Xiaolong Zhao (age 19)

Baotou, Mongolia

The objects in the picture are called the Four Treasures of the Study. They are brushes, inkstones, paperweights, and Xuan paper. On the right of the photograph, one brush is made of wolf hair and the other is made of wool. They have different nib hardnesses because they have different functions. On the top of the picture is the inkstone decorated by a carved dragon and a Chinese scroll, which symbolizes majesty. The inkstone is a special stone, and its function is to hold the ink stick that will be ground and mixed with water to make liquid ink, which will be transferred to the right container. On the left of the picture are two paperweights, and the pattern on them is bamboo from the Three Friends of Winter. These two heavier stones are responsible for keeping the paper flat. In the middle is Xuan paper, a specially crafted calligraphy paper. The word written on the paper is 福（blessing)—this Chinese character symbolizes peace and happiness. My mother and I like to use these tools to practice calligraphy. In the picture, I am writing calligraphy. My mother taught me calligraphy when I was very young. For my family, calligraphy not only represents a skill; it also cultivates one's mind and temperament. Because of my studies, I do not have time to study calligraphy systematically. Whenever I have free time, I always like to open the window and let the sunshine and breeze sprinkle onto the desk in the warm afternoon air. I like to feel the roughness of the ink particles and the smoothness of the Xuan paper, and forget all the worries in life to make my artwork.

I have always been curious about the evolution of other scripts, such as the ancient Greek alphabet, Egyptian hieroglyphs, cuneiform, and Indus Scripts. Unfortunately, these scripts and their cultures have all fallen into the long river of history. These characters are like mysterious codes waiting for humans to crack. There is only a little connection between them and the modern scripts, and their vitality is like a flame from a burned out candle. At this time, I feel the greatness of Chinese characters more and more. This is the only living ancient writing system with its own unique writing methods and instruments. I feel very fortunate that my culture is not locked away in a museum. It is in the homes of ordinary Chinese people who love and are still writing calligraphy, a part of the Chinese culture. Whenever I hold a brush, I feel I am connected to history. Whether it is ancient poetry or novels, ancient military orders or edicts, they were all written with the tools in my hand and the characters I use. How romantic is this! It's like passing the Olympic flame. Every Chinese dynasty, every Chinese emperor, and every ordinary person will pass the Chinese culture from generation to generation. The fire of the times burns traces of the old dynasty, but they cannot burn away all the traces of culture. This is not only a miracle for the Chinese people but also a miracle for humanity. Today, Chinese traditional culture has met with modern development. Calligraphy has a new life, and people don't need to commemorate it because it still exists.

Mariana Sánchez (age 17)

Mexico City, Mexico

These are my great-grandfather’s glasses. His name was Indalecio Huitrón Miranda. I remember listening to his name and imagining how lovely getting to know him must have been. I never had the chance to do so. Grandfather Indalecio, also known as “Papalecho,” had a very entrepreneurial spirit. He dedicated his life to agriculture, cultivating citrus and coffee, and herding horses. In his last years of life, he put a candy stand on the corner of the main street of Teziutlán, a small town in the state of Puebla, here in Mexico. He was a humble, generous man, who led a tough, yet beautiful life. When my father told me stories about him and how he used to live, his glasses were always in the picture. This object, being so representative of him, was passed on to my grandfather and later on, to my dad. He tells me the Mexican glasses, made out of copper, are from the 1950s, approximately 70 years old. My father keeps them on a special shelf where they are safe from falling or breaking. I decided to take this photograph because the glasses and the picture behind them bring my father great memories of his grandpa. It is always very moving for me to experience these emotional moments with him. I will want the glasses to endure for a long time so that his memory stays with my family and is not left behind. Part of the reason behind taking this photograph is that the Day of the Dead is around the corner in Mexico right now. Even though this festivity is celebrated once a year, my family and I keep my great-grandfather’s memory alive through his copper glasses.

Ian Rosenzweig (age 14)

Pennsylvania, U.S.

My artifact is an extremely important piece of my family’s history in America and a representation of the values we hold closely. It is a book entitled Seder Avodah for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This translates from Hebrew to “Order of Service for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.” Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the Jewish New Year and Jewish Day of Repentance. They are the two most important holidays of the Jewish year and are referred to as the High Holy Days. This specific prayer book was passed down to my mother from her parents. It was written in 1960 by Rabbi Max D. Klein of Adath Jeshurun Synagogue (known as AJ), which was in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It is now in Elkins Park, Pennsylvania. Congregants brought the book with them to the services.

