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Blog Entry 15: Shelf Space and Headspace — Framing the Final Narrative

As I reach the final stages of my photobook project, I find myself returning again and again to one particular image: a quiet close-up of a supermarket shelf, stocked with familiar bottles of Chinese condiments, stretching into a blur. It’s not the most dramatic photo I’ve taken—but for me, it captures the emotional core of the entire project.

This image holds several layers. On the surface, it documents a typical moment in an Asian supermarket in Hamilton. But with the shallow depth of field, the camera draws the eye toward a few recognizable items—soy sauce, chili paste, green bottle caps—while letting the rest fade into softness. That visual effect echoes how memory works: certain objects stay vivid, while the rest becomes atmosphere.

When sequencing my photobook, I chose this photo to appear early in the book. It represents the starting point of my journey—how everyday scenes in New Zealand sparked moments of recognition and belonging. The photo doesn’t shout, but it lingers. The gentle perspective invites the viewer to imagine their own version of home among the shelves.

Blog Entry 14: Food as Memory — Reflections on a Personal Image

When I look at this photo, I don’t just see a restaurant interior — I see a memory.

This image was taken in a quiet dining room of a Chinese restaurant in Hamilton. The wooden lattice walls, the delicate flower-and-bird painting, and the warm ceiling lights all remind me of the restaurants I used to visit with my family back in China. There is something comforting about this kind of setting — formal yet familiar, distant yet close.

To others, this might look like an ordinary space for eating. But for me, it carries emotional weight. It represents the continuity of culture across distance. Even the smallest details — the porcelain dishes, the folded napkins, the shadows on the wall — remind me that cultural memory often survives not through grand traditions, but through these quiet, repeating spaces.

Blog Entry 13: Testing Layouts — From Restaurant to Kitchen to Supermarket

English Version

As I move into the final design stage of my photobook The Taste of Home: Chinese Food in Everyday New Zealand, I’ve started paying close attention to image sequencing and layout. I realised that how the images are arranged—their order, rhythm, and spacing—can completely transform the story being told.

My current layout begins with restaurant scenes, moves into kitchen moments, and ends with supermarket shelves. This sequence flows from public to private, from shared cultural display to everyday intimacy. It reverses the usual direction of “shopping → cooking → eating,” but this unexpected order creates an emotional arc that feels natural to me. It starts with the warmth of community and ends with the quiet familiarity of routine.

In the restaurant section, bright colours and crowded tables create an energetic beginning—images full of laughter, light, and shared identity. As the viewer turns the pages, the atmosphere softens. The kitchen pages slow the pace, showing stillness, reflection, and habit. Finally, the supermarket scenes return to the ordinary spaces where culture quietly continues, embedded in the labels, ingredients, and shelves.

I experimented with pairing and rhythm: sometimes two photos echo each other visually or emotionally, like a shot of a bilingual restaurant menu placed opposite a supermarket sign in both English and Chinese. These small details link the spaces together and highlight how language, culture, and food coexist in everyday life.

I also learned to value empty space. Not every page needs to be full—some need breathing room. Leaving white margins around quiet photos allows the viewer to pause, reflect, and feel. I found that rhythm in layout functions much like rhythm in music—it gives the story its emotional pacing.

By arranging the images this way, the photobook starts to read like a gentle journey: from shared meals to private kitchens, ending in familiar aisles. It becomes a meditation on belonging, showing that “home” can be found not only in celebration, but also in the repetition of small, ordinary acts.

Blog Entry 12: Language on Labels — Bilingual Captions as Cultural Anchors

As my project developed, I began to pay closer attention not just to what I was photographing, but to what was written on and around the objects in my images. In particular, I noticed how bilingual signage—especially Chinese and English—appeared throughout the everyday spaces I was documenting.

From food labels to price tags, these small pieces of text became a recurring visual element in my work. At first, I treated them as background details. But the more I looked, the more I realised how much these bilingual signs carried emotional weight. They were not just translations—they were markers of cultural belonging.

