China: Access and Observation

An Unplanned Documentary

You may wonder why there are so many images from China in my archive, and why they differ so markedly from what might be expected of travel photography. These photographs were not made as part of a planned project, nor were they created with an audience in mind. They are the result of access rather than intention, and of observation rather than exploration.

At the time these images were made, photography was already part of my life, but it was not my primary occupation. My professional background lay in wood and furniture making and, later, in technical design and quality management within the kitchen industry. That grounding in materials, tolerances, process, and production shaped how I moved through industrial spaces and how I understood what I was seeing. Long before I photographed people at work, I was trained to look closely at how things were made, how systems functioned, and where they failed.

In the early 2000s, I was asked to take on a six-month secondment in China. The role combined technical design with quality inspection and supplier development, supporting the transfer and resourcing of products from Europe into Asia. It was not a glamorous posting, but it was a rare opportunity at a moment when China’s manufacturing base was expanding at extraordinary speed. I accepted without hesitation.

Hong Kong as a Threshold

My base during that period was Hong Kong. I stayed on MacDonnell Road in the Mid-Levels, not far from The Peak. The location itself felt suspended between worlds. It was dense and vertical, yet bordered by greenery and quiet streets. Hong Kong served as a threshold rather than a destination, a place to return to briefly before leaving again.

Weekends were usually spent there, offering a short pause from the rhythm of factories and transit. The apartment was functional and anonymous, furnished for temporary occupancy rather than permanence. From the windows, the view was of neighbouring towers, repeating balconies, and the constant reminder that space was compressed and shared. These moments of stillness mattered more than I realised at the time. They provided contrast, and perhaps unconsciously, they slowed my way of seeing.

The photographs from this period that show interiors are not attempts at architectural documentation. They are records of temporary inhabitation. A bed beside a window, a table with papers, a camera left within reach. They describe a life lived out of a suitcase, shaped by schedules, inspections, and departures. In retrospect, these quiet images anchor the work as much as those made inside factories.

The Working Week

During the working week, Hong Kong receded quickly. Travel began early, often by boat, crossing from the city into the Pearl River Delta. The destination was Panyu, where we were developing and staffing a sourcing and inspection office. From this base, operations extended outward in all directions.

Days were structured around movement. Factories were visited, assessed, and audited. New suppliers were inspected for technical capability, compliance, and consistency. Existing suppliers were reviewed, problems investigated, processes adjusted. This work required access to every part of a facility. Production floors, finishing areas, storage spaces, packing lines, and sometimes living quarters.

This level of access was granted because it was necessary, not because it was offered willingly. Trust was functional rather than personal. My presence was tied to responsibility and scrutiny. As a result, the environments I entered were rarely prepared or staged. What I saw was what existed that day, under those conditions.

Photographing Within Constraints

I always carried a camera. There was no explicit permission to photograph, but there was also little time or space for objection. Images were made quickly, often in passing. They were not composed with deliberation or refined through repetition. There was no opportunity to wait for gestures to resolve or for scenes to align themselves neatly.

This imposed a particular discipline. Decisions were instinctive. Light, position, and moment were assessed immediately or not at all. The photographs reflect that urgency. They are imperfect, sometimes awkward, occasionally obscured. Yet they are honest in a way that slower, more intentional work is not always able to be.

These images are not portraits in the conventional sense. The people within them were working, moving, focused elsewhere. I did not direct or interrupt. The camera functioned as a witness rather than a collaborator. That distinction remains important to me.

Sourcing, Inspection, and Living Space

The work extended beyond production floors. As part of the sourcing and inspection process, I regularly visited dormitories associated with factories. These visits were a formal requirement. Living conditions were part of compliance, and they had to be assessed in the same way as machinery, materials, or workflow.

Despite this, I always dreaded entering these spaces. Dormitories were not simply accommodation. They were family environments, compressed into rooms never designed for privacy. I was acutely aware that I was intruding into lives rather than workplaces.

I always asked my translator to request permission before entering. This was met with visible confusion. Asking permission in this context was alien. Access was assumed, not negotiated. My request often delayed the process, but it mattered to me that entry was acknowledged rather than taken.

Once inside, the inspection itself was brief and restrained. My eyes scanned the room quickly. One room only. I checked for the essentials. Air conditioning or ventilation, access to water, basic sanitation, and cleaning facilities. The task was procedural, but the setting was not.

The rooms were extremely small, often no more than two metres by four. Entire families lived within that footprint. At that time, two children were permitted, and it was not unusual to see a family of four sharing a single space. Beds, personal belongings, and daily life were compressed into a narrow rectangle.

I did not photograph these rooms. Some spaces resist documentation. The memory of them has remained far clearer than any image could have been.