Today, most synagogues provide prayer books. The book belonged to my great-grandmother, Bella Zemble. AJ was the congregation my great-grandparents’ belonged to. Their three sons (including my grandfather) had their Bar Mitzvahs (Jewish Right of Passage ceremonies) there, my mother had her Bat Mitzvah there, and my parents were married there. AJ is a strong piece of our family’s history. Using this book was a joyous aspect of the difficult holiday services we endured in the pandemic environment. It allowed us to pray and participate in our service without squinting at the computer screen for hours on end, and it helped us to link our heritage, which felt particularly important this year since we had to socially distance from our relatives with whom we usually celebrate the holidays. The machzor brought up memories for all of us. It made us recall past, happier High Holy Days when we were able to pray in the synagogue with our community and be with our family, which were both missing elements from the online service. My mom thought about her grandmother who passed away when she was twelve years old.

My sister and I learned about our family’s history. We knew about the importance of Adath Jeshurun to our family and that my grandparents are still congregants at AJ, but there was so much more wrapped up in that little book. We learned about what a service day looked like for our great-grandparents and grandparents. We learned about my great-grandparents' untimely deaths within a year of each other. We learned about a synagogue that held so much importance in our family’s past, including memories of all life cycle events. But most importantly, I discovered a piece of my family that was buried deeply beneath the stories of family history that I typically hear: the stories of the Holocaust and the countless family members lost and the anti-Semitism that stripped my family of equal opportunity in Europe and in America. This book initiated discussions of happier times and I learned positive stories about the continuity of this synagogue and this book within my family. I learned about my family, their synagogue and the prayer book that was issued to them 60 years ago which is used on the exact days of the Jewish calendar that I use them on, forming a connection between myself and my great-grandparents. All these connections took place through an artifact that had no monetary value, but was treasured because it signified the ability to pray and live as Jews in a free country. It not only allowed us to experience feelings that we are meant to feel on our High Holy Days, but also express feelings passed down to us through my great-grandmother’s Seder Avodah, her prayer book.

Iñaki Ramos (age 16)

Mexico City, Mexico

Due to the pandemic, the thought of death has become more present in our lives. Humanity has faced several challenges throughout the year of 2020, and most of us have lost someone we care about. I asked myself: how can an artifact connect us as a society? I realized that the concept of death, and death itself, has been more present than ever throughout the year. Because of the spread of COVID-19, we haven't been able to properly grieve.

I decided to document a typical altar for The Day of the Dead as my artifact. In Mexico, we have a celebration called The Day of the Dead where we show respect and appreciation for the people who are no longer with us. Every year on November 1st and 2nd, families across South America put up an altar to commemorate their lost ones. The Day of the Dead is considered one of the most beautiful traditions because it represents death from a completely different point of view. No one is really dead unless they are forgotten, so this day is dedicated to remembering all the people that we love and who are no longer with us.

This tradition has existed for more than 3,000 years and it has been passed down from generation to generation. An altar has different objects and each one of them has a meaning. It is formed by cempasuchil flowers, traditional food, candles, pictures, and personal belongings. The cempasuchil flowers are a bridge that connects the world of the living with the world of the dead. The candles illuminate the path home and the food and pictures welcome the dead to the world of the living. There is only a picture of my grandfather on the altar because it is not allowed to put a picture of a living person. Otherwise, you will get bad luck. Throughout my childhood my family has gathered to celebrate The Day of the Dead. I never felt the honor to celebrate it until six years ago when my grandfather passed away. It was special for me to set up an altar to honor him.

Since then, The Day of the Dead has been an important tradition in my life. The year 2020 has been difficult for many families across the world and most of us have been in constant pain. When I was putting up my altar this year, I realized that it helped me heal and have closure around my losses. It also helped me appreciate the values that I have learned from each person that is on my altar. The Day of the Dead is a tradition that connects us all in our most painful times when we lose someone we love. It also allows us to appreciate life.

Gemma Rossi (age 14)

California, U.S.

