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Archive for the ‘Chinese art’ Category

It’s really kind of incredible to think how much stuff is still out there. Art treasures in private collections, historical documents in archives, that simply haven’t come to light in terms of broader, more widespread awareness. But even more than that, things hidden away, that perhaps even their owners don’t even know about. Every now and then, we hear some incredible stories about these sorts of finds and discoveries… In a way, it’s actually encouraging, in that whenever you think that a certain type of artifact or documentation might not exist anymore, there’s actually the possibility it just might still be out there.

Messy Nessy chic, a blog I hadn’t heard about until now but which looks like it has some pretty cool content, posted back in May (I was just pointed to the link the other day) about a Parisian apartment left untouched for 70 years and just recently re-opened.

The owner fled Paris just before World War II broke out, and never returned; somehow, the apartment remained unopened, untouched, for all this time. That is, until, following her death at the age of 91 a few years ago, her heirs finally opened up the apartment, and discovered what was inside. Beautiful now-quite-antique furniture, a Micky Mouse stuffed toy, a taxidermied emu or rhea or the like, and all sorts of other things, including a rather special painting.

The Messy Nessy Chic blog post has some incredible pictures of this time capsule of an upclass 1930s Paris apartment.

The Freer|Sackler, meanwhile, has posted a blog post about the apartment of art collector Dr. Paul Singer, which some members of the staff had the opportunity to visit way back in 1998.

Dr. Singer keeps more than five thousand objects, apparently, in his New Jersey apartment, a collection which we are told is one of the largest and most important private collections of Chinese objects in the United States.

I’m not sure there’s much to say here, except to invite you to click through to the F|S blog post, which has a nice photo of the apartment, and to say that I’ve been fortunate to visit the homes of an art collector or two, and that it’s always a fun and breathtaking experience. Some people have such beautiful homes, and such incredible collections; it’s something I look forward to doing more often in the future.

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Let me give away my position on the matter right here at the top: Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

A post from a few days ago by Art Radar Asia focuses on works by five Asian contemporary artists who use video games, or the aesthetics or iconography of video games, in their art. They highlight Cao Fei’sRMB City,” a creation created entirely within the virtual world of Second Life, and Feng Mengbo’s “Long March: Restart,” an actually playable platform-style game (think Mario) which makes extensive use of Maoist iconography and imagery.

Above: An Art|21 segment on Cao Fei’s “RMB City.”
Below: Feng Mengbo’s “Long March: Restart.”

The article also links to something posted by Roger Ebert a few years ago, explaining Ebert’s opinion that video games are not and cannot ever be “art,” and asks the reader, Can Video Games Be Art?. Here is my response, copied from the comments section on the Art Radar Asia page:

I think the work of Cao Fei and Feng Mengbo just goes to show that video games can absolutely be art. The only things that separate their works from something like Jenova Chen’s “Flower” are (1) being previously already recognized as an “artist”, (2) the commerciality of the creations and connection to a corporation, and (3) the size and type of team involved in the creation of the work.

Video games are creative creations in their visuals, sound, and gameplay/concept. I think that most of the argument against video games being “art” focuses too much on them as “games,” i.e. with rules, goals, and puzzles/challenges, and too little on them as “experience.” Flower is a great example of a game that is visually stunning, and quite creative/innovative in concept. Playing it is not just about earning points, or completing levels – it’s about experiencing the game and having an emotional reaction. If the same exact thing had been created by Cao Fei or Feng Mengbo, would we not call it art? If it were not interactive, but were created as “video art,” or for that matter as a still photo, as digital art, and shown in a gallery or museum, would we not call it “art”?

MMOs like World of Warcraft, GuildWars, and LotR Online, along with giant-sandbox games like the Elder Scrolls Series, and visually stunning RPGs like the Final Fantasy series likewise involve exploring massive worlds filled with beautiful, really, truly stunning environments, each of which is designed by professional concept artists and digital artists with much the same training/background, i.e. as art students, as many more widely recognized as “artists.”

Admittedly, there are also many games out there which are, perhaps, not so clearly beautiful, inspirational, innovative/creative, but all were created by artists, designers, creative minds. All bear the same features as those games – e.g. Flower and WoW – which are, perhaps, more clearly artistic, creative/innovative, and/or aesthetically attractive. So, where do we draw the line? If some games are clearly artistic, or art-esque, then why would other games not be?

If the design of a car or a skyscraper can be considered “art,” if marketing posters, postcards, etc. can be considered art, if arms & armor (such as included in many of the world’s greatest art museums) can be considered art, then why not video games? If it’s the commercial element, or the corporate rather than individual creation element, that is the problem, then why cars, skyscrapers, dresses, and not video games? Those of us coming from a background in Studio Art or Art History are likely to be in favor of the conception that anything can be art. So why not video games?

Roger Ebert, of all people, if he recognizes that art is not only limited to static images (paintings), but extends to incorporate cinema as well, should be able to recognize the strong cinematic qualities of video games. Like video games, films too are the creations of not a single, inspired, genius artist, but rather of a collaboration between directors, producers, costume designers, set designers, actors, musicians/composers, and many others. Unlike paintings, they incorporate motion, narrative, and music, and yet, they are still considered by Mr. Ebert to be art. So, why not video games? Because they are interactive? Because none have yet been canonized? As a critic, Mr. Ebert should be especially aware of the haphazard and arbitrary nature of the construction of the canon – created by scholars, random tastemakers, and critics like himself – and thus, he of all people, should not be taking this to be the determining factor in what is (and is not) masterful. Who decided that George Melies was such a genius, that his creations were such great art? Is Mr. Ebert simply parroting the attitudes of cinema scholars and critics of the past?

