoothly. The strands would break. The shape would shift away from what he had imagined. Broken sections were difficult to repair, and each attempt often felt like starting over.
Still, he would sit down and begin again, splitting bamboo slowly. The movements became familiar. The material followed its natural grain, and his hands gradually found a steady rhythm. With time, he began to notice more subtle things—the tension in each strand, the angle of each bend, the way force moved through different parts of the structure.
In Daoming, this craft is known for its fineness. Bamboo is split and shaved repeatedly until only extremely thin strands remain, then woven together with precision. The finished surface appears calm and even, revealing only slight variations as the light shifts.
Over time, the work traveled further. It was documented, exhibited, and eventually placed within the framework of intangible cultural heritage in China.
Some people focus on its intricacy and complexity. Others begin to see it differently.
Now, he has been doing this for many years. In a fast-paced world, he continues to work at his own pace, with a quiet focus and a persistence that is difficult to put into words.
It has always been there.
It only needs to be seen.