For Italians, pasta is a crucial part of daily life. Not only is it a staple of the Italian diet, but the craft of making pasta is passed down from generation to generation. From a pile of flour and an egg, traditional Italian women knead the dough with their hands into the tagliatelle con raggù that my father grew up eating every day in his home on the Adriatic coast. The artifact is not the pasta, but what is used to make the pasta. A tagliere (tale-YAY-ray), a large wooden board, is the surface on which pasta dough is kneaded and rolled out with a mattarello (Mat-TA-rel-lo), or rolling pin. Kept in every Italian family’s household, they are either used daily for traditional pasta or used for making pasta on special occasions. Our tagliere and mattarello are not passed down relics. They were a wedding gift made by Luciano Drudi, the old woodworker who lived across the street from my father’s childhood home in Borella. I will now inherit the tagliere and mattarello so I can make pasta just like my babbo taught me. The pasta will then be eaten by family and friends and will disappear as the night goes on. Italians end the night with liquirizia and gelato. Who doesn’t feel the connection created by good food?

Gianna Leung (age 16)

Mississauga, Canada

While I was looking for an artifact to photograph, I realized the immense sacrifice my immigrant parents gave to start a life here in Canada. This small clay teapot has always been an important part of the home. Growing up, I would often watch my parents brew tea after dinner and talk for hours about everything from the cooking time of ginseng soup to a close friend’s funeral in their home country they could not attend. I wondered why it was always accompanied by tea.

This small teapot was the only connection that remained for them as a reminder of their home. It gave them a reason to converse in the comfort of each other and allowed them to stay rooted in the foundation of their culture, even as their children forgot their mother tongue. In the Chinese tradition, the youngest family member serves elders. Often, the interactions that are possible between parents and children become limited as the world continues to evolve. This photograph conveys the idea that despite the development of technology and assimilation to another culture, families remain connected through small interactions made possible from objects of the past. Artifacts are a physical manifestation of the stories of our roots and are symbols we can see, hold, and experience for ourselves.

Kilian Schoenenberger (age 18)

Burgdorf, Switzerland

Generations

After the passing of my Grandmother and Grandfather this year, I decided to document what they had left behind, the spaces they used to live in, and their environment. One image of the series particularly stood out because of its symbolic depth and connection to me, my family, time, and the essence of life.

In this image, there are printed portraits of family relatives propped up on an antique piece of furniture in my Grandmother’s old living room. She used to light the candle in the front left corner in memory of the people she had lost. The large clock is deeply ingrained in my childhood memories. I remember the times when my Grandmother and I would excitedly wait for the hour to strike.

She, Rosmarie, had lived in this small apartment for decades along with the large pendulum clock ticking away the time of her life, her husband's life, and the people she knew. For a long time, she wasn’t among the ones who had passed away, but now her photo fits in this category. In her picture (in the middle) which she had placed there by herself, she’s holding the next generation, her great-grandson. To the left is her beloved and lifetime partner and husband, and her son, who had passed away before she died from severe cancer. To the right are her sister and husband again. As one of her relatives, I can be seen reflected in the pendulum. My time is ticking as well. And so, the cycle continues. With this photograph, I hoped to portray how we are all connected in families, in life, and in death. This place will stay in my memory as a place of peace, happiness, openness, and love. View more of Kilian's work on his website.

Finlay Tease (age 17)

Sydney , Australia

My photograph depicts an Indigenous Australian image on the Sydney Harbour Bridge during the Vivid Sydney Festival. It shows how Australia has changed its perspective on Indigenous culture since settlers arrived. This image shows how Australian people and the government are learning to accept and respect Indigenous people and their culture. The current social issue of our time is how all people can share the planet equally among one another regardless of culture. I am inspired by the film Earthrise and how it provides a perspective of the Earth as a canvas for all cultures. I have explored this in my work by showing Indigenous imagery superimposed over a man-made colonial structure. Architecture and the landscape can be used to synthesize all cultures into one.

This work captures the city of Sydney, which is important to me because I grew up there. I was surrounded by different cultural identities within the city and the landscape of the ocean with man-made elements surrounding it. I would like Australia to be remembered for the reconciliation it has gone through to accept Indigenous people and their culture, but also the struggle in the past for this recognition.

María Fernanda Ortega Cuevas (age 18)

Mexico City, Mexico

To me, food means family. As a Mexican, I can tell you that food is union and caring. Food is how you demonstrate love. My passion for photography aims to show how one can find beauty even in the most ordinary places or objects. Almost every Mexican household in central Mexico owns most of the objects portrayed and uses or consumes them on a daily basis. The only element that might not be in every Mexican home are churros. They symbolize the importance of food in our culture and all the sweet and comforting memories that pan dulce (sweet bread) brings to every Mexican. I remember that as a child, one of the best things about the weekend was when we would go to Coyoacán, a historically rich neighborhood in Mexico City, where I would have breakfast with my family and walk around to visit beautifully vivid and colorful sites. The most awaited moment of the day was when we would go to our favorite churrería (churro shop) and buy a few while drinking hot chocolate.