Those who fixate on the great names, on the canon, of the inspired/genius artisté, forget that many of those we revere today as great artists were in fact quite commercial in their day. Rembrandt was a commercial painter. Hokusai and all of his ukiyo-e brethren produced emphemera, perhaps no more appreciated in their time than movie posters today. And so many we do appreciate, we appreciate only because the canon tells us so. Was George Melies truly such an artistic genius? Was his creation truly so wonderful as Ebert seems to think it was, or is he just buying into the same canonization that makes us all appreciate Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and Picasso without actually considering whether or not we ourselves (as individuals) see the artistry, the beauty, in it? I, for one, see absolutely nothing in Jenova Chen’s creation – aesthetically attractive, masterfully created, innovative in concept, emotionally impactful – that should disqualify it as art.

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For the first time in roughly 40 years, a Tang dynasty (618-907) copy of original handwriting by Wang Xizhi has been found in Japan. Much thanks to the blog Heritage of Japan for re-posting the Japan Times article about it, and thus bringing it to my attention.

Right: The newly re-discovered work.

Wang Xizhi (303-361) remains today the most highly esteemed calligrapher in Chinese history. All calligraphers since then have either revered and emulated his style, or intentionally, purposefully, rejected it. In other words, his is the standard to aspire to, or to compare creative innovation against. His most famous work, and thus arguably, quite possibly, the most famous work in all of Chinese calligraphy, is the Orchid Pavilion Preface, composed in 353 at a now-famous gathering of scholars and artists at a garden / vacation villa called the Orchid Pavilion (蘭亭, C: Lanting). That piece of calligraphy was so treasured by the Tang Dynasty Emperor Taizong (r. 626-649) that he had himself buried with it.

No original works by the hand of Wang Xizhi himself survive today, but numerous later copies, meticulously copied by later Chinese calligraphers, do survive. It is unclear from the Japan Times article whether the piece just discovered is the only known copy of this particular text, three lines of 24 characters total, but the article does indicate that this discovery could help contribute to our better understanding of Wang’s hand, and thus of Chinese calligraphy as a whole. The work, which likely came to Japan via the embassies sent to China by the Yamato (Japanese) Court, was long believed to have been an original composition by a Japanese calligrapher; experts at the Tokyo National Museum, re-discovering the work in a private collection in Japan, have determined that it is in fact by a Chinese calligrapher, and a copy of Wang Xizhi’s hand.

Exciting finds. It would be wonderful if this were to be exhibited in upcoming months, keeping museumgoers (i.e. the public) in the loop as to new discoveries, and perhaps encouraging their excitement about such discoveries. The article makes no mention of any such plans.

Detail of a copy of Wang Xizhi’s Orchid Pavilion Preface.

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A continuation from yesterday’s post. This past Friday, we here at the University of Hawaii at Manoa enjoyed the one-two punch of talks from husband & wife super major Chinese contemporary artists Liu Xiaodong and Yu Hong, courtesy of Prof. Jaimey Hamilton and her Intersections visiting artists program.

Above: “Us Two: Yu Hong and Zhao Bo”, depicting Yu Hong (right) and a friend. Image via Long March Project.

Yu Hong, like her husband, is a professor of oil painting at the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing, the same school where the both of them attended high school, undergraduate, and graduate school. Her work, like his, is mostly figurative, focusing on depicting real people who model for her, in a realistic manner, in oils or acrylics. Her paintings, however, tend to be much more personal, addressing less any kind of social or political events on a national scale. She paints herself, her family, her friends, mainly, within their own real-world contexts – studios, apartments, coffee shops.

My first exposure to Yu Hong’s work was in Boston, where she and her husband were included alongside a number of other contemporary Chinese artists in a group show entitled “Fresh Ink.” I’ll come back to the work she displayed there later, but first I wanted to touch upon my first impressions, and how my taste or interest in her work has changed as a result of this week’s talk. The gallery labels in “Fresh Ink” emphasize the feminine energy or femininity of her work, that she focuses so much on painting other women, her friends and family, and that she focuses so much on their lives. At first, I was a little turned off. I had no real interest at all. It reminded me of housewives, and their lunch dates and shopping, and the kind of lives they lead, living in essentially a totally different world from their husbands, or from other people, immersed in the interpersonal politics and gossip of each others’ families, the wholly insignificant accomplishments of their children’s crayon drawings or soccer leagues, totally divorced from the major happenings of the art world, business world, politics, or whatever else may be going on beyond the picket fences of their suburban little lives.

Yet, while listening to Professor Yu’s talk, I found myself reconsidering her work and gaining a new appreciation for it. It’s a celebration, really, of life, and of the beauty and enjoyment of having friends and networks; the relative calm of everyday people’s lives even as the country changes so swiftly and dramatically around them; and the calm, beautiful, energy of celebrating one another’s accomplishment’s and goings-on in one another’s lives.

Above: From her series “Witness Growing Up,” images of a photo celebrating the publication of the oil painting “Chairman Mao goes to Anyuan” (left) and of two year old Yu Hong in a park with her mother, wearing a badge with Chairman Mao goes to Anyuan on it (right). Images via All-China Women’s Federation.