Factories and Scale

What remains most vivid from this period is the scale of production. Facilities varied enormously, from relatively small workshops to vast compounds employing thousands. The repetition of tasks, the density of labour, and the physical demands placed on workers were impossible to ignore.

As someone trained in craft and making, the contrast was striking. Processes that once involved a small number of skilled hands were now distributed across long lines of specialised labour.

Efficiency replaced intimacy. Speed replaced deliberation. The photographs made in these spaces are attempts to reconcile those realities rather than to explain them.

Travel and Physical Endurance

The constant travel was the hardest part of the work. Distances were vast, and journeys were relentless. Miles of uneven roads stretched on for hours, often without any meaningful change in scenery. What should have been short journeys became extended tests of endurance.

Each morning began with the same practical question. How far was it to the factory?. The answer mattered not just for scheduling, but for bodily necessity. It determined whether there was time, or need, to use the toilet again before leaving. The drivers would almost always reply, two hours. That estimate was rarely accurate.

Two hours routinely became four, sometimes five. Time expanded without warning. The concept of distance was elastic, shaped more by road condition than by mileage.

Vehicles were frequently questionable. Cars, taxis, and trucks were kept running through necessity rather than maintenance. On more than one occasion, it was possible to see the road passing beneath us through gaps in the floor. Safety was assumed rather than assured.

My body absorbed the journey. Bones ached from the constant vibration as we were shaken along potholed tracks that barely qualified as roads. There were stretches where the idea of a road felt theoretical rather than physical.

The monotony of movement had its own effect. Long stretches of unbroken ground, engine noise, and vibration induced a strange state of hypnosis. I would drift in and out of sleep, not from comfort but from exhaustion. These journeys blurred together, forming a continuous thread of transit between places of work.

Looking back, this enforced stillness within motion shaped how I observed the world. Much of what I photographed later emerged from that altered state, alert yet detached, moving through environments without the energy to impose myself upon them.

Heat, Humidity, and Smell

China was defined as much by smell as by sight. Heat and humidity amplified everything. Odours lingered, layered, and became inseparable from memory. They were not background sensations but constant companions.

Hotels offered temporary relief. Air-conditioned interiors created an artificial calm, cool and controlled, sometimes almost disorienting in their contrast. Stepping outside was immediate and absolute. Within seconds, clothes clung to skin. Sweat appeared without effort, as if the body had surrendered in advance.

The transition was abrupt. Inside, stillness and filtered air. Outside, density. Heat pressed down, moisture hung in the air, and smells intensified. Industry, food, waste, fuel, and damp fabric merged into something difficult to separate or describe precisely.

These sensations were not unpleasant in isolation, but they were relentless. They reminded you, constantly, that you were not insulated from the environment. The body was always involved, always reacting. Over time, this heightened awareness became normalised, another condition to be worked within rather than resisted.

Even now, certain smells can return me instantly to those streets and factory yards. They arrive without warning, carrying with them the weight of heat, movement, and the physical effort of simply being present.

Status, Ceremony, and Contrast

Entering a factory altered your position immediately. You were treated as an honoured guest, accorded a level of importance that felt disproportionate to the practical nature of the work. Protocol took over. Introductions were formal. Attention sharpened.

I was usually accompanied by the owner or the factory president. These were individuals of considerable wealth, often immensely so, moving through the same spaces as their workforce but occupying a different reality. Authority was visible and unquestioned.

What struck me most was the proximity of extremes. Wealth and poverty existed side by side, sometimes within the same room. The contrast was not theatrical. It was matter of fact. The presence of senior figures did not soften the conditions under which others worked, nor did it draw overt attention to them.

As an inspector, I moved between these worlds without fully belonging to either. I was afforded respect and access, yet remained transient. This duality sharpened my awareness of imbalance without offering any means to resolve it.

The photographs made in these moments reflect that tension. They record spaces where status and labour intersect, where ceremony overlays routine, and where the human cost of production is visible but rarely acknowledged aloud.

Heat, Noise, and Endurance Inside the Factories

Many of the factories I visited contained foundries and heavy stamping machinery. These were environments defined by noise and heat. Sound was constant and overwhelming. Metal struck metal with force and repetition, erasing any sense of quiet or reflection.

The heat in these spaces was extreme. Temperatures regularly approached forty degrees, compounded by high humidity. I mention the heat repeatedly because it permeated everything. It was impossible to escape or ignore.

Workers operated machinery wearing newly issued personal protective equipment, its freshness sometimes conspicuous during an audit. Gloves, masks, and helmets appeared compliant on paper, yet offered limited relief from the conditions. Whether the equipment would have been present outside an inspection was difficult to know.

What remains vivid is the contrast between bodies. The workers moved with focus and familiarity, skin dry, expressions controlled. Not a bead of sweat was visible. They had adapted to the environment in ways I had not.

