Wok the Dog began as an exploration of my childhood fears. Clean, brightly lit supermarkets didn't exist in Taipei in the early 1980s. Groceries were bought at old-fashioned markets where mothers and wives knew the best vegetable vender, the butcher who offered the best cuts and the couple that sold the cheapest fruits.

The markets were dark, full of pungent smells; the floors were sticky with blood and water. The sounds of caged and dying animals filled the space. Being three feet tall, I was afraid of getting lost in the crowd or captured by the butcher, caged and sold.

At 18, I returned to Taiwan and to the markets, wanting to see what had made me so afraid. But the markets had changed. They are now more sanitary, brighter and air-conditioned. Nevertheless, the life and death struggle remains.

As I started photographing food markets around the world, what was once fear has since turned into an examination of the commerce of life: the death of the animal sustains our lives and the vendors' livelihoods. I realize now that purchasing packaged meats, "pink in plastic" at supermarkets, had made me forget about where food really comes from.

Purchasing pre-packaged food in Western supermarkets creates a sense of detachment. Modern, developed nations have done away with all connections that might possibly link us to the source of our food: our meats are perfectly geometrical, our fruits and vegetables are dirt-less and shiny. It has become impossible to value our dinner when we cannot acknowledge that the pork chop on our plate had once had four legs and a beating heart.

As I continued to photograph the markets, I began to understand the cost of America's industrialized food system and our reliance upon refrigeration. The sterility of 24-hour superstores renders us blind to the influence we have, through our purchases, on the natural equilibrium of the food chain. Convenience has permitted us to avoid our own mortality.

After a couple of years, I began to look beyond the animals at the market of Taiwan and saw the vendors and their lives. I see the butcher and the fish-monger; their days are inscribed by death. I asked myself, "How is it possible for someone to live on such a meager inventory of goods?" Yet these same vendors return day after day, year after year. Surprisingly, I found more humanity and joy in the portraits of the vendors, these death dealers, than one would expect.

In a single moment, it became clear to me: There is a sanctity ingrained in death; the reality is that we are, head to toe, animals as much as those butchered market animals. We are beasts eating beasts. Recognizing the truth of it enhances our humanity; the bestiality lies in our avoidance.