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景区茶农盼建农用轨道、御街原住民惧夜经济打扰……西湖“长大”了 你最关心的是什么？_我的网站

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    Chen Aijun works in an optical shop in Chengdu, southwest China's Sichuan Province, Aug. 14, 2026. (Xinhua/Lu Youyi)The video came with almost no instructions.
There was no narration explaining the mythology behind palaces rising above an ocean of clouds in the video, nor subtitles identifying the heavenly gates, cranes or tiny figures moving beneath them.
Yet viewers outside China quickly began naming the world for themselves.
Some called it "paradise." Others saw a "Celestial Palace" or an "Immortal Realm" familiar from Chinese fantasy games and television dramas. One user wrote, "Waiting on Wukong to show up," invoking the Monkey King from the Chinese literary classic "Journey to the West," or the hit game "Black Myth: Wukong."
The interpretations differed, but viewers did not seem to need the same cultural knowledge to enter the conversation.
Earlier this month, Chinese foreign ministry spokesperson Mao Ning shared the 33-second AI-generated video on social media with a question: "What does the Chinese heaven look like?"
It opened up a hermeneutic discussion, with responses overseas suggesting a cultural image does not necessarily need to elicit exactly the same interpretation for everyone in order for it to be viewed meaningfully.
"The right to interpret ultimately lies with the audience," said Zhang Zheng, deputy dean of Tsinghua University's School of Journalism and Communication.
People encountering unfamiliar cultures inevitably draw on what they already know, Zhang said. Rather than fully grasping every cultural reference, what matters is whether audiences can encounter the work, understand it and respond to it emotionally.
Before strangers abroad could interpret this particular world, however, it first had to get out of one man's head.
Chen Aijun, 34, is an optometrist in Chengdu, capital of southwest China's Sichuan Province.
By day, Chen leads a quiet, down-to-earth life in a neighborhood optical shop. Inside, he worked among eyeglass frames and optometry equipment. On his computer was another landscape entirely: cloud seas, immense palaces, flying cranes and figures in ancient robes.
Chen's heaven did not come from any single ancient text.
Growing up in the 1990s, he watched "Journey to the West" and later encountered "The Investiture of the Gods," xianxia (immortal heroes) novels and fantasy games. Those stories mixed over time with images of Chinese architecture and landscapes he saw online.
He has never visited nearby Mount Emei, and most of what he knows of Mount Huangshan's famous sea of clouds comes from videos.
What appeared on his screen was therefore not a reconstruction of one fixed mythological scene, but a world shaped by traditional stories already filtered through television, novels, games, the internet and his own memory.
For years, Chen had no way to make that world visible.
He never studied painting, design, photography or 3D modeling. After high school, he joined his parents' optical business and eventually took over the shop.
Generative AI changed the gap between imagining an image and possessing the technical skills to show it to someone else.
More than a year ago, Chen began teaching himself through free online tutorials. In September 2025, he started regularly posting AI videos, and a month later began experimenting with palaces floating above clouds. He has since published more than 200 videos.
The process, however, involves far more than entering a few prompts. The technology lowered the technical threshold, but it did not make the choices for him.
When creating Nantianmen, the mythical heavenly gate, Chen first defines the spatial rhythm and tonal hierarchy, pairing towering architecture and cloud seas with deliberately miniature figures to amplify the celestial realm's grand scale.
If the result does not match the picture in his mind, he tries again. He often generates over 1,000 images a day, revising a single scene repeatedly before moving on to animation, editing, color grading and music.
The machine can generate a thousand possible heavens. Chen still has to decide which one is his.
"AI-produced images can be soulless, and it takes human inspiration and aesthetic sensibility to endow works with warmth and vitality," he said.
Zhang believes Chen's experience reflects a broader shift brought about by generative AI. He said AI is giving people without conventional artistic training access to forms of expression that once required specialized skills. But what they create still depends on what they bring to the tool.
"A person's existing knowledge inevitably shapes how they use AI," Zhang said.
Chen brought his memories to the machine. Viewers abroad, in turn, brought theirs to the image.
"Everyone brings their own associations to these scenes," he said.
If his imagined world had to be reduced to three elements, he would keep clouds, architecture and people. The first two should feel immense, he said, while the last should remain small.
The details are culturally specific, but the visual effect is more immediate: tiny human figures dwarfed by vast clouds and monumental architecture. The responses suggest that viewers did not need to understand every cultural reference to find a way into the image.
Chen has no overseas social media accounts and learned that the video was attracting attention abroad only when friends sent him screenshots.
His life at the optical shop has changed little. He still checks eyesight and fits glasses when customers come in, then returns to his computer when the shop grows quiet.
He now hopes to make longer AI videos with fuller stories. He also wants to visit Mount Emei and, one day, Mount Huangshan.
For years, images of distant mountains and clouds reached Chen through screens. His imagined landscapes later traveled through screens to people he had never met.
Now he wants to see the real mountains and clouds for himself.
    Chen Aijun makes AI videos in an optical shop in Chengdu, southwest China's Sichuan Province, Aug. 14, 2026. (Xinhua/Lu Youyi)
。    满觉陇的山风拂过层层茶垄，茶树叶子被日头晒得发亮，胡先生站在自家茶园的梯坎上，指了指远处：“那边要是能修一条农用轨道就好了。”这份期许，并非他一人所有。自《政在@》栏目此前就《杭州西湖风景名胜区总体规划（2024—2035年）》（以下简称《规划》）开通民意征集通道以来，陆续收到不少来自“西湖景区原住民”、新纳入保护范围的居民的声音。他们大多不是规划专家，也未必说得清“九大景区”“一张图管控”的具体内容，但他们长期住在那片山水里，那些山脊线的起伏、建筑高度的数字、管控边界的移动等，落在他们身上，就是回家的路好不好走、茶园的水够不够用、夜里能不能睡个踏实觉……一个茶农的“微观规划”茶农胡先生从小生活在满觉陇，12岁搬到城里，25岁又搬回山上。对比过去和现在，他最大的感触是路好走了，但车也多了。“以前要走半小时山路才能坐上公交，下雨天就蹭邻居的车去上学。”他说，如今游客从“只有节日才有人”变成了日常流量，双休日、节假日，山路上挤满了骑行的人，“有些骑得比汽车还快，挺危险的。”但真正的困扰藏在更深处。作为“西湖景区原住民”，胡先生家的房屋修整和装修面临多重限制。

