© Richard HuangAcross the Greater Toronto Area, playgrounds for children are scattered through virtually every neighbourhood and park—far too many to count. After dinner each day, they would usually be swarming with children while their parents stood nearby chatting about everyday life. Children and adults left one another to it, each content in their own world. Most of these play structures are large and brightly coloured, forming a distinctive part of the neighbourhood landscape.
© Richard Huang
© Richard HuangWhen the COVID-19 pandemic arrived in 2020, I naturally wanted, as a photographer, to document an event of such enormous consequence. I considered photographing hospitals. I also thought about interviewing a Chinese neighbour who worked around the clock with a 3D printer, making and donating protective goggles and other equipment to the community. There was no shortage of moving stories like these. But those records could be left to journalists and the media. I wanted instead to create a body of artistic work from a calm, objective perspective. In the end, I chose to turn my camera on these playgrounds: they had a distinctive visual character, made more striking by the yellow tape that appeared with the pandemic. More importantly, their outward appearance could reveal something deeper.
© Richard Huang
© Richard HuangSo I travelled to parks large and small throughout the Greater Toronto Area, taking more than a thousand photographs and trying to preserve a singular visual record of each playground.
© Richard Huang
© Richard HuangEdit this articleOnce, while photographing Salamander Park, I saw a little girl who looked as though she had only just learned to walk. Drawn to the enormous, brightly coloured toy, she toddled towards the slide, tugging her mother along. Her mother bent down and told her, “The park is closed for now. We’ll come back when it reopens.” Even to a child still learning to speak, these dazzling structures signify play; they are a source of happiness.
© Richard Huang
© Richard HuangAfter the reluctant child had gone, the playground before me fell silent once more. There was no one around, and the scene felt faintly post-apocalyptic. These enormous, unused structures looked strange and out of place within what had once seemed a harmonious natural setting. They were beautiful, yet fragile—like iridescent soap bubbles, brilliant with colour but gone at a touch. Once burst, nothing remained but emptiness. The yellow tape, meanwhile, hung like shackles: heavy and ironic, with a ghostly presence.
© Richard Huang
© Richard HuangThis was how the pandemic bound the world and brought it to a standstill—as if a young person hurrying along had suddenly been forced to stop. That pause gave us a chance to reflect.
© Richard Huang
© Richard HuangLooking at these sealed-off playgrounds, we might wonder whether society, for all its apparent strength and progress, is actually quite fragile.
We might also wonder whether these developed, human-made landscapes have disturbed the harmony of the natural environment—and how development and conservation might be held in balance.
Perhaps our thoughts might turn to how we educate our children…
© Richard HuangConsider this: might the very presence of these playgrounds create distance between children and nature, or weaken the bonds between children and adults? Without the pull of these man-made attractions, perhaps children would spend more time exploring the natural world. Perhaps they would have more opportunities to open a book, or be more inclined to sit down and try their hand at a musical instrument.
On the subject of children’s education, let’s listen to this recording…
Ms. L (government employee): When lockdown began, nearly all of my children’s extracurricular activities stopped, apart from a few online classes, so they suddenly had much more free time. Many parents around us were anxious, feeling that their children were doing nothing and simply wasting their time. But we didn’t see it that way. On the contrary, I thought this unexpected stretch of free time was something rare and precious—a chance to clear their minds and discover what genuinely interested them. Take my older daughter. Normally, getting her to practise the piano involved a lot of shouting. Now I leave her alone, and she sits down to play by herself every day, even learning new pieces on her own. Her younger sister has recently fallen in love with two things. One is baking: she makes little treats, fries pancakes, and prepares fruit cups and other desserts. The other is joining me for a walk every day. We chat off and on as we go, and I treasure that intimate time together as mother and daughter. Life leaves its traces little by little through these small, ordinary moments. They have become memories that belong to us both—warm and beautiful ones. The pandemic has also made us reconsider how we rank our various needs. What truly matters in life? What can we give up altogether, and what can we greatly reduce? We discovered that most of the things we genuinely cannot do without are not material at all. During lockdown, our relationship with nature also became much more visible. Before the pandemic, I spent an hour commuting every day. Lunchtimes were busy, and I finished work late, so once I had eaten dinner at home, I almost never went out again. Now that I am home every day, I have suddenly discovered all sorts of walking routes nearby, with small lakes, woods, mountain-bike trails, and many kinds of wildlife. Throughout lockdown, my younger daughter has gone out with me every day. Together, we have discovered many creatures we had never noticed before: red foxes, porcupines, white-tailed deer, wild pheasants, Canada geese and their goslings, and many more. Every outing lets us see the seasons changing and feel the passage of time. My daughter has also learned to recognize Venus—the brightest object in the northwestern sky each evening—as well as Ursa Major and the North Star, which she can locate by following the edge of the Big Dipper’s bowl. She knows the red bird is a cardinal, the blue one a blue jay, and the brown bird with the orange-red breast a robin. She has even learned that robin’s eggs are Tiffany blue. Human activity has gradually diminished, while more natural forms of activity have inevitably taken its place. This has given each of us an opportunity to look inward, slow down, and return to a simpler way of life. To me, that has been the greatest surprise of the pandemic. I would like to end with one thought: less is more—focus on what sparks joy in your life. Thank you.
© Richard HuangWhat we have gained and lost, what was right and wrong—the pandemic has clearly left us with far more questions to ponder than its outward signs alone can reveal…