I left Beijing one week ago. I could make a post without text and just say “adios friends, I’ve left Shanghai now, you can have only the pictures” but well, I don’t know. I didn’t make lots of pictures in Beijing.

I only made pictures in the parks. I was greatly impressed by the surprises of the Chinese garden arts. The vsit of the Forbidden City was indeed crowned by the Imperial Garden, a small forest between red walls, small but spacious, with terraces, stones and nature. Trees erected like statues and birds singing. It was beautiful, resting, refreshing, spacious, intimate, and I only took one picture (and it wasn’t very good).

The parks I saw manage to keep some mystery, some secrets and a little bit of poetry, even with lots and lots of visitors. You could, like me, cross the way of a calligrapher of the instant. He writes on the ground, with water. And a few minutes after he left, his writings leave too. After that, you could cross a bridge over untroubled water, a small pagoda whose wood has been darkened by the passing of time, stairway to the hill and french tourists.

But, well, it’s always a private discovery…

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