📷 Image 1: A shelf of seaweed snacks labeled in both English and Chinese

The hand-written signs read “Seaweed $9.09 (12 pack)” in English and “紫菜” in Chinese. The use of two languages side by side reminded me that these shops are not just selling food—they are serving diverse communities. Seeing familiar Chinese characters in a New Zealand supermarket quietly reassures me: this space is for people like me.

📷 Image 2: Wide-angle shot of an Asian supermarket aisle, with bilingual price signs in every direction

Even from a distance, it’s clear how integrated Chinese language has become in the layout of the store. These signs don’t feel exotic—they feel practical, lived-in, ordinary. And in that ordinariness lies their quiet power.

📷 Image 3: “Chilli Sauce with Chicken” labeled as 老干妈风味辣子鸡

This photo made me think about translation as storytelling. The English label—“Chili Sauce with Chicken”—is direct and functional. But the Chinese version, “风味辣子鸡,” evokes more: flavour, tradition, and the specific Sichuan-style heat I grew up tasting. No translation can capture that fully, but both labels together offer different ways of seeing the same thing.

📷 Image 4: Butcher display with bright yellow bilingual price tags: “Fresh Prime Beef Chuck Steak / 新鲜牛肩肉”

Meat, like language, is both universal and local. The bilingual tags remind me that food is not only bought and sold here—it is translated and transformed across cultures.

As I prepare captions for my photobook, I’m experimenting with writing them in both Chinese and English. At first, I thought captions were just for clarification. Now I see them as bridges. A caption can ground an image in personal memory, but it can also invite someone else in. Bilingual captions acknowledge my audience: those who speak both languages, and those who might only speak one.

Some translations are easy. Others are harder. Phrases like “家的味道” don’t quite work in English. I tried writing “a taste of home,” which is close—but not quite. Still, trying to translate it is part of the process. It helps me understand not just the meaning, but the feeling I want to share.

log Entry 11: Lighting the Everyday — Photographing Warmth in the Kitchen

As I revisited the kitchen for another round of shooting, I decided to pay closer attention to how light could shape the mood of my images. While the previous shoot helped me recognise the kitchen as a space of cultural continuity and comfort, this time I wanted to explore how lighting choices could visually communicate that feeling of “home.”

Natural light from the small window above the sink became my main source. In the late afternoon, it created a soft, golden glow that fell gently on everyday objects: a steaming rice cooker, a half-empty soy sauce bottle, a bowl of chopped garlic. I avoided using any artificial light, letting the shadows deepen in corners and the highlights gently wrap around the subjects. The effect was subtle but powerful—it made the photos feel quieter, slower, and more reflective.

📷 Image 1: A corner of my kitchen counter, where bottles of soy sauce, cooking oil, and spices sit in gentle evening light.

The muted tones and side light here give these ordinary objects a sense of quiet presence—almost like still characters in a story of everyday life.

One image that stood out for me captured a tray of dumplings I had just finished folding. The soft light landed on their curved shapes, highlighting the texture of the wrappers. These were not store-bought—they were made with care and memory, and the lighting helped express that tenderness.

📷 Image 2: Freshly wrapped dumplings waiting to be frozen.

To me, this photo feels like a freeze-frame of comfort—a slow and meaningful moment before the heat of cooking begins.

In another shot, I laid out all the ingredients for a home-cooked meal—tomatoes, beef, green beans, and eggs. The light streamed in from the side, casting soft shadows and giving the scene a sense of readiness and calm anticipation.

📷 Image 3: Prepping for dinner—natural light brings a gentle focus to chopped ingredients before they become a home-cooked meal.

I realised that light in the kitchen does more than illuminate objects—it helps construct emotional space. Softer, indirect light communicates care, slowness, and memory, while harsh fluorescent light might feel colder or more functional. Understanding this has helped me become more intentional in how I light my shots, especially in a project that is so deeply tied to emotion and belonging.

