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AsianFin -- In July 2025, Bojue Travel Photography—a once-prominent brand that pioneered China’s “travel photography” boom with its catchy slogan, “Wedding photos, where to shoot? Go wherever you want to shoot”—abruptly ceased operations, triggering widespread customer complaints, refund disputes, and unpaid wages.
Consumers took to social media to report that Bojue staff had gone silent, WeChat messages were unanswered, phone calls unreachable, and its official after-sales hotline inactive. Many had prepaid thousands to tens of thousands of yuan for destination wedding photo packages—now with little hope of recourse. Once a household name in the so-called “happiness industry,” Bojue’s sudden disappearance has left engaged couples disoriented and disappointed.
展开剩余76%By mid-July, the company had halted its core wedding travel photography services under the guise of a “low season holiday金多多,” retaining only lower-cost offerings like event coverage. Yet its official notice failed to clarify refund policies, raising doubts about its authenticity. On July 19, Bojue issued a statement citing “serious business losses and downsizing,” but skirted key issues such as back pay and consumer compensation, sparking public backlash for allegedly dodging responsibility.
Court records reveal Bojue’s financial unraveling began months earlier. Legal representative Xu Chunsheng had his RMB 16 million equity frozen in March, and the company has been embroiled in multiple lawsuits—indicating a capital chain collapse long in the making.
According to incomplete statistics, famous livestreamer Li Jiaqi’s livestream alone saw hundreds of unfinished orders worth nearly one million yuan. Some clients never received raw photos despite full payment, while others only discovered Bojue’s disappearance as their wedding dates neared—forcing costly, last-minute arrangements.
Li Jiaqi’s team has pledged to reimburse verified users and assist others in retrieving their photos, but consumers still face high legal costs, vague contracts, and insufficient documentation to pursue claims. “My wedding was delayed by the pandemic, and now Bojue’s gone,” said one customer from Inner Mongolia. “Taobao went from ‘guaranteed refund’ to ‘unable to process’—their promises meant nothing.”
Bojue’s staff have not been spared. Photographers, editors, and other employees report wage arrears spanning four to five months, totaling over RMB 15 million. Some were only paid commissions upon delivery of retouched photos—tying income to output and leaving workers unable to defend their rights effectively.
Bojue’s collapse stems from a precarious business model built on high fixed costs and the misuse of consumer prepayments. Relying on upfront payments to fund daily operations, Bojue’s strategy was viable during boom times—but fragile in decline.
The pandemic decimated its overseas branches, while a declining marriage rate and reduced consumer spending slashed domestic orders by over 30%. In a bid to stay afloat, Bojue turned to franchising, charging over RMB 100,000 per store while losing control over service quality. Franchisees, desperate to recoup costs, cut corners and overpromised—accelerating the brand’s decline.
With a bloated staff of 3,000 and costly storefronts in tourist hotspots like Sanya and Lijiang, Bojue struggled to survive as average client spending dropped from over RMB 10,000 to just RMB 3,000–4,000. Its 20-floor Xiamen headquarters became symbolic of its overexpansion and misaligned priorities.
As consumer preferences evolved, Bojue failed to keep up. Its assembly-line editing and homogenized style were derided as outdated and impersonal. Meanwhile, new photography studios—leveraging documentary aesthetics, cinematic tones, and personalized services—captured the attention of Gen Z and millennial clients. Platforms like Xiaohongshu amplified their reach金多多, leaving Bojue behind.
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