In the winter of 1997, a photographer vanished in the Pamir Plateau. He was last seen photographing what were described as 'plants without shadows.' Local herders told me that the clearing once bloomed with beautiful flowers, but after a lightning-sparked wildfire raged out of control, even the Himalayan vultures ceased to return—it became a place 'favored by the devil.'
Years later, while working on a project about cosmic and religious epiphanies, I stumbled upon this story. Yet no trace of the missing photographer’s negatives could be found. So I retraced his path, venturing into blank spaces on the map as if deciphering a riddle written in snow and wind.
Crossing the highlands, I passed sacred mountains and holy lakes. The wind carried whispers of ancient prayers, and at times I caught fractured silhouettes in the light—recording a breath nearly forgotten by time. Tender yet tenacious marks crept through rock fissures, then across my own skin. They bore no names, belonged to no legends, and were remembered by none but me.
This project is a gaze into voids and myths, an interview with ghosts. I wonder what that photographer witnessed on such roads. Would he too have wondered what now blooms in this land where the devil has taken his leave?
