论文部分内容阅读
In 1921， Sioma Lifshitz， also known as Sam Sanzetti， a Russian of Jewish heritage， jumped on a British boat from Vladivostok， beginning an incredible journey to Shanghai.
Born in 1902 on Russia’s Crimean Peninsula， Sanzetti never attended school， but received education from his schoolteacher father. At 13， he followed his parents to Harbin， China， where he worked two years as a delivery boy in a department store. When his family moved back to Russia， Sanzetti began working construction rebuilding a demolished foundry， and his employer dispatched him to Vladivostok to acquire some parts. “There，” writes Sanzetti， “I was prevented by the Japanese from carrying out my mission and was forced into hiding. The day after Japan’s‘slaughter night，’ I escaped to Shanghai.”At that point， he was 17.
In the years that followed， Sam Sanzetti made a living shining shoes. Eventually， he opened a photo studio， and business expanded until he was operating four Shanghai branches and employing 41. Over three decades， he took more than 20，000 photos and attracted celebrity clients， including the Italian envoy to Shanghai during the Mussolini regime， the local representative of the Pope， India nobles， the mother of Soong Tse-ven （1891-1971）， a prominent businessman and politician of early 20th-century China， movie stars， and tycoons.
As the most successful photography studio in Shanghai at the time， he catered primarily to the middle class and above， who could afford such an expense.
In 2013 when a documentary about Sanzetti’s studio aired， Sun Xun noticed his father， who was working at the Fufeng Flourmill in Shanghai at the time. “After his return from the United States in 1950， my father managed his family business，”he explains. “He majored in business administration at a college in the US， and upon returning， he attempted to operate the business using the concepts he had learned abroad， but failed because no one else in the family agreed with him. He eventually gave up and avoided the business in favor of sitting around at home.” In Sun’s memory， his father didn’t like to talk and kept his nose in books most of the time， so the family endured a heavy， boring atmosphere. The family’s happiest moments happened while taking photos at Sanzetti’s studio.“My father could hardly speak any Shanghai dialect，” continues Sun， “but when we went to the studio， he talked with Sanzetti non-stop. My father seldom took us out for coffee or movies， but took us to Sanzetti’s studio all the time because he was happy with the quality of his photos.” Today， the man behind the camera draws more focus than the subjects depicted in his work. Like many Jewish refugees of his era， Sanzetti fell in love with the land which provided him safety， and celebrated life there in his own way.
In the 1970s， Sanzetti was interviewed by an Israeli newspaper， and revealed his feelings about Shanghai. “Shanghai is an extraordinary metropolis full of noise and change – crowded， melted， messy， yet gorgeous. Everything was just fascinating. Nevertheless， I avoided the vanity fair and enjoyed doing my thing.”
After arriving in a massive metropolis as an immigrant nobody， Sanzetti found financial success and prestige due to his excellent craftsmanship in photography which attracted the patronage of the social elite： senior officials， high-ranking military officers， bankers， and entrepreneurs.
He was jailed by the Japanese when they captured Shanghai in 1937. In the interrogation room， he continued humming songs even when he had no idea what would happen. Once， an officer stopped a soldier from torturing him because the officer believed that a man who could still sing when facing danger had nothing to hide.
Sanzetti began teaching English in 1955 when China implemented reform for private-public partnerships. In 1957， he moved to Israel， but in doing so left behind his wife. He couldn’t even write her for fear of getting her in trouble. Her name was Nancy， a cashier in his studio – and not surprisingly， she was the subject of many of his photos.
They never saw each other again， leaving only bittersweet images to refresh his happiest memories. “My stepfather always missed China， the land of his youth， business， and love， before he passed away in 1987，” remarks Sanzetti’s stepson. “One of my fondest memories is a time we encountered a group of young Chinese from Taiwan on the street. My stepfather’s memory floodgates opened， revealing his longing for the beloved country and the good old days. He got very excited. The young people also showed great interest in his experiences in Shanghai， and he showed them his photo albums each time they dropped by. Shanghai embraced and protected many people from a wide range of cultural and religious backgrounds. My stepfather spent his best years there， leaving his youth and talent locked in the photos he took in that studio.”
