Haunted by a witch: The Visuality of De-anthropocentric Death
Note:
Trigger warning.
This article was first written in Chinese at midnight on May 11, 2023—words from a half-dreaming mind. The Chinese version is one of my favorite pieces. While some friends who have read it find it creative, others are disturbed by the unsettling imagery of the omnipresence of death.
Midnight Wanders
I wandered into the living room in the middle of the night.
The scent of dried flowers hanging on the wall smelled faintly,
like a giant pot of herbal tea simmering and bubbling over a fierce flame.
When I stepped onto the balcony, I saw the fish in the stone basin.
Still awake, swimming.
Rain drops pressed gently down on the rooftops.
Lights were flickering in my field of vision.
A subtle trace of burned mugwort lingered in the air.
On such a foggy night, with herbs and spices burning, it seemed that witchcraft would seep into people's bodies.
It summoned visions of witches, unveiling the layers of ignorance on our perception.
As time goes by, the veil of ignorance slips away; we call this the fortune of hindsight.
Yet it evolves and grows; the new layer is thin, transparent and vast.
Back in the living room, I hadn’t realised that the witchcraft had already wormed its way into my body.
After what felt like an eternal 15 minutes in the witch's vision,
My heart pounded and my body trembled.
Everything before me seemed to waver until the world unfolded into something entirely different.
Recollection
Human beings are such strange creatures. Once, we chose to turn a blind eye, declaring ourselves the wisest and proudest of all. More worthy than animals and more precious than plants. We saw ourselves as the sole subjects of thought and meaning, while everything else became objects: tools for use, materials for progress and scenery to embellish a romantic, anthropocentric narrative.
But then one day, we began to see the cracks within. Not all humans stood on equal ground — there were hierarchies and exploitation. Until one day, the oppressed resisted and overthrew their oppressors. Until another day, fearing by the possibility of becoming the very tyrants they had displaced, the language of empathy emerged, ethic and fairness grew beyond boundaries. Justice became not the possession of privileged citizens or a social contract between individuals driven by self-interest, but the process of sharing and expanding subjectivity.
Those wounded began to look beyond anthropomorphism. The world of non-humans — the plants, animals, and fungi — ceased to be mere resources or scenery. Slowly and uncertainly, they began to be seen as beings with their own subjectivity, emotions and intrinsic worth. This marked the rise of de-anthropocentrism. The world could no longer revolve solely around the human gaze.
Vision
“I can see it. I can see the truth. Plucked bouquets are crowds of dying bodies suffocating in water; the hanging ones are corpses bound together in grim unity. The chairs made from wooden stakes are the thighs of trees being wind-dried, and the coffee table made from lychee roots is a skull screaming in silent desperation. The handbags are made of flesh and skin that has been cut and stitched together after being dipped in wax. The clothes and duvets are hairs of cotton twisted together. The tissue used for wiping away tears is made from a blend of fluid and blood from trees. Our lips are coated with powder crushed from the bodies of insects. We tear life apart, chopping it into pieces and consuming it. Shrimps are smothered and burned; fish have their throats slit and are stabbed to death. Potatoes endure the pain of being peeled alive and chickens have their organs ripped out.
Life and death alternate every second, with pain and corpses entwined. Yet we fear death so much, putting our faith in norms of comfort and tranquillity that are untouched by death.
I scrambled and fled. I locked myself in my room, but there was nowhere to escape. The bed was made of cotton's hair and fur. The desk was the corpse of a tree. Even my fingernails twisted and curled like vines. My hair turned to seaweed, soaked in oil and vinegar, glistening as if I could taste its crispy texture. With countless bodies and lives upon and around me, I am still afraid of death, afraid of losing even the smallest fragment of modern comfort built from utilisation of lives. I knew the witch’s vision will fade and is fading—my fear gripped the veil of ignorance, pulling it over me, and I sank back into the arrogance of comfort.”