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It is remarkable that several people have asked me recently in rapid succession what I am doing here in Beijing; the last time was during an English class. My students are all from the same company, young, bright, self assured and curious about everything: whether I have any idea about how long I would be giving the course; whether they can do anything for me, since I am giving the course free of charge; and what on earth I am doing here in this alien city so far from home? I picked a biscuit and sipped some tea; always the slow thinker. Silence was palpable. "After studying languages in the UK and qualifying as an interpreter in French, German and Spanish, I spent thirty years of my life in sales of weaving looms. The first 14 years were working out of Switzerland to many parts of the world, then 7 out of Hong Kong and 8 out of Beijing with a final unpleasant spell in Shanghai running a joint venture in Suzhou. I have been semi-retired for over two years. China has been my sole market since March 1983. Now I am learning new skills and hoping that, some day, these skills will help me to make enough money to live comfortably and at peace with myself. You are part of that, you are teaching me to teach. You owe me no gratitude. It is I who am grateful to you." The palpable silence continued for a while with lots of staring at the wall until I started the next module. My last job as managing director in Suzhou was the highlight of my career but a personal disaster. It became boring, physically uncomfortable and brought me in contact with the most despicable customers I had ever met. With very few exceptions they were massively corrupt, shamelessly dishonest contract-breakers and, worst of all, extremely ignorant; once good farmers, now I left before they pulled me down to their level. My wife and I had bought an apartment in Beijing some years earlier and we moved there on the edge of Beijing society, rotating between the UK, my old home, Hong Kong, my wife's old home and Canada, home t family from both of us. I resolved never to prostitute myself again professionally. I also resolved to do exactly what I had always wanted to do since I was a teenager: write, make photographs and teach, of these, photography was the easiest thing to approach. Although I had been making photographs for many years, I now had the time to study it systematically and did so, slowly building a portfolio and developing a signature style. I found that I was not interested in Beijing's countless cultural relics and bamboo baby prams. I had seen everything, been everywhere, in every corner of China, in the eighteen years of selling here, the most breathtakingly beautiful and the most destructively tacky of places. After suffering for so long through the worst ugliness I had ever encountered, I was desperate to find the spirit of simple creativity in normal people. I had always been fascinated by human behavior (which is a basic qualification in selling!). The most interesting subjects for me were people in the city and how they expressed their innate beauty, their highest levels of creativity in the most seemingly banal things; a perfectly formed jiaozi, a potted plant placed in exactly the right position in an otherwise drab apartment, a father waiting patiently for his child to come out, a secretary pretty, eager and alive with curiosity, opening the mail first thing in the morning after cycling for an hour or more through bitter-cold and polluted streets. I searched everywhere for evidence of creative spirit. My emotions were cold and ashen. Sunk deep into cynicism and detachment, the physical effort off hauling ten to 15 kilos of camera gear around the streets was a useful catalyst for change, something I could embrace physically with an aching shoulder. The act of photographic creation was physical and mainly logical - analyzing the subject and composition, measuring the light, choosing the right film, the right camera, the right lens, the right filter, the right settings, the right moment to open the shutter. The only demand on the emotions was in the initial observation, in maintaining the right level of awareness and hoping for emotional resonance. I once walked around for three days without taking a single shot. But the walking itself was healing me and finally, of course a play of light fell on a doorway, a man came through from his hutong pushing his bicycle, his face lit with surprise at the light from the same play of sunshine and  the shutter opened. Girls also came to me for portraits, so I made them look pretty and pale as the assignment demanded. When the session was over and we relaxed with a cup of tea and a chocolate bar, I always made a few more shots, "just to use up the film" and, of course, these were the ones I wanted for myself, the yawn, the sip, the stretch, the untidy hair, the close-up of the eyes or the mouth, open, honest, natural and revealing, which are very beautiful qualities in anyone. We had sessions in all sorts of places besides my home, background upon background of one cultural relic or another. What the subject usually did not realize, however, was that the only reason to be there in the temple with the ochre plaster and blue tiles, the park with the groves of blossoming trees and rustic stone benches, was to provide natural color for the portrait background, to use the clarity of the light and to feel the joy of being in the fresh air and peacefulness. This joy touched them and showed in their faces and bodies. They did not seem to notice when looking through the proofs that I had thrown all backgrounds well out of focus anyway in order to highlight their faces, which had been touched by the spirit of the place. This is "China" for me, a throw of light, a blend of color or a perfect, tiny detail which celebrates its creator's life. Writing, on the other hand, is all memory work and reflections on memory, far more complex and abstract because it expresses processes and not moments. Writing was the most difficult discipline to get into, mainly because it is more active than photography, more emotional and more demanding in terms of honesty. It was also difficult because I had burned out emotionally in Suzhou. So, except for long, long emails to friends, I did not attempt it until over a year passed. Having lived here for such a long time, I am often asked, besides "what I am doing here", what it is that holds me here. After all, I have the freedom and the professional skills to live anywhere in the world in principle. I always give the same answer: the food, the dry climate, the low cost of living and most of all the people. It is the fiends who hold me. When we travel, it is not to places. I have traveled the whole world al my life and there are very few places which I could still really like to visit just because of the place itself. I've seen most of it and what is left, I can imagine well enough - perhaps Antarctica or the Russian seaboard east of Vladivostok would be nice, some day. It is friends I am visiting, each one with a home which I can share for a while, so I suppose, in a way, I have many homes. I once counted almost thirty friends and families around the world who are delighted to accommodate my wife and I for a few weeks once every year or two. Along with my own homes in Beijing, Hong Kong and the UK, this would be a very satisfactory way to spend the rest of my life, always moving, always observing and learning, writing, snapping photographs and teaching when I have the chance. I cannot imagine spending more than a few months in one place, ever. My impression of Beijing itself? Random details. Countless details, very tiny details filed with beauty and spirit, sometimes dusty. All the rest is unfocused background no different from anywhere else in the world.