After nine blog entries and several rounds of testing, refinement, and reflection, I feel that my project “The Taste of Home: Chinese Food in Everyday New Zealand” is finally taking a clear shape. What began as a broad interest in food and cultural identity has now developed into a layered visual narrative that explores how Chinese culture is embedded in ordinary, everyday spaces—from supermarket aisles to kitchen counters and restaurant tables.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned during this process is that photography is not just about capturing what is visible, but about revealing what is felt. Each decision—from lighting and framing to sequencing and layout—affects the emotional tone of the project. I’ve also come to understand the value of working iteratively. My early shoots were more observational; now, I’m more intentional in how I frame each image to tell a story about place, memory, and identity.

Looking ahead to Assessment 4, I plan to refine my image selection and focus on the emotional pacing of the photobook. I want the book to move the viewer through different emotional spaces: curiosity in the supermarket, comfort in the kitchen, and warmth in the restaurant. I’m also considering adding short captions or bilingual labels to further ground the photos in my personal perspective.

This project has become more than a documentation of food—it’s become a documentation of belonging. I now see photography not only as a creative tool, but as a way to connect with my own cultural identity and share it with others.

The Taste on the Corner: A Familiar Takeaway Bag

I snapped a photo on my way back from picking up dinner. The brown paper bag printed with “DUMPLING HOUSE 香饽饽” made me pause for a moment. It wasn’t just a takeaway—it was a piece of home. The bold Chinese characters, red stamp logo, and even the way the bag was folded reminded me of countless meals growing up. For me, this small object represents more than food; it carries a sense of cultural belonging. Even overseas, something as simple as dinner can reflect identity.

Cultural Space in the Landscape: Hamilton Gardens

Not long ago, I visited Hamilton Gardens and came across a Chinese-style garden. The green tiled roof, red wooden doors, stone lions, and poetic calligraphy made me feel like I had stepped into a private garden in Southern China. This garden is officially named the “Chinese Scholar’s Garden,” and is part of the international garden collections in Hamilton. While physically in New Zealand, standing in front of the gate and reading the poetic couplets gave me a real sense of connection to my roots. This wasn’t just decoration or exotic design—it was a quiet but powerful cultural continuation across continents.

Traditional Wellness in the Modern City

In central Auckland, I came across a Chinese medicine clinic called “Xin He Tang.” Its visual identity—from typography to décor—reminded me of clinics I’d seen growing up. Nearby, an advertisement at Birkenhead Library promoted a Yang-style Tai Chi class held every Friday morning. These elements might seem mundane, but they show how Chinese traditions are quietly integrating into everyday life. Whether it’s healthcare or wellness, they are no longer foreign—they’ve become part of local living.

Living abroad, cultural identity isn’t always shaped by big events. More often, it’s found in the small rituals of everyday life—especially through food. From bilingual supermarket labels to familiar soy sauce bottles and traditional dim sum, these elements shape a quiet but powerful sense of belonging.

1. 

Supermarkets as Cultural Crossroads

📷 Image 1: Tomatoes under a bilingual sign in both English and Chinese (“西红柿”).

This photo was taken in a local Asian supermarket I often visit. The focus is on the word “Tomatoes,” shown in both English and Chinese, while the background shelves blur out. To me, this visual represents more than a grocery label—it shows how language and culture quietly coexist in my daily routine. Seeing “西红柿” gives me a sense of familiarity, a small but comforting reminder that I can still find pieces of home in a foreign land.

2. 

Dim Sum and Family Traditions

📷 Image 2: Close-up of two steamed shrimp dumplings (har gow) in a bamboo basket.

Shrimp dumplings were always my favourite dish during weekend yum cha with my family. Now in New Zealand, I sometimes treat myself to dim sum as a way to reconnect with that tradition. It’s not just about taste—it’s about memory. The smell of the bamboo basket, the texture of the translucent wrapper, the bite of the fresh shrimp… they all take me back to a specific time and place that still lives inside me.

3. 

