Creative Direction

Campaign Film Direction

For this campaign, I wrote three stories inspired by three moments of wind that have stayed in my memory. Zhou Xun lends her voice to each of them.

I.

我和四姐并排走着。她不说话，没有表情。她很少有表情，除非我惹事后，她扬起巴掌、龇着牙吓我。她也笑过，开怀地笑过，只是我已经想不起是因为什么了。不是因为美食，不是电视节目，也不是在档口推车里淘到一件称心的新衣服。

我们快走到景点区，对面的行人渐渐多起来。我挽住她的手臂，怕在人群里和她走散。她手臂微微用力往下压，是她惯常的抗议。我装作没察觉，反而挽得更紧了一些。

她的沉默让我可以仔细看她。现在的她，头顶只到我肩下，我反而更难看清她的神情。于是我看她的头发——发质很硬，像猫的胡须，在风里一下一下地抖。

我记忆里的南方是没有风的。它太轻了，像一层看不见的光，落在身上不留痕迹。它吹不动空气里的湿气，吹不动我的头发，也不掀衣角，只是悄无声息地把人包裹住。那时我的头刚到她的肩膀，那个时候我的头刚及四姐的肩膀，她习惯稍稍走在我的前面，拉着我的手。

现在的风好像还是那样轻。

这样也好。风不动，就能让她身上的气味停得更久一点。我不去看她的脸，只是执拗地挽着她的手臂走。好像只要不松开，下次见面就不会来得太晚。

I.

Sijie and I walk side by side. She says nothing. Her face is unreadable. It rarely carries any expression, except when I got into trouble as a child—then she would raise her hand, bare her teeth, and pretend she was about to hit me. She laughed, too. She really did laugh, wholeheartedly. I just can’t remember what it was that made her laugh. It wasn’t good food, or a television show, or finding a piece of clothing she loved in the bargain carts at the market.

We’re nearing the tourist district, where the stream of people coming toward us grows thicker. I slip my arm through hers, afraid we’ll lose each other in the crowd. Her arm presses down ever so slightly, her familiar gesture of protest. I pretend not to notice and hold on a little tighter.

Her silence gives me space to look at her. Now the top of her head barely reaches below my shoulder, and somehow that makes it harder to read her face. So I look instead at her hair. It’s coarse and wiry, like a cat’s whiskers, quivering softly in the breeze.

The South I remember was a place without wind. Or perhaps the wind was simply too gentle to notice—a layer of invisible light settling over your skin without leaving a trace. It couldn’t stir the dampness in the air, couldn’t lift my hair or catch the hem of a shirt. It simply wrapped itself around us in silence. Back then, my head barely reached Sijie’s shoulder. She always walked half a step ahead of me, holding my hand.

The wind still feels just as light.

Maybe that’s for the best. If the wind doesn’t move, the scent she carries can linger a little longer. I don’t look at her face. I only keep holding onto her arm, stubbornly, as we walk. As though, if I never let go, the next time we meet won’t take so long to arrive.

II

学会骑车，是我今年最庆幸的一件事。门一关上，屋里的声音还在追我，像贴在背后的手。我不敢停，推着车刚走出公寓几步，就赶紧跨上去，一蹬脚，几乎是逃一样地飞出去。

风很大，大得把一切都盖住了。它从正面撞来，灌进耳朵，像水一样，把声音全部淹没。我听不见街旁的人声，也听不见自己脑子里的那些话。那些关于应该、关于以后、关于她对我妈和我的不满，那些反复出现的指责与要求，全都被风一点点吹散、吹碎。

没出几条街，我已经骑出了大学城。道路两旁的银杏叶正黄，一片一片，在风里翻动着光。我越骑越快，腿开始发酸，眼睛被吹得发涩，我依旧飞快地骑。这些街道，这些树影，我多看一眼是一眼。多一片叶子落进心里，就能挤走一句她的话，就能让我再远离一点点。仿佛距离见到妈妈的日子就更近一点了。

II.

Learning to ride a bicycle is the thing I’m most grateful for this year.

The moment the door shuts behind me, the sounds inside the apartment are still chasing after me, like hands pressed against my back. I don’t dare stop. I push my bike only a few steps before swinging onto the saddle. One hard push of the pedal, and I’m gone, almost as if I’m escaping.

The wind is fierce—so fierce it swallows everything. It rushes straight into me, flooding my ears like water until every sound disappears beneath it. I can’t hear the voices from the street. I can’t hear the voices inside my own head, either. All the thoughts about what I should do, about the future, about her resentment toward my mother and me—the accusations, the demands, repeated over and over—are slowly scattered, broken apart, and carried away by the wind.

Within a few blocks, I’ve already ridden beyond the university district. The ginkgo trees lining the road have turned yellow, their leaves flickering in the wind as they catch the light. I ride faster and faster. My legs begin to ache. The wind stings my eyes until they grow dry, but I keep pedaling hard.

These streets, these shifting shadows beneath the trees—I linger over each one as though I might never see it again. Every leaf I carry with me makes a little more room inside, pushing out one more sentence she once said, letting me put a little more distance between us. As though, with every turn of the wheels, the day I see my mother again draws just a little closer.

III

纽约的风一吹起来就是妖风。是被高楼挤出来的。它从哈德逊河飞奔向东河，不拐弯，一头猛跑，遇到人群就要把挡住它的一切推离原地。我和婧玮的头发乱成一片，两人的头发快搅成一团了。我们使劲让身体向前倾，好像不这样就会被带走。

躲进地铁进站时也是一样。还没看到车，风又来了，从隧道深处冲出来，带着热气和铁轨的味道，一阵一阵地撞在身上。站台上的人不动，大家只是把脚站稳，等它过去。风掠过脸的时候，我甚至分不清那是列车的速度，还是这座城市本身的呼吸。

这些风都很大，大到好像随时可以把人刮走，给人以威严。但在纽约立足又是如此简单。我帆布包里有一张刚收到的支票，我要把它存进银行后，带婧玮去下一顿西安名吃。哪怕有点狼狈，只要我们挤上了下一班地铁，我就可以跑比风还快了。

III.

When the wind blows in New York, it blows like something feral. Squeezed out between the skyscrapers, it races from the Hudson River toward the East River without slowing or turning, charging straight ahead, determined to shove anything in its path out of the way.

Jingwei and I are a mess, our hair whipped in every direction until it almost tangles together. We lean our bodies forward with all our weight, as if anything less would let the wind carry us away.

The same thing happens when we duck into the subway station. Before the train even comes into view, the wind arrives first, surging out of the tunnel with the warmth and metallic smell of the tracks, crashing into us in waves. No one on the platform moves. Everyone simply plants their feet and waits for it to pass. As it brushes across my face, I can’t tell whether what I’m feeling is the speed of the train or the breathing of the city itself.

These winds are immense, powerful enough to make it seem as though they could sweep a person away at any moment. They command a certain awe. And yet, finding a foothold in New York turns out to be surprisingly simple.

Inside my canvas bag is a check I received just this morning. Once I’ve deposited it at the bank, I’m taking Jingwei to Xi’an Famous Foods for our next meal. However windswept we may look, as long as we squeeze onto the next train, I know I can outrun the wind.