By comparison, I was overwhelmed. Sweat ran continuously, soaking clothes within minutes. I felt conspicuous, physically exposed by my own discomfort. That imbalance stayed with me. It was a reminder that endurance is learned through necessity, and that resilience is often invisible until contrasted.

Duty, Detachment, and Responsibility

Walking factory floors could take hours. The physical effort was significant, but the greater toll was mental. Repetition, noise, heat, and the weight of what was being observed accumulated steadily. There was little space for reflection during the process.

Compassion had to be held at a distance. To function effectively, it could not dominate decision making. This was not indifference, but necessity. The work required clarity, consistency, and the ability to assess conditions against defined standards rather than emotion.

The reality was uncomfortable but unavoidable. If Western markets demanded cheaper products, manufacturing would take place where costs allowed it. That system existed before my arrival and would continue after I left. My role was not to resolve that imbalance, but to operate responsibly within it.

Part of that responsibility was ensuring that workers were safe and treated fairly within the framework available. Compliance, safety measures, accommodation standards, and basic welfare mattered. They were not abstract ideals, but criteria that could be inspected, challenged, and improved.

At the same time, I was responsible for the product itself. Materials, tolerances, finishes, and specifications had to be met. The final object carried the weight of all those decisions, human and technical alike.

This tension between empathy and obligation shaped the way I moved through factories. It demanded detachment without losing awareness. Looking back, it remains one of the most difficult balances I have had to maintain.

Hospitality and Obligation

Being treated as a guest of honour carried its own expectations, even if the honour itself felt misplaced. At some point during a visit, the question would inevitably arise. Would you like lunch.

Depending on the factory and its location, that simple question could fill me with apprehension. Meals were gestures of respect and relationship building, not optional courtesies. Declining was rarely appropriate.

Food varied enormously across regions, and not all of it was immediately recognisable or reassuring. Hygiene standards were inconsistent, and unfamiliar preparation methods could provoke hesitation. I was advised early on to eat with my mouth, not my eyes.

That advice proved practical as much as cultural. Meals were another space where professionalism required composure. Eating what was offered signalled trust and acceptance, even when uncertainty lingered.

Looking back, these shared meals were part of the same system of obligation that governed factory tours and inspections. Hospitality and scrutiny existed side by side, each reinforcing the other, binding relationships that were as fragile as they were necessary.

A Family Lunch Above the Factory

One factory owner in particular stands out. Mr Ng. That was his name, and I avoided attempting to pronounce it beyond that. He invited me to lunch and led me towards the elevators.

We ascended through several floors of active manufacturing. Each level passed felt familiar. Noise, heat, machinery, movement. Then the doors opened onto something entirely different.

What lay above could only be described as a penthouse. A vast, open space, calm and palatial, removed entirely from the environment below. The contrast was immediate and disorienting. It was difficult to reconcile the two worlds occupying the same building.

I was led again, this time along quiet corridors, towards a private room. My heart was beating harder than it had during any factory inspection. I was alone, without a translator, and acutely aware of how exposed I was.

The door opened onto a large dining room filled with people. Adults, children, grandparents. An entire family gathered around a long table. For a moment, the scene felt surreal.

I made my way to the only seat available, furthest from the door. In Chinese custom, the host sits with their back to the entrance, with the guest seated opposite. Only as I took my place did it become clear that this was not a business lunch. This was Mr Ng’s family. All of them.

There was no space to retreat. No buffer of formality. No translator to soften misunderstanding. Just expectation.

A menu was placed in front of me, illustrated with photographs. In that moment, it felt like a blessing. Pictures prepared you for what words could not. They offered a small measure of control in an otherwise unfamiliar ritual.

Once I had made my choice, the tension eased slightly. Mr Ng spoke fluent English, which came as a genuine relief. Conversation, while formal, was possible without mediation.

I tended to choose simple food where I could. Rice, pork, chicken. Familiar options felt safer, not just culturally but physically. I was always aware of the return journey. Four hours back to the hotel, sometimes more, with no certainty of when the next toilet break might be possible. Toilets, I would learn quickly, were an entirely separate world in China.

The food itself was prepared by a dedicated chef. As was customary at the time, finishing what was on your plate signalled that you wanted more of the same. I discovered this rule after emptying a bowl of broth whose contents I had not fully identified. The bowl was refilled almost immediately.

Despite the apprehension, the food was excellent. Careful, considered, and generous. Once lunch concluded, we returned to work.

Factory inspections typically occupied an entire day and were often followed by a formal audit. Processes were reviewed, documentation examined, and compliance confirmed. By the time we finished, fatigue had already settled in.

It was then that Mr Ng invited me to dinner. This, too, was customary. My working day had just become considerably longer.