For her painting series “Witness Growing Up,” Yu Hong went back through her family photo albums, and painted pictures of herself at every age, every year of her life (or, at least, at various ages, if not every single year; I’m not sure). Each of these is one-half of a diptych, accompanied by a magazine cover or other image relating major political events of that year. When the series reaches the year her daughter is born, it becomes a series of triptychs, no longer tracing only Yu Hong’s life, but that of her daughter as well, as major events continue to change our world. The contrast between the relatively normal, calm, family-oriented, very personal narrative of this woman’s life (and that of her daughter), and the rise and fall of Mao, Tienanmen Square, the return of Hong Kong to PRC control, 9/11, etc. is striking and interesting. We all live these lives, but while many artists might focus on only one or the other – the big political/social events, or the personal – she brings the two together to highlight the calm and smoothness of life as these major things happen around us, on a very different scale.

Above: “Flute Player – Rong Yiru” from Yu Hong’s series “She.” Image via Artnet.

Another series, titled simply “She,” consists of portraits of her friends, including artists and writers, each within a context (studio, coffeeshop) that somehow speaks to their identity. One painting in the series depicts a friend very pregnant, and nude, a painted record of this important time in the woman’s life (and in Yu Hong’s life, as her close friend), since under the One Child Policy, she may never be pregnant again. Another painting in the series shows Yu Hong herself creating plaster molds of a friend’s legs; the friend, a famous writer apparently, suffered (suffers?) from depression, and had fallen and broken her leg. I don’t fully understand the connection or the logic, but somehow, for some reason, because of having broken her leg, the writer wanted Yu Hong to make plaster molds, and to record her legs in that fashion, as they are/were. Considering this whole series in aggregate, we see between the lines a network of friendships, and can imagine the personalities and characters depicted, their lives, and their interactions. We can picture a calm, friendly, sunny, happy set of interactions – even punctuated by such things as depression, and terrible falls & broken legs – in which Yu Hong visits these friends at their studios, or meets up with them at coffeeshops, talking, chatting, keeping in touch. And since some of these people are themselves artists or writers, it seems also a bit of a glimpse into the world, the life, the friendship circles of being a member of this art-immersed lifestyle, romanticized not so much on the canvas, but rather in the mind of the viewer.

Above: “Spring Romance”, full view, across eight silk hanging scrolls. Image from the webpage of Harvard University’s “Fresh Ink” symposium.

Now, returning to “Spring Romance,” the piece Yu Hong made for the MFA show. She was one of a number of artists invited to create a new artwork inspired by or based on a work from the MFA’s collection of Chinese art. Selecting Emperor Huizong’sWomen Folding Silk,” she replicated the composition of the handscroll on a series of hanging scrolls in gold-infused silk, depicting her friends – including the pregnant flute player and the writer with plaster-covered legs – as themselves, in modern clothing, in positions emulating those of the figures in Huizong’s painting. And, as an extra little amusing jab, she replaced the lengths of silk being stretched out by women in the original work, with the handscroll itself, so that Huizong’s work is visible within the new composition.

I had thought this was perhaps a departure for Yu Hong, as necessitated by the specifications of the project. And I am sure that it was in various ways. The fact that she re-uses figures from other works, rather than creating new portraits based on who and where those people are today, and that she divorces them from any background which would inform the viewer of their context, are certainly a change from some of her other works.

Left: Yu Hong’s “Atrium,” a piece meant to be installed on the ceiling and viewed from below. Image via Blouin Art Info.

But, I was stunned to discover that, actually, this is hardly her only work on gold, hardly her only work playing with formats this way – using multiple hanging scrolls to create a polyptych – and hardly her only work based on or inspired by famous works from art history. I had thought the gold was perhaps a choice to emulate or recall the brownish discoloration of the silk of Huizong’s painting, and I still hold that it adds meaning in that way for me, but asking Prof. Yu her intentions or thoughts, she simply said that gold is a powerful, special color, especially in Chinese culture. Fair enough. In any case, it has a beautiful effect. I particularly love how it just sort of fades into the background. The gold is no more obvious than a solid-color background in any other color (and, in fact, probably far less noticeable or distracting in many cases), and just provides a beautiful, glowing, warm background. I wish more Western artists, or more artists in general, used gold today. (Or maybe I don’t, because then it would be less special when it is used.)

Yu Hong has reproduced “Spring Romance” in a polyptych of canvases, and has produced another similar work, seemingly on silver-infused silk handscrolls, depicting figures peering over a curve, like a hill maybe, which extends across the whole composition. Several works were designed to be installed on ceilings, and some were even painted in that posture, the artist stretching up, the work facing downwards. Recalling the trompe l’oiel and de sotto in su techniques I just learned about having been used in the High Renaissance, fooling the eye by painting a skylight, for example, with a beautiful blue sky on the ceiling, when it is in fact simply painted on and not an actual cut-through view of the actual sky, these works do something I feel is not particularly common at all today.

In another piece, she emulates the layout of the famous Ghent Altarpiece, replacing each of the figures – God, Mary, John the Baptist, Adam, Eve, etc. – with her friends, all of them asleep. I am not sure I fully understand the connection thematically between this and the Altarpiece, a very religious work, but she says the figures are asleep because they are tired out from the swift and dramatic changes China has seen in recent decades, and continues to see everyday.

Above: Yu Hong’s “Ladder to Heaven.” Image via CAFA Art Info.

