Have you ever been puzzled by the names of vegetables? Those emerald leaves with nearly identical silhouettes often trick us into mistaking "water spinach/Ong choy" for "spinach," or the embarrassment of looking at "Chinese broccoli" when pointing at Yu choy. This confusion, which has haunted my entire childhood, inspired my graduation project—the illustrated children’s book “Is This a Bok Choy?”
The story springs from memories of my grandfather’s small vegetable garden. One spring, he looked at the patch of neglected soil behind our house and declared, "Let’s turn it into a garden." From that point on, that humble ten-square-meter plot became our secret garden. I always enjoyed squatting on the ridge, watching Grandpa's calloused hands scatter seeds into the damp soil. When the water from the hose reflected a rainbow in the sunlight, I would pretend I was showering vegetables - those green leaves stained with mud, stretching in the water's light, became the most vivid image in my memory.
Now that the garden has vanished with the demolition of our old home, only the gritty texture of pastels can resurrect those days. I deliberately used childhood color pencils to outline the drawings, allowing their waxy naivety to sync with the rhythm of memory. The hazy glow of blended pastels mimics the mist of southern rainy seasons, the dew between the veins of the cabbage and the white frost of the cauliflower skin are covered with a nostalgic soft light. As I smudge the pigments with my fingertips, falling specks of dust momentarily transport me back to the soil, still fragrant with crushed grass.
The Bok choy serves as the visual anchor in this book, not only for its auspicious homophone "baicai" (a symbol of wealth) but also because it witnesses the warmest inheritance - when grandpa taught me to identify layers of wrapped cabbage, he said: “Look, this is much like our life, we have to protect the most important in the heart.” Now, when I open this book, what emerges from the dark green leaves is the hand that taught me the world, the person who taught me how to take root in the soil.
The story springs from memories of my grandfather’s small vegetable garden. One spring, he looked at the patch of neglected soil behind our house and declared, "Let’s turn it into a garden." From that point on, that humble ten-square-meter plot became our secret garden. I always enjoyed squatting on the ridge, watching Grandpa's calloused hands scatter seeds into the damp soil. When the water from the hose reflected a rainbow in the sunlight, I would pretend I was showering vegetables - those green leaves stained with mud, stretching in the water's light, became the most vivid image in my memory.
Now that the garden has vanished with the demolition of our old home, only the gritty texture of pastels can resurrect those days. I deliberately used childhood color pencils to outline the drawings, allowing their waxy naivety to sync with the rhythm of memory. The hazy glow of blended pastels mimics the mist of southern rainy seasons, the dew between the veins of the cabbage and the white frost of the cauliflower skin are covered with a nostalgic soft light. As I smudge the pigments with my fingertips, falling specks of dust momentarily transport me back to the soil, still fragrant with crushed grass.
The Bok choy serves as the visual anchor in this book, not only for its auspicious homophone "baicai" (a symbol of wealth) but also because it witnesses the warmest inheritance - when grandpa taught me to identify layers of wrapped cabbage, he said: “Look, this is much like our life, we have to protect the most important in the heart.” Now, when I open this book, what emerges from the dark green leaves is the hand that taught me the world, the person who taught me how to take root in the soil.