ZHEJIANG, East China – At the entrance to his studio in Sandun Village, Xihu County in northwest Hangzhou, Zhou Quanhu welcomed each visitor with a hand and a grin, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
Inside, the room was full of chatter, clinking cups of tea, and laughter as friends shared old stories. He was thin and painfully thin, with a salt-and-pepper beard and tanned skin on his sharp cheeks, he stood on all fours, going from one person to another, as if holding a regular meeting. He said goodbye while he was still able.
No good music. No eulogies. No tears. The meeting felt less like saying goodbye to a man with lung cancer than afternoon tea.
For 47 years, Zhou had devoted his life to keeping his photography studio alive. He had photographed birthdays, weddings, greetings and anniversaries for many years in the community. Now, facing the end of his life, the 71-year-old man talks about death with a smile.
“All my life, I’ve been the man behind the lens,” said Zhou, standing next to a photo of the souvenir he chose. “Today, for the first time, I am in the spotlight. My body may fail, but my spirit is strong. I am proud of the way I have lived my life.”
Dai Jun, a photographer who helped organize the festival last October, first met Zhou two years ago while filming. When he called to schedule an interview, Zhou was unhappy. “Come after three,” he told Dai. “I need to sleep.
“People who don’t know him think he’s tough,” said Dai.
When Dai arrived, Zhou was sitting behind the counter, a black baseball cap covering his face, looking like an expectant guard. “There’s nothing to talk about,” Zhou said, before opening reluctantly.
But Zhou’s clients remember a different side of him – how he would draw them into conversation, smile, listen, and nod, trying to understand them before raising his camera.
“In a real picture, form comes first. Beauty comes second,” Zhou said.
Zhou modeled her posture, bowing her head, hiding half of her face with a veil, or raising her chin with her hand. Once his model was at ease, he would quietly raise his Canon camera and take an unexpected moment before they realized what he had done.
However, the warmth would disappear as soon as the other person was not a wandering example. “You—get out,” he would say, lowering his camera and pointing to the door.
“Everyone has a moment when they shine,” Zhou said. “You can only win it when there are no distractions – just the two of you, fully focused.”
At the end of the show, Zhou would take the best photo to the wall, over a face full of hundreds of faces from the past four decades.
“These moments, these stories, are the only true wealth that this studio has,” he said.
Accidental photographer
Born young and poor, Zhou learned from his father to “work more and talk less.” He spent his early years doing manual labor on a farm and working in a snack bar, never intending to become a photographer.
But when he was 25 years old, he received an unexpected invitation to interview him at the famous Sandun Photo Studio in Hangzhou.
Many have been added. Zhou was the shortest and quietest, often forgotten by others. However, he was the one the master chose. Once inside the studio, he threw himself into work.
By the late 1970s, film was expensive and scarce, and every press was precious. Creating a picture required great precision.
Zhou lifted the dark cloth draped over the large-format camera and slid it over his head, shutting off the light. As the upside-down image gradually sharpened on the ground glass, the frozen screen on the back of the camera, he slid a sheet of film. Then, when he came out from under the cloth, he was squeezing the air bulb between his fingers. After ringing and clicking, this moment would be captured forever.
When negatives were produced, they often had white spots. Zhou could spend a whole day poring over a single print, gently erasing every flaw with the blade.
Zhou eventually took over the studio from his owner. Before leaving, Zhou finally worked up the courage to ask her why she chose him all those years ago. He smiled and said, “I needed someone honest – someone careful with his hands and clear in his mind.”
It was then that Zhou realized that the qualities that others had overlooked – his calmness and patience – were exactly what the craft required.
Pushing with pain
Two years ago, Zhou was diagnosed with lung cancer.
The chemotherapy made him pale and shaky. “When the pain hits, you wonder if you can bear to live,” he said.
But he was not a quitter. He had been through some big obstacles before, and he didn’t want to abandon the studio when he faced another one now.
After taking over the studio, Zhou quickly became famous in the city. In the 1990s, neighbors lined up outside his small studio for ID photos, family portraits and wedding photos. When he opened the shop at 7 in the morning, he usually did not close until late, making more money than he thought.
But then digital cameras began to replace film. People no longer needed a studio to capture a moment. The line of customers at his shop – once steady – dwindled.
Zhou tried to adapt. He bought his first digital camera – a Canon he couldn’t afford – only to watch it get stolen by men who came to his shop, pretending to be customers before stuffing it under a jacket and speeding off on a motorbike.
He had even faced death before. One night, a man came into the studio, wrapped his hand around Zhou’s neck, pressed a knife to his neck, and demanded money. Zhou freed himself and survived, but the fear remained.
By the early 2010s, his owner had died, his longtime colleague had retired, and the student he had trained had returned home to marry. Zhou was the only one left to turn on the lights. However, he always loved his job.
Then, facing death for the second time, he reluctantly closed the studio. “Anyone interested (in running the studio) – just give me a shout,” he wrote on social media. “Keeping this old studio alive is all I want.”
An unknown successor
At the age of 28, Cao Mengqi had spent years practicing amateur photography and was considering giving up his reporting career to pursue it full-time.
He entered Zhou’s studio on a rare day when he had the strength to open it for an hour or two. But the old man refused to look at him or answer his questions about the prices of the paintings. “Even a school child can understand that,” he growled.
“If you talk to customers like that, how do you stay in business?” Cao asked.
Zhou finally looked up and met his eyes. Without another word, he went to the back room and started setting up his camera.
Once the shooting started, the tension eased. They talked about lighting, lenses, and what a photo studio means in the age of digital cameras.
Before leaving, Cao left his number. Later, he jokingly asked her how much she wanted for rent.
“I don’t charge you rent or electricity,” Zhou told him. Try it for a few months. See if this place still has life.
He gave her the keys and printed her phone number on the studio’s “Closed” sign.
When Cao asked why he would hand over a 60-year-old studio to someone he had only met once, Zhou shuddered. He said: “I trust people. However, there is nothing here that is too important. If someone comes in and you take a good picture, the money is yours.”
Zhou visited the studio whenever Cao needed help, teaching him how to set up lights, arrange backgrounds, and model puppets. He never scolded her for mistakes. He told her: “That’s how you learn. If you take a bad photo, don’t charge for it.”
“My biggest tip”
At the welcome ceremony, Zhou sat in the front row with a cup of green tea, smiling and nodding as neighbors, friends and relatives stood up to talk about the man they loved. One neighbor described his world as “around cameras, furniture and antiques.” His nephew called him “a little person with a lot of energy.”
“You have the most courage I’ve ever had,” said his sister, her eyes watering.
Cao spoke, too. “Zhou’s studio is small, but it has the memories of the whole life of the people here,” he said.
When the party ended, only Zhou and Cao remained.
Zhou stood silently as Cao printed the text on the wall, his photos slowly covering the faded ones that Zhou had hung decades ago. The setting sun illuminates hundreds of pictures—some in black and white, some in color, some decades old, and some newly created.
Cao turned to him. “Do you have any last wishes?”
Zhou was silent for a moment, his eyes covering the faces he had captured all his life.
He said: “I hope I don’t die. And I hope this studio will continue. That would be my biggest wish.”
Editor: Marianne Gunnarsson.
(Main photo: Zhou greets visitors at the entrance of the studio, holding hands and laughing; right: The walls of Zhou’s studio are filled with hundreds of photos from the past four decades, Hangzhou, Zhejiang province, October 2025. Courtesy of Li Jincan)
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