二 | “车子开不到门口，建材要肩挑背扛，建设成本高不少。

三 | 再加上世界遗产的高度管控，想扩建基本不可能。”他理解这份保护背后的分量，真正让他犯难的，是另一件事——农业政策在景区里落不了地。

四 | 胡先生家的收入全靠茶园。按常规农业政策，茶园可以配套一定比例的农业用房、蓄水池、农用轨道、喷灌设施。但在西湖风景名胜区范围内，这些设施往往被挡在门外。“茶园需要用水，蓄水池的配比和实际需求有差距。

五 | 我们想建农用轨道运输肥料和茶叶，想安装喷灌设施抗旱，都很难批下来。”他说，“山上有些地方连手机信号都没有，物联网茶园更是难以实现。

六 | ”《规划》提出了全要素保护体系，山体、水体、生物多样性、历史文化都在保护之列。“茶叶是我们祖祖辈辈的生计，茶园基础设施不能等同于一般的建设开发。”胡先生最大的期待，是政策在落实过程中能为农业生产留出弹性空间。皇城根下的“夜困扰”十五奎巷，南宋皇城遗址核心区。傅先生在这里住了三十年。这次《规划》将河坊街、太庙遗址、南宋御街、三省六部、嘉会门遗址等片区正式纳入西湖风景名胜区范围。傅先生的身份也从“老城南居民”变成了“西湖景区原住民”，他说，改变其实早就开始了——不是从《规划》批复那天起，而是从周边旅游氛围越来越浓那天起。“最大的影响是回家堵车。”傅先生说，他家门口的道路几乎天天塞车，原本五分钟的路程有时要堵上半小时；停车更是“老大难”，邻里之间为抢车位没少闹不愉快。当西湖的管控半径扩大，日常生活的便利性如何保障？同时困扰他的还有夜间商业的干扰。

七 | “很多人只看到景区边开酒吧、开夜市拉动经济的一面。

八 | 但对于每天住在这里的人，晚上十一二点还能听到外面喧哗，凌晨一两点仍有客人在街上大声说话，这种苦恼是难以想象的。”傅先生说。《规划》明确了要“守护西湖与城市共生的文化特质”，但对皇城遗址片区而言，文化传承与过度商业化之间的张力从未消解。傅先生希望限定夜经济的最晚营业时间，“让我们能睡个安稳觉。

九 | ”商户眼中的“非遗机会”潘先生在河坊街经营一家古玩店，2021年入驻。相比原住民对交通和农业的焦虑，他看到的更多是机会。他对《规划》的细节并不完全了解，但听到河坊街纳入西湖保护范围时，他的第一反应是：“能不能借这个机会，让河坊街的非遗传承借势活起来？”在他看来，现在的河坊街商业化气息过重，“同质化竞争严重，流量经济发展迅猛，很多非遗传承‘少人问津’。”他认为，既然要融入西湖保护体系，就不能只划个范围、竖块牌子，而应借助西湖的文化影响力，培育一批有杭州特色和非遗特色的点位。

十 | “如果只是把河坊街圈进景区，游客来了看到的还是千篇一律的网红店，那‘并入西湖’的意义就打了折扣。

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Published on:08:58:32