Five years ago for Fathers' Day, Sinorama asked several photographers to take pictures of their children. In the portraits, the photographers could not hide the love they felt for their children. Each photo was filled to the brim with affection.

This year, Sinorama has asked some photographers to present their fathers in photographs. These photographers, who day in and day out produce visual records for others, were shocked to realize that they had never taken a picture of their own fathers.

Its relatively easy to express one's love directly to a child. But to a father, who devoted 20 or 30 years to raising you, for most people (not just photographers), aren't feelings much more complex? This goes especially for the current generation, whose fathers were probably more authoritative toward their children.

Among those we asked were some for whom the word "father" is not a synonym for "affection," or who even might want to tell their fathers to "f**k off!" Yet in the end all turned in pater-graphs. Some who have never gotten along well with their fathers nevertheless held back their feelings in taking the photos. Looking at the photos now, they feel that this is not the same man they have known all their lives.

(the Editors)

Old Habits Are Hard to Break

The sky is blue, the sky is white, the sky is grey, the sky is. . . . Parents are heaven, parents are earth. It is said to be normal for the color of the sky to often change, and for parents' moods to often change. But "normal conditions" are not the same for everybody. Father is a little bit distant, a little bit abstract. Having lived through chaos, the vicissitudes of his life are reflected in his face, like most septuagenarians. What's different is his relationship to our family. He has mostly been away from home. He has always been, as he remains today, out roaming. If he comes home, it's a little strange for the family, and difficult for us to adjust all over again. It's hard to predict what things will be like on this coming Father's Day. Though the colors of the sky may change, it is always the sky. "Father" has long been equivalent to "remote". . . .

(text and photo by Ko Hsiao-tung)

Father's Day

My Dad was educated under the Japanese, and in his work was in frequent contact with Japanese. So from the time I was small I felt that some of his special characteristics were "very Japanese." Maybe that's how all the people from that generation are!

In my memories, it seems like "Father's Day" doesn't have any place. Its means virtually nothing to me. That's just the way I feel about Father's Day. I was always getting into trouble as a child, studied in the "dummy" class, and wasn't a very good student, and later enlisted in a military academy. When I was doing my military service, I went for a year without meeting with my father because of some conflict we had. In fact, I never really had anything to say to him. I have the impression that, aside from yelling at us, the most he ever said to us was when he told us to run an errand for him (because we didn't understand very well what he was saying).

I never understood his definition of family. Father's Day makes me think of my Mom, who toiled quietly and diligently at home, working very hard taking care of every little matter around the house, but always the days going by the same way.

My father always thought that he worked hard, giving everything for his family, striving to develop his business. But living in this family, it was impossible to escape the shadow of argument and conflict. Now my father has invested in mainland China, and spends little time in Taiwan. When he comes home everyone in the family feels tense.

He has always felt that he has sacrificed a great deal, a very great deal, for the family. But in my own mind, I can only see that old factory building and that empty lot covered in wild grass.

For me,

the significance of father is not very clear.

Photography was once the biggest source of conflict between us,

and for it I left home.

From the time I was small I felt aggrieved: Why did I have to live in

a high-stress family?

Now I am on my own. Perhaps I

have learned how to forgive and forget. . .

But I have never been able to understand "Father."

That's the way it always was,

and still is.

(text and photo by Lin Meng-san)

My Father

When my Old Dad was young, one year he had to bring New Year's food on behalf of his family to his elder brother, who was in the military serving in another county. So he left his old home of Xiushui, in Jiangxi Province. En route, he was caught up in the chaos of war, and could only flee, unable to return. Without a penny to his name, he tasted the bitter cold of winter and the heat of summer. Finally he came to Taiwan.

He married late, and when he was single he had already developed his own picky tastes. He also felt that it was more economical to cook himself, so he began to learn cooking. He still liked to cook even after getting married, and he became a modern "house husband."

In my mind, I see him coming back from work and hurrying into the kitchen, busily preparing a dinner of multiple dishes enough to feed a family, and also five lunchboxes for the following day. The family would gather together every night to enjoy fragrant dishes, but it really exhausted him!

