An image from ‘an anthropological home’, 2025.
A bag of drawers and a selection of garments by @jinliiang
Photography @__yi__ming
Location thanks to @maxleart
Assistance @mnakrc
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Jian Jian is an independent photography magazine dedicated to black-and-white film photography, built around the idea of 兼, a Chinese character that represents duality, not as multitasking, but as a seamless blending of vision and thought.
Jian Jian — Issue 02: Delirious Sensation
“The rotting corpses of our cities continue to decay at an unprecedented rate…”
Curated by Yi (@__yi__ming ), this issue delves into the fragmented condition of the contemporary city—cannibalised, repackaged, and endlessly repeated. Through a series of stark, hyperreal images and sharp philosophical reflections, Delirious Sensation examines the process of disappearance and the seductive emptiness that follows.
Yi is an interdisciplinary designer from Hong Kong, currently studying architecture in London. His work navigates the contradictory and infinite possibilities of our meta-society, drawing from architecture, photography, and philosophy to construct narratives of rupture, schizophrenia, and void.
This issue does not offer comfort or clarity. It opens a space, a void—that demands we confront the collapse of the interior world and search elsewhere for liberation.
Printed in a 21x28cm format with 32 monochrome pages, Jian Jian is a tribute to film photography's timeless depth and texture.
Cover concept @black.skew
ISSN 2398-2787
Link in bio
#uhm #uhmpublishing #indiepublishing #jianjian #兼兼 #photography #magazine #filmphotography #bwphotography #art #london #photomagazine #photo #analogphotography #streetphotography #artwork #newmagazine #blackandwhitephotography #blackandwhite
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff -and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside, too, I’d duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I’d let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!
@lewis__ss
It’s raining, raining, raining…
It’s raining constantly, plaintively…
My body sets my soul shivering with cold, not the cold that exists in space, but the cold of me being in that space.
@lewis__ss
I do not repeat because I repress. I repress because I repeat, I forget because I repeat. I repress, because I can live certain things or certain experiences only in the mode of repetition. I am determined to repress whatever would prevent me from living them thus.
The undifferenciated abyss, the black nothingness, the indeterminate animal in which everything is dissolved - but also the white nothingness, the once more calm surface upon which float unconnected determinations like scattered members: a head without a neck, an arm without a shoulder, eyes without brows.
There was a time in my demented youth
When somehow I suspected that the truth
About survival after death was known
To every human being: I alone
Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy
Of books and people hid the truth from me.
Are you awake? You were talking recently about the meaning... of our... life... unselfishness of art... Let’s take music... It’s really least of all connected; to say the truth, if it is connected at all, then in an idealess way, mechanically, with an empty sound... Without... without associations... Nonetheless the music miraculously penetrates into the very soul! What is resonating in us in answer to the harmonized noise? And turns it for us into the source of great delight... And unites us, and shakes us? What is its purpose? And, above all, for whom? You will say: for nothing, and... and for nobody, just so. Unselfish. Though it’s not so... perhaps... For everything, in the end, has its own meaning... Both the meaning and the cause
May everything come true. May they believe. And may they laugh at their passions. For what they call passion is not really the energy of the soul but merely friction between the soil and the outside world. But above all may they believe in themselves and become as helpless as children. For softness is great and strength is worthless.
