Liang Zhu Park was born a serene escape, but now, over a century later, it has evolved to serve a higher purpose. At first glance, the wayward pieces of paper resemble litter, out of place next to the manicured grass and decorative rocks.
Except the scraps at eye level aren’t trash. Aren’t random. They were hung deliberately, strings attaching each flyer to branches overhead. Within the black sea of simplified Chinese characters, patches of color congeal to form a face here, an arm there. Below the pictures, a description: Height. Weight. Animal. The town she calls home.
Each sheet is almost indistinguishable from the last—dolls cut from a folded piece of paper. Yet to those who pad along the cobblestones, hands behind their backs, heads in serious thought? Each picture, each person is just that—an individual. Different from its neighbor, clearly better or worse, ranked higher or lower based on various standards and traits.
What kinds of secrets does this garden hold? Perhaps the clutter creates pockets for information to hide. If a secret never sees the light of day, does it exist at all? Of course it does, but once tucked away in a corner of the park, a corner of the mind, it’s easier to forget.
But the park never forgets.