I’m Paul Murphy, and I came to Beijing as an English teacher, although (like everyone else!) I’m looking around for something a little more lucrative to help me settle here long-term. In my first year here I was working in a private college, but they proved to be employers-from-hell; I am very relieved to have moved on now to a job in the English Faculty of one of the Universities.

\Even that nightmarish first job had its consolations: I was living on Gulou Street, surely the most vibrant and characterful little street in the whole city. It’s in the Shichahai neighbourhood, one of the last of the old-style hutong districts left in the city centre, extending north and west from Beihai Park up to the 2nd Ringroad, and encompassing the trio of lakes, Qianhai, Houhai, and Xihai – a blissful early morning jogging route. I had been hoping we could use a shot taken in my favourite restaurant on ‘The Street’, a little Muslim place called Lanzhou Lamian; but, alas, the available light wasn’t good enough, so Karen and I went prowling the surrounding area in search of other photo opportunities.

I try not to get too attached to material possessions, so for the ‘beloved object’ to use as my theme I thought I should nominate something I really love about China. Rather to my surprise, I found myself choosing xiangqi, Chinese Chess. I’m not much of a games player, and have never really had any time for the ‘international’ version of chess – but I warmed immediately to the Chinese game: it’s much more open and direct (a bigger board with fewer pieces, so there is space to bring the stronger pieces into the attack right from the first move), it’s over much more quickly (especially when played at the furious tempo of the locals), and much less pompous…. and more social (people play on street corners everywhere, and almost always attract a knot of onlookers, who’ll often point out possible moves, or mutter cryptically, or laugh scornfully). And I have a licence to be bad! I am frankly intimidated by international chess: never having put the time in to master the standard openings and so on, I know that I will be treated with disdain by any moderately competent player. Doubtless serious xiangqi players can be similarly dismissive of their fellow-countrymen, but they expect and tolerate incompetence in Westerners; in fact, they are usually surprised and delighted if you can so much as remember the moves or recognise the pieces.

I’ve come to view this as a symbol of the appeal of expat life: it’s invigorating to be able to escape from your personal history, from all the cultural assumptions you grew up with, and above all from the oppressive burden of other people’s expectations. A country like China really does give you the chance to make a completely fresh start. Here I could perhaps become a good chess player. Or, at least, I will be allowed to enjoy being a bad one.

How did I feel about being photographed? Remarkably ‘absent’, really. I’m not a narcissist, I hope, so I didn’t really have any concerns about ‘looking good’ (although Karen may tease me that when she first asked me to take part in the project a few weeks earlier, I said: “Oh, no, you can’t photograph me now. I’ve been sleeping so badly, I look like a panda!”). I don’t think the idea of being ‘immortalized’ has any particular hold on me either (well, maybe just a little bit…). I just liked the idea of the project, and enjoyed participating in it. My main difficulty, probably, was adapting myself to a passive role: I’m quite a forceful personality and I prefer to be in control of situations. Also, I’m a keen photographer myself - though hardly in Karen’s league – so I was constantly thinking “What’s the light like?”, “Would this look good?”, etc….. so I had to rein in my natural tendency to take charge. Actually this was remarkably easy, and even relaxing. I often find that when I have no choice but to surrender my autonomy and put myself entirely in the hands of an expert – whether it’s a surgeon or a dentist or a barber – I achieve an almost trance-like state of calm. And taking direction from Karen felt rather like that. The xiangqi was a very effective distraction as well, preventing any self-consciousness in posing. When I was playing or watching a game, I soon forgot about everything else – and Karen had difficulty dragging me away from this final street game after she’d finished the roll of film.

Paul Murphy (England, 2003)