In another work, called “Ladder of Divine Ascent,” she depicts figures climbing a sort of ladder to success. I’m guessing it represents the rat race, or something, the sacrifices we make forcing ourselves into the one path that mainstream society seems to expect of us. The medieval European work it is based on depicts figures struggling to ascend to heaven, as demons try to pry them off and pull them down into Hell. Yu Hong has kept the basic composition, more than enough of it to be quite recognizably based on that medieval work; but she has reversed the meaning. Those who make it to the top of the ladder might achieve a sort of “Heaven” of financial/career success, but those who fall off are depicted as being happy. They’ve found happiness in marriage (love/relationships), or in art, or in pursuing their own path. The idea that falling off means falling into Hell is completely not in evidence and is, I believe, meant to be extricated, removed, not present in this work. She’s really changed around the meaning of it, in an interesting and creative way. The total and complete secularization of what’s essentially, to its core, a Christian work, is also very interesting to me, and seems very (Communist) Chinese to me.

So, to sum up, I guess, Yu Hong’s references to historical masterpieces, her use of gold, and her playful, creative use of formats (e.g. ceiling paintings) made her works quite appealing and interesting to me from the beginning. But what is attractive and beautiful about her works on a deeper level is the calm, optimistic, positive energies they exude, as they chronicle her everyday life, her social circles, as well as her own life-story growing up. Seeing one of her works at the MFA was impressive and enjoyable enough, but now I really want to see an installation of her works filling a gallery, seeing how they interact, and feeling the energies flow through the space.

Above: An installation shot of a recent show of Yu Hong’s work, showing how her pieces work together in a consistent aesthetic. The canvas version of “Spring Romance” can be seen on the left wall. “Atrium” and “Natural Selection” appear on the ceiling, while her work referring to the Ghent Altarpiece graces the far wall.

(For more images of Yu Hong’s work at the MFA, see my blog post on the exhibition, or my photos on Flickr.

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Intersections strikes again. Through whatever connections, the Intersections visiting artist program here at the University of Hawaii at Manoa managed to get two huge big-name Chinese contemporary artists who are here in the islands on private family vacation, to come in and talk about their work.

Left: Liu Xiaodong. Photo: Mary Boone Gallery, New York.

I first learned of Yu Hong and Liu Xiaodong’s work when I attended the Fresh Ink exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, a year or so ago, though I did not know that they were a married couple. Both are professors at the Central Academy of Fine Arts (CAFA) in Beijing, the most elite art school in China, as well as graduates from CAFA high school, and CAFA undergraduate and postgrad. Though the popularity of Chinese contemporary art is very much booming in the art market these days, and though there are many artists doing all kinds of fascinating, interesting, new, creative, innovative things, contrary to what we might therefore expect, CAFA’s curriculum remains extremely conservative. Which is not necessarily a bad thing – technical skill should still be considered important, and not just concept and theory, on which many art schools in the West might focus overmuch. Training at CAFA is like “academic” training in the French or Soviet mode, very much focused on realistic painting of the human figure in oils. Accordingly, both Yu Hong and Liu Xiaodong focus heavily on depicting contemporary scenes, and real people – e.g. themselves, their friends, everyday people selected to serve as models.

Above: Liu Xiaodong paints his childhood friends in his childhood hometown of Jincheng, for a piece called “My Egypt.” Image: Want China Times.

What interests me most in Liu Xiaodong’s work is the concept and the process, more than the final product. In many of his works, he selects a meaningful site, and selects people from that place to serve as his models. The final product is, perhaps, nothing too radically unusual or impressive – it’s a realistic (though still stylized) depiction of the scene he had in front of him (posed models, landscape, props, setting) in oils – though I am sure that in person (rather than on PowerPoint) the works would be quite impressive in size, at least. He tends to paint his figures life-size. This means that, each figure in a painting being five or six feet tall, the work as a whole, incorporating background and everything, is often several meters square, if not larger.

Above: “Qinghai-Tibet Railway”; 98″ by 394″, oil on canvas, 2007. Photo via Mary Boone Gallery.

Among the works he shared with us were several of workers at the Three Gorges Dam, or of people forced to move from the area so that the dam could be built. He took actual people from the place, set them up as models, and painted them from life, with the actual landscape of the Three Gorges area and/or the dam itself, in the background. Another work captured seven young women sitting atop a wagon, with their town, the town of Beichuan, in the background, as it was right after being almost entirely destroyed by the Sichuan Earthquake. This was entitled “Out of Beichuan.” A partner piece to this was called “Into Taihu,” and depicts seven young men in a wooden rowboat on Lake Tai, near Shanghai. He then went back to his childhood hometown, and painted portraits (and group portraits) of his childhood friends, all grown up. One painting shows them all playing cards together in the park; one depicts a friend who owns a karaoke bar, singing at the bar, with all the crazy lights and whatever of the karaoke box room in the background. Another work, completed a few years earlier right after the Beijing-Tibet railroad was finished, depicts two Tibetan men leading horses across the plains, as the train runs by in the background. He said he actually had to go quite a ways afield to find Tibetan men who had horses, could ride them, and looked a bit more like what he was looking for – less fully culturally assimilated into (Han) Chinese culture. In 2009-2010 or so, he went to Boston and got a bunch of high school students to pose as models for him, as he sought to address issues of high school violence. This was the work I saw at the MFA. Perhaps you begin to sense the theme.

