FOUR COMRADES,                                      ONE ECHO


  
                                             





From Singular To Collective Narrative
From Non-fiction To Fiction 
From Cinema To Theater
From Collectivity Back To Individuality  







FROM SINGULAR TO COLLECTIVE NARRATIVE




The First time that the four women enter the frame together.


In the early stages of my research, when I turned the camera toward them, the power dynamic once defined by mothers and daughter between us began to shift. I noticed how they started to perform, not just for me, but also for the camera—as if they were mirroring how I played piano to perform for them. Both the camera and I became intrusive presences in front of them. How could I ensure that I wasn’t imposing a narrative onto them?

They are also very different characters. Some were more eager to express themselves, while others were more reserved; Some were articulate with words, others spoke better through body languages; Some remembered the past vividly, while others resisted looking back; Some were self-conscious in front of the camera, others seemed not.

How do I film four of them in a way that allows each of them to find their place to express themselves? How do I let them lead the narrative, guide the camera, instead of being guided by it? How can they tell stories collectively, rather than shaping by me or any one of them in a singular way?

I began searching for their own way of engaging with each other, hoping it would inspire how I might engage with them through filmmaking.

The first and most important step was simply to bring them together.

None of them could recall the last time it was just the four of them doing something together. It might never have happened since they left their parents’ home. They have always been someone’s daughter, wife, or mother. Yet without the bond they share as sisters, they might not have made it through.

Though they rarely see each other in person, I found out that three of them have been gathered online everyday at 7:30 pm and followed the same online yoga instructor livestream, so they could practice together.




 
Three of them have been practicing yoga online together,
so I treid to bring them to practice in the same place.


In the name of filmmaking, I brought them together and had all four practice yoga in the same space. After the session, they spontaneously began to play the childhood games they once knew by heart. The one who lost had to sing as punishment. They sang pop songs from the 1980s, and Only Mother Is Good in the World, The North Wind Blows, and Ode to the Motherland, among many others.

 
Without me directing,
they start to organize themselves to play games from their childhood.




Doing sports together near where they live.

When they play games, they fully returned to themselves. A game had winners and losers, but that never really mattered. As they participated, the game became a space for collective storytelling.  

Could game become a mechanism for collective storytelling, a method for filmmaking?



We experimented with telling stories using their archival photographs as game cards, laid out across a Mahjong table.

In the process, filmmaking itself became part of a game. Camera on, game on. In those moments, the act of filmmaking  became a way for them and for us to reconnect, to release, to express, and most  importantly, to heal.  

At the same time, if I want to “speak with” them, shouldn't I first get to know more about how their creativity manifests? I know their personalities, hobbies, and I'm learning more of their stories—but why have I never asked about their creativity? What kinds of 'games' might help unlock it?




I've always believed that everyone has their own way of writing poetry. I invited a poet friend, Yoyo Yu to lead a poetry workshop with them, using a playful, game-like approach. Like us, she’s from Sichuan, and we speak the same dialect.

She asked each of them to bring an object, to photograph it, and then to immediately write down whatever came to mind:


My Angel

By Liu Li
I think
I want
I can
Because of you
My beloved angel

I walked out of confusion
Drove away hesitation
Found hope again
Because of you
My all-powerful angel

The Faraway Journey

By Liu Yazhuo

Still blackness
Glimmers with silver light
Sea-blue gourds hang
In the distance of a journey.




Lamp

By Li Liu

This lamp brings us light
This lamp is also like a beautiful flower
This lamp is also like a spiral staircase
This lamp is like a big umbrella

Life Is So Beautiful

By Liu Yulan

Life is so beautiful
Life is so beautiful
Strands of sunlight fall across the table
A white cat lies there lazily
Utterly content
It’s easy to see
The room’s owner and the little cat
Live a life full of sunshine
It was their first time writing poetry.




I also introduced them to a collaborative painting game I had created and used with my friends.

They take turns painting on the same canvas, each stroke becoming part of an ongoing conversation. Will they build on what came before, layering their visions in harmony, or paint over it without hesitation, asserting their own perspective? How will they respond when their contributions are welcomed or replaced by those who come after? Will they move with the changing direction of the painting, or stay true to their own ideas? And who decides when the painting is complete?




I introduced them to a collaborative painting game I had created and used with my friends.

This shared process transforms the canvas into a quiet space for conversation, where each stroke speaks of their connection, their tension, their harmony. It becomes a mirror of their relationships, reflecting how they communicate with each other, how they navigate between holding on and letting go. Through this act of creation, they explore what it means to share something so deeply, to lose and find control, to witness the beauty in making something together.




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