Soy Sauce and Taste as Identity

📷 Image 3: A close-up of a bottle of Haitian soy sauce with Chinese characters.

This bottle of soy sauce is from my own kitchen. I brought it back from China because no local alternative quite matches the taste. To me, this condiment is more than a flavour—it’s a cultural marker. Even when I cook fusion dishes or Western meals, a splash of this soy sauce turns a meal into something recognisably “mine.” That’s why I gave it a close-up: it holds more meaning than its label suggests.

4. 

Conclusion: Culture Lives in Taste

This visual composition traces a simple but meaningful sequence: buying ingredients, cooking meals, and sharing food with others. While each photo tells its own story, together they form a broader narrative about how cultural identity is practiced through everyday actions.

We begin with an exterior shot of Garden Fresh, a local Asian supermarket in Hamilton, New Zealand. This place offers a wide selection of familiar ingredients that Chinese families rely on. The next image zooms in on packaged goods—mushroom chips and dried snacks—lined up on a store shelf, with visible Chinese price tags. These items, though ordinary, are deeply tied to a larger cultural memory and taste.

Moving from public to private space, the third image brings us into the kitchen. A stir-fry in progress captures the moment of tossing onions and beef in a wok. This action, filled with motion and heat, symbolizes the emotional weight of food preparation—habit, technique, and memory converge.

From there, the focus shifts back to public space: a restaurant menu with bilingual text, red lanterns and traditional signs at the entrance of a Chinese eatery, and finally, a shared hotpot meal between friends. The last photo especially evokes warmth, connection, and the communal joy that food brings.

After completing my first rounds of shooting in the supermarket, kitchen, and restaurant, I began thinking more consciously about how my visual choices affect the emotional tone of the project. Rather than only documenting spaces, I want my photographs to convey what “home” feels like—familiar, layered, and sometimes quietly nostalgic.

In this round of experiments, I focused on three elements: light, composition, and depth of field. I began shooting in softer, indirect light (especially in the kitchen), which helped create a calm, domestic tone. In contrast, the supermarket’s fluorescent lighting felt harsh, so I had to find moments when product packaging caught natural light near windows or open doors.

I also started using shallower depth of field to isolate specific objects—like a soy sauce bottle, a bowl of rice, or price tags on Chinese groceries. This approach not only draws the viewer’s eye but also gives these everyday objects a kind of emotional presence. By reducing background distractions, I could highlight how these items carry personal and cultural meaning.

Compositionally, I played with angles—sometimes shooting from low perspectives to emphasize intimacy, and sometimes from overhead to flatten the scene and focus on repetition or order (e.g., rows of packaging, stacked bowls). These experiments taught me that photography is not just about what you see, but how you frame what matters.

These visual decisions are helping me shape the emotional vocabulary of my project. I want viewers to feel a quiet sense of recognition, as if they are not just looking at Chinese food—but sensing the rhythms of home.

For this shoot, I visited a Chinese restaurant in Hamilton during the evening dinner rush. The entire space was filled with familiar cultural visuals—red lanterns, calligraphy scrolls, blue-and-white porcelain plates, and tables packed with steaming Chinese dishes. The atmosphere was alive with the sounds of Mandarin and Cantonese conversations, the aroma of sesame oil, and the rhythmic clatter of chopsticks against bowls and plates, forming a complete sensory experience.

I captured both wide shots of the environment and smaller, more intimate details. These included freshly served dishes, people pouring tea, moments of diners picking up food, and bilingual Chinese-English menus. One of my favourite shots was of myself and my friends eating hot pot, raising our teacups in a toast—an image that, for me, embodied how culture becomes tangible in moments of sharing.

This shoot made me realise that the Chinese restaurant operates as a semi-public cultural space. It’s not just a place to eat—it’s a site where culture is displayed, shared, and experienced. Unlike the privacy of the kitchen, the restaurant is open and outward-facing. It acts as a visible interface where Chinese culture in New Zealand can be observed, whether by those within the culture or those outside it.