Above: Liu Xiaodong painting young women at Beichuan in Sichuan after the earthquake. Photo via Dgeneratefilms.com and Supernice.eu.

I think what I found most interesting and engaging about his work is the context in which he paints it, the issues he seeks to address by painting certain subjects at certain times or in certain places, and the role his art plays therefore in capturing these moments in time, and then broadcasting them, with, of course, a considerable degree of his own sentimentality or interest mixed in. He says he does not see himself as political, let alone activist, and I think in a way this does sort of come through in his work. Yes, he is picking particular moments which are of particular significance, and which could be interpreted to have serious political or social activist sort of meanings, but his work really sort of toes that line. The paintings themselves, the final products, feel more documentary, and more like simply capturing moments of life, then they feel like they are truly social commentary of any sort. Plus, as Liu pointed out, it is very easy to re-explain a new or different meaning for one’s paintings, if one is ever accused of making an inappropriate (read: politically dangerous) statement. Oh, no, no. That’s not what this painting means at all.

Further, Liu really seems to revere the process, and to insert into it a special energy. He says that from when a project begins to when it ends, everything in between is “art”, not just on-site, but everything that everyone involves does for the days or weeks of the process, from the act of painting itself, to the actions of the photographers and videographers, to the experience of the models, down to breaks and meals, carrying the materials away and then back to the site again the next day, even sleeping. All of it is part of the process, until the work is complete. With this in mind, many of his works in more recent years have been extensively photographed and videoed in process, sometimes by rather big name film directors. “Hometown Boy,” a documentary of his journey to his childhood hometown, re-meeting old friends, and painting them, was directed by big-name Taiwanese film director Hou Hsiao-Hsien, and won a Golden Horse Award in Taiwan for Best Documentary. Jia Zhangke, similarly, directed a film called “Still Life,” which incorporated a lot of footage of Liu Xiaodong painting, and which won a Golden Lion at the 2006 Venice Int’l Film Festival – the festival’s top prize.

Stay tuned for my thoughts on the work of Liu Xiaodong’s wife, Yu Hong, who also spoke here at UHM on Feb 3.

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Did everyone have a good Halloween? I had a great time. Dressed up as Haku from “Sen to Chihiro”, and went down to Waikiki, where hundreds (thousands?) of people just sort of walk up and down the street, admiring each others’ costumes. Mine was not nearly recognizable enough, even among people familiar with the film, but I’m really not sure what I could do to fix that.

In any case, it’s that time again. The links have piled up. I have a lot to share, and so I’ll try to keep the blurbs short. In short, here’s a smattering of interesting stuff I found on the web today!

*A short video about Higashino Hideki, 25 yrs old, a craftsman working to keep alive the 300-year-old tradition of Japanese karakuri, or clockwork automata. As early as 1662, the Takeda theatre in Osaka featured karakuri puppet theatre, based on European clockwork technology, and the same fine Japanese craftsmanship that went into carving the heads of bunraku puppets from wood, and fashioning their brocade clothing. Higashino revives, or continues, the tradition of making such automata, which, with surprisingly (relatively) natural movement, perform actions as complicated as calligraphy and archery.

*A Financial Times article from this past April, pointed out to me by a friend, relates bits of an interview with Chinese contemporary art superstar Xu Bing. The vice-president of China’s premier arts academy, and one of many artists who suffered during the Cultural Revolution, he is understandably reticent to talk about politics or political art, such as that of Ai Weiwei, who was still imprisoned at the time of the interview. … I certainly do not agree with China’s totalitarian stance on dissent, and am all in all frightened by the incredible number of people patriotically and nationalistically pro-CCP and pro-PRC, by the strength of their convictions, and by just how different their attitudes and views are from our own, as if there are two versions of the world competing for which one is real or true. Yet, at the same time, it does grow tedious and boring to constantly, and exclusively, talk about only that Chinese art which is vocally political. I adore Xu Bing’s work, which draws upon history and tradition, upon Chinese culture and arts, doing things that are very innovative and new, but also very Chinese, not aspiring in any way to be “modern” in a globalist, universalist, post-nation-state sort of sense.

*Meanwhile, the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco, which I visited a few months ago, apparently has been having serious financial trouble, and almost went bankrupt a year or so ago. The museum has now announced, according to a New York Times article from about a month ago, a brand new mission statement, new attitudes and goals. Like many museums, it is trying to combat the image of being stodgy, dusty, old or boring, and so is pushing in more modern/contemporary direction, and opening itself up to flashier, less conservative subjects. … I love contemporary art that relates to cultural identity, history, and historical art, that isn’t a-cultural or globalist in its aesthetics, and I think this new direction could bring lots of really awesome exhibits and events. I just hope that the Asian Art Museum – and others moving in similar directions – does not forget about, or neglect, the more traditional and historical art in its zeal to be fresh and new and exciting.

*November 1st is about to end here in Honolulu, and shortly afterwards November 2nd will end in Japan, where for the last 18 hours or so, the main frontpage “doodle” on Google.jp has been a gold-backed picture of Mt. Fuji, in honor of the birthday of neo-traditionalist painter Yokoyama Taikan (1868-1958). I missed out on visiting the Yokoyama Taikan Museum in Ueno a year ago, on the site, I presume, of his house or studio; I hadn’t been aware of it, and only discovered it after they’d closed for the day. Taikan’s a pretty incredible artist. I’ve yet to devote a post to him, or to write an article on him for the Samurai-Archives Wiki, but this Chinese art website offers images of a number of his works, which is something of a start. Remind me, and one of these days I’ll try to put together a post about him.

