China is a hot topic for Canadian artists these days, as evidenced most recently by Guy Delisle’s graphic novel Shenzhen and Edward Burtynsky’s Burtynsky – China photo book. The latter set a high-water mark, covering the gigantism of an emerging nation whose projects and factories operate on a scale we can hardly imagine. By contrast, Greg Girard’s Phantom Shanghai explores the transformation of China into an industrial superpower on a more intimate, human level, by focusing on its endangered buildings and neighbourhoods. Shanghai is clearly undergoing intense gentrification; Girard was among the last to document many of these buildings prior to their destruction.

On the surface, this is a beautiful book. The crumbling, decayed dwellings are shot at night and lit with shocking bursts of colour – lime-green alleyways and neon-pink skies – creating an otherworldly effect.

The strongest pieces are the detail shots of ephemera: a collection of personal objects atop a dresser, a bicycle overloaded with thermoses, or a sink filled with dishes. In one surreal photo, a room is filled with watermelons, a reminder that these decrepit spaces are still being fully utilized, even as they are torn down. It seems strange, then, that so many of these photos are completely devoid of people. Page after page, we’re confronted by the empty rooms of what looks like a ghost town.

Although Girard has lived in Asia since 1983, this book still feels like an outsider’s view. It’s a common photographer’s conceit to capture beauty in squalor, but beyond the pretty surface, there’s no real exploration of the larger social issues at work in the city, which would have been a welcome addition. Indeed, Girard’s photos convey a sentimentality for these slums that is unlikely to be shared by the average Shanghainese. In an introductory essay, one citizen of the area is asked if he regrets so much being swept away. “Why should I?” he replies.