Photographs of heat flow monitoring

Appreciation of Zhu Ziqing's Prose Winter Speaking of winter, I suddenly thought of tofu. It's a "small ocean pot" (aluminum pot) for cooking tofu. It's hot. The water is rolling, like the eyes of many fish, and there is still a small piece of tofu in it, which is tender and smooth, like a white fox coat that is worn backwards. The pot is on the "foreign stove" (kerosene does not blow the stove), and the stove is blackened, which shows the whiteness of tofu. It's night and the house is very old. Although "foreign lights" were lit, it was still dark. Sitting around the table are my father and our three brothers. The "foreign stove" is too high. My father often has to stand up, squint slightly, reach into chopsticks from the dense heat, pick up tofu and put it into our pickles one by one. Sometimes we do it ourselves, but the stove is too high, and we always enjoy it. This is not eating, just playing. Father said it was cold at night, so everyone would be warmer after eating. We all like this kind of white water tofu; As soon as I served, I looked at the pot eagerly, waiting for the hot air, waiting for the tofu that fell from my father's chopsticks in the hot air. It is winter again. I remember it was on the night of November 16th of the lunar calendar. Mr. S, Mr. P and I are sitting by the West Lake. Mr. S has just arrived in Hangzhou to teach, and wrote in advance that "we are going to visit the West Lake, whether it is winter." The moonlight that night was really good, and now it still shines on me. It turned out that the night before was the "first of the month"; Maybe the moon in November is really special. It's past nine o'clock, and it seems that we are the only rowers on the lake. The wind is a little strong, and the moonlight sheds soft water waves; Just then, the line reflected light, like new silver. There are only faint shadows left on the mountains on the lake. Occasionally there are one or two lights under the mountain. S Jun Kouzhan has two poems: "A few stars shine on the fishing village, and the ink is light and the distance is light." We don't talk much, only the sound of oars is even. I gradually fell asleep. P jun "hello" for a moment, then raised his eyelids and saw him smiling. The boatman asked him if he wanted to go to Jingsi Temple. Today is Amitabha's birthday, and it's quite lively there. When I arrived at the temple, the temple was brightly lit and full of the voice of Buddha chanting, as if waking up a dream. This was more than ten years ago, and Mr. S often wrote to him. Mr. p heard that it was changed several times. The year before last, he received a special tax from a special tax bureau, and never heard from him again. After a winter in Taizhou, there are four people in my family. Taizhou is a mountain city, which can be said to be in a mountain valley. There is only one street two miles long. On other roads, almost no one can be seen during the day; It is dark at night. Occasionally, someone's window reveals a little light, and pedestrians hold torches; But that's very few. We live at the foot of the mountain. Some are the wind in the pine forest on the mountain and the shadows of birds in the sky. I went in late summer and left in early spring, but it seems that I have been living in winter; But even in winter, it is not cold. We live upstairs, and the study faces the road; You can clearly hear someone talking on the road. But because there are too few people walking, sometimes there is a sound, which can only be heard when the far wind comes, but it is unexpectedly outside the window. As strangers, we often just sit at home besides going to school. My wife is used to that kind of loneliness, too, and only stays with our father. Although it is always winter outside, it is always spring at home. Once I went to the street, when I came back, the wide window of the kitchen downstairs was open, and their mother and son were lined up side by side; Three faces smiled at me with innocent smiles. It seems that Taizhou is empty, only the four of us; The sky is empty, and there are only four of us. It was the tenth year of the Republic of China, and my wife had just come out from home and was at home. Now she has been dead for almost four years, but I still remember the shadow of her smile. No matter how cold, windy and snowy it is, it always warms my heart when I think about it. When it comes to winter, people naturally think of the world of ice and snow in the north. The gray sky is covered with cold air. But Zhu Ziqing's winter brought a warm current, filled with a warm human heat flow. The sketch "Winter" uses the current photography technology in advance, and shakes out three close-ups of winter by changing the lens, and reproduces a number of small pictures in the main picture, which are large, medium and small, connected by size and supplemented by primary and secondary, forming a unique and different winter landscape with unique charm. The first picture: an old house, dim "foreign lanterns", a black boiler, father and son sitting together eating hot boiled tofu. The heat flow rolls in the old house, driving away the cold wave and bringing spring-like warmth to the icy night here. Enjoy the rare family happiness between father and son in warmth. This picture looks dull, everything is normal, so there is nothing strange. However, if these fine things, such as black aluminum pot, snow-white tofu and orange light, are superimposed and magnified, they will suddenly become the expansion of the visual image in space, suggesting the time and space of past lives, which is the reappearance of photography art. Parents and children eagerly look at the "fisheye" like tofu blocks and get into their soy sauce dishes from their father's chopsticks, which is so greedy and lovely. Who hasn't had this past? Around the fire, the family ate boiled yam and sweet potato, and let the whistling north wind blow the window lattice. The memory of this moment becomes so clear that it suddenly evokes a poetic tenderness. Father-son affection and father-son love are infinitely extended by this enlarged close-up, which constitutes the reader's imagination space. Nowadays, boiled tofu is rare, and electric hot pot instant-boiled mutton seafood has become a major landscape in winter. The old and the present are integrated in the imaginary world, which is the charm under the shaking of the picture. The third picture is another feeling: on a quiet winter night, "I" and my friends were boating on the West Lake, with a bright moon above our heads, a touch of lakes and mountains in the distance, lights at the foot of the mountain, and paddle sounds all around us. We looked at each other silently, swaying and floating, like waking up and dreaming. Compared with the first picture, there is less black-and-white contrast, less touching impression, less noisy timbre, more peaceful rendering, and a long-term friendship. Peace and dilution is a kind of eternity. This is a silent picture, but it is better than a world with sound. In terms of artistic creation, the author thinks that the situation is good. The second picture is an empty mountain valley-Taizhou. The picture jumps out of the noisy dust margin and enters the scene of pine wind and birds singing. A group of new visual images are swaying in the author's pen, such as "no one is seen during the day" and "lighting the handle at night", as if "it has been winter"