The cempasúchil flowers and the candle represent our most internationally recognized festivity, The Day of the Dead, which has a beautiful and culturally rich historical meaning throughout Mexico. On a personal level, it has a very deep and profound significance. I believe this holiday makes people appreciate and realize how beautiful life is, not only because of the feelings, people, and experiences it brings us but how fragile and temporary all of it is. Yet, nothing makes us feel more alive and loved than sitting around a table with friends and family, basking in the sweet yet deep aroma of warm hot chocolate, while tasting the divine sweetness of a sugary-sweet churro. It does not end there though. The texture of a handmade plate with its cold to-the-touch ceramic slickness and a gently lit candle flame with the scent of serene lavender lights the dimly lit night sky filled with stars and cool wind. This lights the senses of everyone present and makes every moment of one’s encounter with this tradition even more memorable.

Carina Pepene (age 16)

Brasov, Romania

My photo depicts the beauty of the painstaking work behind the creation of the traditional Romanian costume. Worn and woven by women living in the rural area, the traditional Romanian costume is more than a piece of clothing; it connects generations and hundreds of years of history. Each region of Romania has its own particularities. Transylvania (especially Bran) is known for the simplistic white and black, occasionally red, pattern on the traditional blouse, also called the “ie.” Over the ie there is a vest embroidered with colorful beads that often form floral patterns and a thick belt called “brâu.” The woman looking out of the window is my grandma, wearing a 100-year-old ie, complete with other accessories that she got from her mother as a dowry. On her lap she is holding another ie she made when she was younger. “I might have been your age,” she nostalgically told me. My grandma never had a daughter to teach the mastery behind the traditional costume; it used to be one of the most valuable lessons passed down from mother to daughter. The traditional costume reflected the social status, the region, and the event. The ie was often made during sewing bees where locals would interact with each other, turning a simple gathering into a significant social event. When making parts of the national costume, such as the ie, the brâu, and the vest, women were weaving the destinies of future generations.

Aidan Hoidal-Bui (age 15)

Massachusetts, U.S.

My Place On This Planet

In April 1975, just as the Vietnam War was nearing its end, my one-year-old mother, her two older brothers, and my grandparents fled Vietnam on one of the last planes to America just before the airport was bombed by the North. We were fortunate that my mom’s uncle was the general of the South Vietnamese police and head of South Vietnam’s CIA. His high rank is the only reason they were allowed to flee by air rather than by sea in wooden boats.

In humanitarian crises, one must flee without possessions. However, there are some artifacts too critical to communities to be left behind. At the start of this photography project, I searched for hours to find a family artifact in our home. My mom shared with me that my grandparents did not have the luxury of packing and preserving family heirlooms; I was devastated. What they did bring was themselves, the clothes on their bodies, and several cherished photographs of my great-great-grandparents. I had such a narrow idea of what an artifact should look like that I didn’t think about the obvious solution to my problem. I realized that my great-great-grandparents’ fragile photographs were my family artifacts, even if they are the only ones we have.

My grandparents’ primary goal was survival, and they brought only the necessities: their children who were alive and photographs of their elders who had passed. Respect for one’s ancestral history is embedded in the DNA of Vietnamese people. At the heart of every Vietnamese household sits an altar framed by ancestors and elders who have passed away. Bowls of fruit and rice are placed in front of the loved ones as offerings of respect and remembrance. The altar table is an essential part of our lives as it connects us to our roots, ensures we never forget where we came from, and honors those who came before us who made our lives possible. This customary arrangement symbolizes and ties together these essential values of Vietnamese culture. I hope to one day preserve this tradition and pass on these artifacts so that future generations will never forget where they came from and who came before them.

I chose to make the smoldering incense the main focus of my photograph because its smokey scent is forever ingrained in my mind. I know I am entering a Vietnamese home when I walk through the door and the first thing I smell is burning incense, indicating that a prayer has just taken place. To be honest, it is not exactly a pleasant smell. It burns my eyes and even makes me choke. But when I smell that distinctive smoke, I am brought back to my childhood and all the times that we traveled to the San Francisco Bay Area to visit our family for Tết, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year. I chose to focus on the incense because no matter where I am, when I inhale that strong scent, I think of my great-grandparents on that altar and I am reminded of a country that has deeply shaped who I am today.

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