*A 340-year-old Chinese coin has been found in the Yukon, according to the Vancouver Sun, a contribution to a body of evidence of connections between First Nations (i.e. native peoples of what’s today Canada) and China in the 17th-18th centuries, or perhaps as early as the 15th century, if not directly, then at least in the form of Russian traders interacting with both the North American natives and the Chinese, and transporting objects such as this coin, along with ideas and culture, to whatever small extent, between the two. We don’t normally think of interactions with the Russians, I don’t think (at least not in Japanese Studies so much; I don’t know about Chinese Studies), let alone with First Nations, so this is really quite an interesting find.

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Returning to the July symposium I wrote about some time ago, Dr. Soren Edgren of Princeton University, and of the Chinese Rare Books Project, also spoke about a rather remarkable collection which has recently come to light.

I know next to nothing about Ming Dynasty publishing, and less about Chinese erotica, but apparently a very long-lived Japanese collector by the name of Shibui Kiyoshi (1899-1992) had a collection of early 17th century (very late Ming dynasty) Chinese erotic books that has proven quite valuable for scholars, revealing brand-new insights into technical and stylistic aspects of Chinese publishing at that time.

When Shibui passed away in 1992, whether out of embarrassment at the erotic nature of the collection, or for some other reason, his family apparently simply shut the door to his study and left it closed, locked, sealed away as if it had never existed. They told scholars the collection was lost or destroyed. And so, for roughly 10 or 15 years, so far as the scholarly/museum world knew, the collection was indeed lost forever. Yet, finally, recently, the family began granting access to the collection again for the first time.

Shibui had worked closely with Dutch diplomat Robert van Gulik, a collector himself, and author of the Judge Dee Mysteries. Van Gulik was stationed in Tokyo from 1935-1942, being evacuated after the outbreak of war between Japan and the Netherlands, but he returned after the war, and began writing books such as “Erotic Colour Prints of the Ming Period” in 1951, and “Sexual Life in Ancient China: A Preliminary Survey of Chinese Sex and Society from ca. 1500 B.C. Till 1644 A.D.” in 1961. Oh, and by the way, he also raised gibbons in Malaysia. Because, you know, why not?

In any case, Shibui published some works himself, in the 1940s, on the role of Chinese prints in the origins of ukiyo-e, works which were noticed and cited by the likes of van Gulik and Richard Lane. Shibui graduated from Keiô University in Tokyo, and taught there for a short time …. I’m afraid Dr. Edgren did not into too much more detail about Shibui’s biography.

… When his study was finally opened a few years ago, scholars discovered a small collection of roughly nine Ming books from around 1600 to the 1640s, containing polychrome prints unlike anything seen before in Chinese art. Very few Ming erotic woodcuts survive today, apparently, and *none* outside of Shibui’s collection are in color. Scholars determined that these color prints were made primarily in Anhui and Nanjing, and, in contrast to the multi-block method pioneered by Suzuki Harunobu (d. 1770) and used extensively in Japan from then on, these Ming prints were made by applying color ink to different sections of the same woodblock.

These Chinese books, however, date to roughly 150 years before Harunobu, and seem, from what I’m gathering, to feature some technical aspects that, by Japanese standards, were really rather ahead of their time. Beginning in the 1620s, the Chinese began to produce multi-colored texts, using multiple blocks, with a main text in black, and then, for example, blue for punctuation and red for commentary. These books employed a registration system similar to the kentô system Harunobu would employ in 1765-70, in order to make sure the multiple different blocks lined up correctly on the page. Though something of a breakthrough in the 1760s in Japan, these Chinese books made use of what’s really a rather simple system. The black ink “main” block would print a small corner marking on the edge of the area imprinted; the corner of the red ink block could then be lined up with that marking. Very simple.

Printing in two colors in China actually goes back as far as the Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368), but the first book to make use of more than two colors was the Chengshi Moyuan, printed in 1604. This volume contained reproductions of European artworks, as well as an essay by Matteo Ricci, the earliest extant example ever of printed, published romanization for Chinese.

A technique used extensively in these books, however, which was not used very much, if at all, in Japanese printing, however, was something called douban (餖版) or “assembled block” printing, in which not a single block, but multiple smaller blocks would be arranged into the printing table, and then printed all at once onto the page. One end of the paper would be secured to the end of the table, so that it could be flipped over on top of the blocks (the printing surface), but would not slide or shift. The blocks were then affixed to the table with some kind of gum, and the paper flipped over on top of them, to be printed using a technique not unlike the Japanese way – using a piece of wood or something else to press or rub the paper into the inked blocks, by hand.

An example of this technique can be seen in book copies of the Ten Bamboo Studio Manual of Painting, where the douban technique is employed in an attempt to reproduce the effect of the boneless technique of painting (i.e. areas of color without line). Since all these different blocks are being printed at once, the need for registration marks or registration techniques is essentially eliminated, but since you’re using a number of small blocks, and not a single full-page-size block, the ability to have registration marks is also largely eliminated; If and when you finish a given print run and move the blocks off the table, you’ve lost your registration and cannot easily produce the same image again. Or so I understand.

