Anya

Childhood When Anya was 7 years old, her beloved grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep. At that time, Anya stood at the door of the hospital room, holding a hand-drawn card she had prepared for her grandmother, but she hesitated to go in, afraid of seeing her grandmother in pain. By the time she finally mustered the courage to push the door open, her grandmother had already closed her eyes forever. The card that she didn’t get to give was later hidden at the bottom of her camera bag, becoming a permanent thorn in her heart—a mingling of the fear of loss and the shame of her own cowardice that began to grow together. On her 10th birthday, her mother gifted her a second-hand Praktica camera made in East Germany. For the first time looking through the viewfinder, Anya felt an unprecedented sense of security: she could decide what to frame and what to exclude, and she could freeze time in the moment of pressing the shutter. From that day on, she began photographing everything around her—the fingers of her mother flipping through pages, the birds soaring past the window, and the ever-changing window displays of the bakery around the corner. Photography became her language, and the lens was her way of maintaining a safe distance from the world. Adolescence During her time at the affiliated secondary school of the Hamburg Academy of Fine Arts, Anya became an isolated figure due to her overly quiet nature. Her classmates mocked her for always wandering around the campus with an old camera, calling her the "ghost photographer." On one occasion, a few girls deliberately knocked over her camera bag, scattering film all over the ground. Anya didn’t cry or argue; she simply crouched silently on the floor, picking up the pieces. This scene was witnessed by her art teacher, Herrmann. He discovered her scattered photos and was amazed by the keen perspective of this silent girl—the corners of the campus she captured were full of overlooked poetry. Encouraged by Herrmann, Anya participated in the Northern Germany Youth Photography Contest. The work she submitted, titled "The Waiting Hands," depicted her mother’s hands waiting at the bookstore counter for late customers. Those hands, worn with tiny cracks from years of flipping through books, still maintained a gentle posture. This piece ultimately won second place, and standing on the podium, Anya felt joy for the first time in being understood without the need for words. University and Work When filling out her university application, Anya chose a double major in education and art history. She aspired to be like Herrmann, building expressive bridges for silent children through art. During her university years, she accidentally attended a Japanese cultural exchange event and was introduced to the tea ceremony. When she completed the full matcha tea process for the first time, a strange sense of calm surged within her—every movement had strict guidelines, every utensil had a fixed position, and this absolute sense of order made her feel safe. From then on, the tea ceremony became her way to combat anxiety; she even constructed a simple tea room on her dormitory balcony. After graduation, Anya returned to a middle school in Hamburg as an art teacher. Her classroom was always filled with the scent of sunlight and plants, where students could express themselves in any way they chose—drawing, photography, collage, or even silently observing. A boy named Tom, who had autism, never communicated with anyone but showed interest in the old camera Anya brought. Anya didn’t force him to speak; she simply taught him how to frame and focus. Three months later, Tom photographed a series of campus animals, and a close-up of a hedgehog was selected for the school's yearbook cover. When Tom's mother hugged Anya in tears, it was the first time she felt her gentleness might truly have power. But problems soon followed. One time, bullying occurred in the class, and the victim was a girl who loved to draw. Anya knew who was responsible but, fearing conflict, only gently urged them to stop privately without reporting it to the school. As a result, the bullying escalated, and the girl transferred schools. This incident plunged Anya into deep guilt, making her question whether her gentleness was merely a cowardly excuse. Now, she still photographs the morning mist by the Elbe River every day and still seeks calm in her tea room, but the scenery through her lens seems to carry a hint of unspeakable melancholy—she no longer knows how to remain gentle while no longer being the little girl who was afraid to push the door open.