Once he got started, he ended up making up those five lunchboxes for 20 years. His children are now grown, and don't need him to cook, but Mom is the same as ever: She insists on taking her "love lunch," made by her husband's own hands, to work every day.

(text and photo by Chou Ching-hui)

Photo o Father

I look at my father in this photo, and look and look, and I can't help but doubt what some people say about the connection between image and reality, that the image is an accurate guide to reality. I doubt this idea, because based on the image of my father that I have in my mind, this should not be the right photo. I say "should not," because I always thought of him as aloof, stern, and stubborn. I never felt close to this parent, or at least I never remember feeling close to him. Seeing my own son sitting proudly and contentedly in my father's embrace, I have mixed feelings. I'm thinking that the relations among the three of us are subtly changing. In the end, what will our relations be? Time flows eternally on. Will the remoteness that continually grew in our father-son relationship be reversed with time? What kind of portrait will there be of these relations, everything perhaps locked away and taboo, or perhaps opened up, after 20 or even 40 years?

Thus, what you see, this photo that I took of my father, is in fact only a mechanically reproduced flat image.

(text and photo by Hsiao Yung-sheng)

My Dad Chang Tzai-shang

Ever since I can remember, my father worked at his business so that his family would not fall behind others. In my memory, there is no image of a little daughter adorably sitting in her father's embrace. To say that I feel love toward my father wouldn't be as accurate as to say that hate once exceeded everything. When I was small I felt that he loved my grandparents more than he loved my mother. He pampered his brothers more than he pampered his own children. When I got a zero in math, no one took any notice. No one showed concern about my solitary nature. I didn't know what I would do in the future, and still I couldn't get an affectionate glance from my father. When I was 26, I left home in a resentful mood, determined to make it on my own.

I don't know if my life experience has taught me how to treasure what's important, or maybe the distance between our ways of thinking has narrowed as-or perhaps because-the physical distance between us has increased. In my days away from home, the profile of my father as I remembered him has become ever clearer. Whenever I think of his face, I recall the lines of worry between his eyes. That wrinkled brow, cut deep as if by a knife, bears the marks of things that have lain heavy on his mind.

My dad was also like a father to the family into which he was born as the eldest son. He departed from his hometown at age 13, leaving behind his mother's warm embrace, and began his days of ceaseless toil in Makung to support his family; he has never since put this burden down. In Makung harbor, with people coming and going, he experienced all the warmth and coldness humanity has to offer. He saw how life goes up and down like the waves. His rich life experience made him crafty and capable.

My father struggled in Makung for 50 years, but did not forget that he is from a tiny village. When I was small, friends from the country often came to our house to have tea with him. He never taught me any elaborate philosophy of life. He just told me that most country people are illiterate, and if I see some elderly person from the country trying to figure out what to do in the local government offices I should help them of my own accord. Though he was good at making money, he never taught us how to be crafty or worldly. He just told us over and over: "No matter how well or badly you get on with others, don't ever forget to help others, because, though the world is a big place, you will always run across them again." It was only after I turned 30 that I gradually began to understand this simple but profound logic. This was the precious experience he gained thorough a lifetime of hard work.

For friends, brothers, and parents he gave freely without complaint, and struggled on their behalf for a long time. I never heard that he wanted to give his children anything, but often heard about his friends, brothers, and parents.

The abstract term "family" comes to life through conversation after conversation. From the "wine-cooking ancestor" and the "white-bearded ancestor," right up to the one named "Old Clean River," generation after generation took to the sea to earn their living. This was always heavy in father's heart. From the time he was small he was determined to rewrite the family's destiny, so that the Chang men would not always have to be chained to the oars. To our generation, with our much higher standard of living, that kind of a mission sounds a little ridiculous.

Today, the fate of a family that depended for its livelihood on the sea has been changed. His brothers have all succeeded in their respective careers, as their parents hoped they would. But father's brow is still locked in that knitted position. When I see him bend over to change the diaper of his mother, who has been ill for many years, his brow is cleaved as deeply as if by a knife.