Dr. Edgren showed images from Shibui’s collection, and I noted based on my own experience the surprising similarities of style to early ukiyo-e. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able to find any images to share with you here. One example he shared is a very short book of only a few pages, lacking a title but called Sheng Peng Mai (I think). Each page has poetry on one side and an image on the other, a very standard Chinese format. The images use multiblock registration techniques to add some yellows and blues, limited colors. Thin black lines and generalized (i.e. not individualized) faces resemble early ukiyo-e very closely in the simplicity and soft, curvy gracefulness of the forms, and in the specific appearance of the faces. Much more dense, complex treatment is given to clothing, and to objects in the background, such as furniture.

Another book from Shibui’s collection is one for which I did not catch a name or title. It comes in several volumes, and Shibui owned several copies, one of which was previously owned by Kimura Kenkadô (!!)(1736-1802). Handwritten notes in the margins may be by Kenkadô himself. The images in this book less closely resemble ukiyo-e, but are close enough to make the date, 1606, quite impressive considering the similarity to Japanese materials of nearly 100 years later.

Perhaps one of the most impressive and interesting books in Shibui’s collection is one called the Huei Ying Jing Zhen (sp?), which Craig Clunas – one of the most respected Chinese art historians active today – has described as no longer being extant. He didn’t know about Shibui’s copy; no one did. Shibui owned two copies of the polychrome edition of this book, remounted as handscrolls. They consist of 24 images, followed by poetry. What makes these books so important, or interesting, is their full-color four-color covers, unlike anything seen even in the (later) Qing period, when the Japanese were producing things with five to ten colors using tens of blocks in some cases. The Huei Ying Jing Zhen also makes use of colors in the text.

Incidentally, another interesting and important difference between Chinese erotica and the shunga materials we are more familiar with from Japan is that while shunga generally depicts a “pleasure quarters” context, i.e. a brothel, the Chinese images generally take place in a domestic setting, i.e. at home.

As with Japanese shunga, the significance of these books is not limited to their identity as erotica. I have as little interest in erotica as the next guy, preferring cleaner subjects. But, to push these aside and ignore them would be to lose out on extremely important examples of early Chinese multi-color printing. Dr. Edgren concluded his talk by discussing briefly that books like these were used by ukiyo-e artists as well, and may have had some influence on their style, though I of course would be extremely hesitant to place too much importance upon the Chinese role in defining the ukiyo-e style. I think these artists were definitively Japanese, drawing upon earlier Japanese modes and styles, and also innovating dramatically; I think that figures such as Hishikawa Moronobu, Okumura Masanobu, and Nishikawa Sukenobu were innovators and creative pioneers, not simply copying from Chinese materials, but really developing the start of something new. Still, it is quite interesting and fun to think of the interchange and trade in published materials going on at the time, and to think of these artists having copies of Ming erotica.

It is wonderful to hear about this collection being re-discovered and made accessible. I hope that more good scholarship can come from this, and from other collections that are only first coming to light today.

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Much thanks to the Gothamist for sharing videos of speeches made at the official opening today of Ai Weiwei’s “Circle of Animals / Zodiac Heads,” a public sculpture installation at the Pulitzer Fountain at Central Park.

I first heard about this installation within the last week or so, and am excited to go see it. It is the first art installation to be done around the Pulitzer Fountain, and has extra meaning right now, as Ai Weiwei was disappeared by the Chinese government nearly exactly one month ago today.

The videos, I suppose, speak for themselves. I am sure that Mayor Bloomberg speaks at a great many events, and has a great many things on his mind at any given time, and I would not hold it against him if Ai Weiwei and current art events in NYC were not the very top things on his mind. To be honest, as I sit here in my dorm room in Honolulu, struggling to finish a paper and thinking about my plans for the summer, these things are not exactly foremost in my mind either. But, Bloomberg nevertheless has some very powerful and meaningful things to say, about diversity, free speech, and public art, about how these things make New York great, and about how over one billion people on this planet suffer without the most basic fundamental human right – the right to free expression.

I am embedding the videos here, so as to have some length and content to my post. But please do click through to the Gothamist’s coverage for some additional comments, and links to tons of great articles about New York culture and issues.

A number of prominent people from the New York art scene, especially Asian art curators and others with connection to Ai Weiwei or related circles, were given a brief chance to speak. It was fun and interesting for me to recognize names and faces – specifically Melissa Chu of the Asia Society, and Alexandra Munroe of the Guggenheim – and to realize that I really am beginning to “know people”, to have some “ins” in the Asian art world, especially in New York. Which is not to say that these prominent and influential people have even the vaguest idea who I am, but that’s a step that will come later. For now, one step at a time.

Ai Weiwei’s piece will be on view in Central Park until July 15.

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As usual, I’m behind a bit, so this isn’t exactly breaking news, but the New York Times announced about a week ago the appointment of a new head of the Asian Art department at the Metropolitan Museum. James Watt, who has headed the department for ten years, is retiring, and Maxwell Hearn, currently curator of Chinese art, who has been at the Metropolitan since 1971, will be taking over. Both men are giants in the field, producing some excellent Chinese art exhibitions over the many years they’ve been at the Met.

Photo copyright Ruth Fremson/The New York Times.

In a video attached to the article (no embedding possible, it would seem), Hearn shares with us a Chinese handscroll painting, and how they should be viewed.