There were challenges during the shoot, such as inconsistent lighting and fast-moving diners, but I enjoyed the natural, unscripted rhythm of the space. I wasn’t interested in staging scenes—I wanted to document the flow of real life and emotion within it.

This experience reminded me again that food is not just about nourishment. It is about connection—connecting people, connecting cultures, and connecting memory with identity.

After finishing my supermarket shoot, I turned my attention to a more private space: the kitchen. This session took place in my flat, where I often cook Chinese meals using ingredients from both Asian and mainstream supermarkets. Compared to the public and commercial atmosphere of the supermarket, the kitchen felt like a quieter, more personal space—one where cultural continuity is practiced on a daily basis.

I photographed several small but meaningful details: a soy sauce bottle on the counter, a rice cooker filled with freshly cooked rice, and a wok sizzling with stir-fried beef. These moments weren’t staged—they were fragments of everyday life. I wanted to highlight that cultural identity is often sustained through habitual routines rather than formal rituals.

The lighting was much softer here, mostly coming from the kitchen window, which gave the photos a warmer and more homely atmosphere. I experimented with low angles and shallow depth of field to emphasize the emotional presence of specific objects. Unlike the bright and cluttered supermarket environment, the kitchen gave me space to slow down and reflect.

This shoot helped me realize that the kitchen is not just a place for cooking—it is a space for remembering, preserving, and embodying culture. Every act of stir-frying or adding soy sauce becomes a quiet performance of “the taste of home.”

For my first fieldwork session, I visited an Asian supermarket in Hamilton. I focused on shelves filled with familiar Chinese ingredients—soy sauce, dried noodles, frozen dumplings, and other snacks. Seeing these items immediately gave me a strong sense of “home” and made me realise how food carries cultural memory across distance.

I took close-up shots of product packaging and was especially drawn to the contrast between the bright, colourful wrappers and the plain, neutral supermarket background. One thing I noticed was that Chinese products were often grouped together in a dedicated “Asian Foods” aisle, separated from the rest of the mainstream New Zealand goods. This kind of visual division seemed to symbolise how cultural difference is consciously framed and displayed.

Some of the photos turned out too cluttered or visually chaotic. This led me to think more carefully about composition in future shoots—perhaps I need to focus more on details or use shallow depth of field to isolate specific items and create visual clarity.

This shoot helped me realise that a supermarket is more than just a commercial space—it’s also a cultural space. It shows how Chinese food culture is both seen and selected in New Zealand, and it reflects part of how identity is expressed and negotiated in a diasporic context.

Blog Entry 2: Learning From Others

One passage from my research particularly resonated with me. In their 2021 study, Wright et al. argue:

“Food contributes to an individual’s physical and mental well‑being and expresses one’s cultural identity through preparation, sharing, and consumption (i.e., foodways).”

This quote underscores that food goes beyond mere sustenance—it becomes a medium for emotional comfort, memory, and cultural affirmation. The acts of preparing, sharing, and consuming cultural foods are deeply rooted practices through which people maintain identity and a sense of belonging, particularly when they are far from home.

When I began thinking about my lens-based project, I wanted to choose something that connects closely to my everyday life in New Zealand. Food quickly became the strongest idea. As an international student from China, I often feel that food carries memories of home and becomes a way to maintain cultural identity. Even a simple bowl of noodles or dumplings can remind me of family meals in China.

This was the starting point for my project “The Taste of Home: Chinese Food in Everyday New Zealand.” I decided to focus on three everyday spaces where food plays an important role: supermarkets, kitchens, and restaurants. Each of these spaces shows a different aspect of cultural identity. Supermarkets show what ingredients are accessible, kitchens reveal how traditions are carried on in private life, and restaurants represent public identity and community.

My aim is not only to take photographs of food, but also to capture the feeling of “home” that Chinese food creates in New Zealand. I will explore how food becomes both ordinary and symbolic—part of daily life, but also a sign of cultural belonging. This connection between food, place, and identity will guide my creative process.