Dinner was held at a restaurant of some standing. Before ordering, I was taken into the kitchen, as was tradition. The ingredients were presented alive, unprepared, and unmistakable.

What followed felt like a visit to a zoo. Snakes, fish, alligators, and other creatures I had never seen so closely, nor wished to again. The intention was transparency and choice. The effect was something else entirely.

Once again, I returned to the safest options available.

Dinner itself was enjoyable. Conversation was light, built on basic pleasantries and small talk rather than business. I was treated as a VIP, afforded attention and generosity that felt sincere. It was flattering, but also deeply tiring. The performance of hospitality required presence and alertness long after my energy had been spent.

The return journey was usually quiet. Exhaustion took over quickly. I would collapse into the car and fall asleep almost immediately, relieved not to have to worry about distance, timing, or the next toilet stop. The road passed unnoticed.

Arriving back at the hotel brought a different kind of relief. A degree of Western familiarity returned. Predictable bathrooms, clean towels, air conditioning. I could wash the smells of the factory from my skin and sleep deeply, if briefly.

That rest was always conditional. Alarms were set for early starts. Red‑eye departures to the next factory were routine, even if they were never welcome. The cycle repeated itself, day after day, driven by schedules rather than choice.

Domestic Distance and Visibility

Domestic flights in China routinely lasted two to four hours. These were internal journeys, not international ones, and they offered a constant reminder of the country’s scale. Distance was normalised in a way I had not experienced elsewhere.

Once on the aircraft, I was usually seated towards the rear. Looking forward down the cabin, all I could see was a mass of black hair, row after row. In that moment, difference became suddenly visible.

As a Westerner with light brown hair, I felt incongruous and conspicuous, yet at the same time unexpectedly welcome. There was no hostility, no overt curiosity. Just quiet awareness, shared space, and mutual tolerance.

These flights were another form of transition. Suspended between factories, cities, and roles. Time passed slowly, marked by engine noise and cabin light. By the time the plane landed, I had already begun preparing myself for the next inspection, the next introduction, the next cycle of work.

Arrival and Continuation

Chinese airports were meticulous wherever I went. Vast, spotless spaces, ordered and controlled, designed to move large volumes of people efficiently and without friction. Cleanliness was absolute. Everything felt deliberate.

Arrival rarely meant rest. After landing, there were long walks through terminals that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Corridors, escalators, signage repeating itself. Movement continued even when the journey was supposed to have ended.

Eventually, I would emerge into the arrival hall to find a car waiting. Another driver. Another route. Another destination already in motion. The transition from aircraft to vehicle was seamless.

There was little sense of arrival in the traditional sense. Only continuation. One journey feeding directly into the next.

Return, Distance, and Affection

Over more than ten years, I travelled to China two or three times a year. What began as a single secondment became a recurring part of my professional life. The rhythm of departure and return grew familiar.

Across that time, I came to love China and the Chinese people. The hospitality I encountered was genuine and consistent. People were honourable, direct, and welcoming, even when language and custom created distance.

I was fortunate to travel extensively, visiting hundreds of cities. From the far south to the deep north. From Shenzhen to Qiqihar, close to the borders of Russia and Mongolia, and everywhere in between. Each place carried its own pace, climate, and character, yet shared a sense of momentum.

These journeys accumulated quietly. City names blurred, but impressions endured. Faces, gestures, environments, and moments of connection remained long after specific locations faded.

Looking back now, this body of work is inseparable from that time. The photographs are not souvenirs. They are traces of sustained engagement, shaped by repetition, responsibility, and respect. They exist because I was there often, long enough to stop being surprised, but never long enough to forget that I was a guest.

Memory, Images, and Absence

I carry far more memories and images from this period than I will ever be able to place precisely. Some photographs are anchored clearly to locations and events. Others exist without names, dates, or coordinates. That uncertainty is not an oversight. It reflects the time in which they were made.

Smartphones did not exist in any meaningful way, and neither did social media or constant access to search engines. There was no automatic recording of place, no metadata trail to follow. Photography itself was rarer, more deliberate, and often private.

Many images were made quickly and then put away, unprocessed for long periods, or simply filed without context. Looking back now, some locations are impossible to identify with certainty. What remains instead is atmosphere, gesture, light, and feeling.

There are also images that were never made. Photographing food, particularly during shared meals, felt intrusive and disrespectful. Dinner was a space of hospitality and trust, not documentation. The absence of those images matters as much as the presence of others.

This body of work is therefore incomplete by design. It contains gaps, silences, and ambiguities. Rather than diminishing it, those absences speak to how photography functioned then, and how carefully it had to be negotiated.

What I share now is not an attempt to reconstruct the past precisely. It is an act of offering fragments. Images and memories that still hold weight, even when their exact coordinates have been lost to time.

A small selection of photographs from this period can be found in my China archive.