Born in 1902 on Russia’s Crimean Peninsula， Sanzetti never attended school， but received education from his schoolteacher father. At 13， he followed his parents to Harbin， China， where he worked two years as a delivery boy in a department store. When his family moved back to Russia， Sanzetti began working construction rebuilding a demolished foundry， and his employer dispatched him to Vladivostok to acquire some parts. “There，” writes Sanzetti， “I was prevented by the Japanese from carrying out my mission and was forced into hiding. The day after Japan’s‘slaughter night，’ I escaped to Shanghai.”At that point， he was 17.
In the years that followed， Sam Sanzetti made a living shining shoes. Eventually， he opened a photo studio， and business expanded until he was operating four Shanghai branches and employing 41. Over three decades， he took more than 20，000 photos and attracted celebrity clients， including the Italian envoy to Shanghai during the Mussolini regime， the local representative of the Pope， India nobles， the mother of Soong Tse-ven （1891-1971）， a prominent businessman and politician of early 20th-century China， movie stars， and tycoons.
As the most successful photography studio in Shanghai at the time， he catered primarily to the middle class and above， who could afford such an expense.
In 2013 when a documentary about Sanzetti’s studio aired， Sun Xun noticed his father， who was working at the Fufeng Flourmill in Shanghai at the time. “After his return from the United States in 1950， my father managed his family business，”he explains. “He majored in business administration at a college in the US， and upon returning， he attempted to operate the business using the concepts he had learned abroad， but failed because no one else in the family agreed with him. He eventually gave up and avoided the business in favor of sitting around at home.” In Sun’s memory， his father didn’t like to talk and kept his nose in books most of the time， so the family endured a heavy， boring atmosphere. The family’s happiest moments happened while taking photos at Sanzetti’s studio.“My father could hardly speak any Shanghai dialect，” continues Sun， “but when we went to the studio， he talked with Sanzetti non-stop. My father seldom took us out for coffee or movies， but took us to Sanzetti’s studio all the time because he was happy with the quality of his photos.” Today， the man behind the camera draws more focus than the subjects depicted in his work. Like many Jewish refugees of his era， Sanzetti fell in love with the land which provided him safety， and celebrated life there in his own way.
In the 1970s， Sanzetti was interviewed by an Israeli newspaper， and revealed his feelings about Shanghai. “Shanghai is an extraordinary metropolis full of noise and change – crowded， melted， messy， yet gorgeous. Everything was just fascinating. Nevertheless， I avoided the vanity fair and enjoyed doing my thing.”
After arriving in a massive metropolis as an immigrant nobody， Sanzetti found financial success and prestige due to his excellent craftsmanship in photography which attracted the patronage of the social elite： senior officials， high-ranking military officers， bankers， and entrepreneurs.
He was jailed by the Japanese when they captured Shanghai in 1937. In the interrogation room， he continued humming songs even when he had no idea what would happen. Once， an officer stopped a soldier from torturing him because the officer believed that a man who could still sing when facing danger had nothing to hide.
Sanzetti began teaching English in 1955 when China implemented reform for private-public partnerships. In 1957， he moved to Israel， but in doing so left behind his wife. He couldn’t even write her for fear of getting her in trouble. Her name was Nancy， a cashier in his studio – and not surprisingly， she was the subject of many of his photos.
They never saw each other again， leaving only bittersweet images to refresh his happiest memories. “My stepfather always missed China， the land of his youth， business， and love， before he passed away in 1987，” remarks Sanzetti’s stepson. “One of my fondest memories is a time we encountered a group of young Chinese from Taiwan on the street. My stepfather’s memory floodgates opened， revealing his longing for the beloved country and the good old days. He got very excited. The young people also showed great interest in his experiences in Shanghai， and he showed them his photo albums each time they dropped by. Shanghai embraced and protected many people from a wide range of cultural and religious backgrounds. My stepfather spent his best years there， leaving his youth and talent locked in the photos he took in that studio.”