As seems fairly typical for this sort of article, we are told how it is that Mr Hearn got interested in Asian art to begin with, and how he secured his job at the Metropolitan. Many of the older generation got their start in ways nearly impossible for one of us today. To take a few examples, Gerald Curtis was hired by Columbia before he even finished his PhD, as one of the only experts in the US on Japanese politics, at a time when, I guess, Columbia was one of the first universities in the US to seek to teach East Asian politics; the late Kenneth Butler, director of the Inter-University Center for Japanese Language Studies in Yokohama for many many years, claimed to have been one of only a literal handful of American men who spoke Japanese at a certain time in the late 40s or 1950s (excluding Japanese-American native speakers, of course), and so had little difficulty moving up through the ranks to play an important role in the Occupation and in Japanese Studies back home in the US afterwards.

For whatever reason, I had assumed that Hearn’s story would be the same. And perhaps, to some extent, it is. But, reading about how he got his first job at the Met as the result of the networking connections and guidance and help of his Princeton advisor, Wen Fong, who called in favors, or perhaps was asked by the Met to suggest his best students, or something to that effect. Is that really so different from how I expect to get my foot in the door?

In any case, Mr Hearn (Dr Hearn?) has been in the Chinese art department in one capacity or another for 27 years, and has played a part in a great many major exhibitions, and in making the Chinese garden a reality. As the NY Times article relates, the museum had just finished re-doing its A/C ducts or something to that effect, and Thomas Hoving vetoed any idea of undoing that expensive work to install some new section with skylights and such, altering the ceiling and the A/C ducts within it. Still, Brooke Astor, a prominent and super wealthy board member (as board members tend to be), put up the funds to make it financially reasonable and doable, and so the beautiful Chinese garden which stands today at the center of the Chinese galleries was built.

The Times article goes on to discuss some of the major challenges facing Asian art today. Hearn’s story of how he got involved in Asian art, and in working at the Met, may not be that different from what I hope will become my own, but exhibitions simply cannot be held like they used to, and collections cannot be grown like they used to. Asian art has become too expensive for even large museums like the Met to afford (that’s a scary thought!!), and loans from Chinese and Japanese museums are more difficult and more expensive than ever (well, I shouldn’t say that – I don’t know the politics of borrowing objects during the Mao / pre-Nixon era when the US & China weren’t talking to each other and the Cold War was in full swing, but anyway) …. It makes me nervous and worried what things will be like if/when I ever become Curator myself. But it’s great to see it discussed in the paper like this, and to be given some idea what it is that’s actually going on.

My best wishes to both James Watt and Maxwell Hearn, as things change hands and move forward at the Metropolitan. Looking forward to some jump-starting of the Japanese exhibitions. Maybe? Please?

———-

Meanwhile, in France, President Sarkozy has apparently stirred up some controversy by suggesting the establishment of a museum of national history, something I am amazed to hear does not already exist in France.

The controversy is a familiar one. Whose history, which history, is “French” history? It is one we discussed almost to no end in my Museum Studies seminar last term, and is indeed very much a 21st century, post-modern, post-colonial issue that cannot seem to be solved or allowed to rest.

I can appreciate how this issue might be a difficult and touchy one in a place like the United States, especially in Hawaii, and also in places such as Australia. Where do aborigines fit into Australian history, i.e. the history of a former British colony, now white-dominated country?

But, in France, where there is no indigenous population that has been displaced or overthrown, and where there is in fact a singular national ethnic group – the French, as in the white French descended from the Gauls and Franks and Normans and whoever else – it is a very different situation. Now, I don’t presume to be any kind of expert on French society or societal issues, but basically, unlike the United States, France is a nation-state, a state (country) that controls territory roughly co-terminus with the traditional lands of a single nation (ethnic group) – the French. It is not a colonized place like Hawaii or Australia, or a country whose borders and identity has only come into existence in recent decades, such as, oh, I dunno, Ghana. France, like China, has in one form or another, existed for at least 2000 years, ruled by the Gauls or Franks or the French.

When it comes to US history, the history of a country founded and formed by immigrants, I think that to some extent the argument that Chinese-American history is just as much a part of American history as Jewish-American history or Irish-American history has some real validity to it. There is no such thing as US culture, US society, US anything without blacks, East Asians, Irish, Germans, Scandinavians, Latinos…. But there is a such thing as French culture that stands on its own, that others can adopt, can assimilate into, if they choose to. As one of my professors once said, “egalitarianism in France means everyone having equal opportunity to choose to become French,” meaning that the French have their own elite high culture, and you can choose to adopt it and become cultured if you so choose. What I am getting at is the idea that, in theory, ideally (ideologically?), French culture is a monolithic and static thing, that did not form from a mishmash of the cultures of other peoples, like US culture or Hawaiian ‘local’ culture1, but comes from the singular identity of the French people. Now, I do not mean to argue this point too strongly, for fear of coming across as right-wing or something, or worse, racist, but I am simply trying to be clear, from my point of view as a historian.

It is easy for the journalist, the activist, the politician, the social justice blogger, who have their heads firmly, solely, in the present, to look around at a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic France and assume that this current situation defines France, and that any argument otherwise is racist or imperialist or something. Yet, there is a such thing as France that is different from what we see today, different from something which should be subject to the political attitudes and trends in political correctness of today.

We are talking about a museum of history, and there has been a lot of French history without the Vietnamese, the Arabs, the Algerians. It’s called “pre-colonial” or “pre-modern” history. There were no Vietnamese in France during the reign of Charlemagne, and as late as the reign of Louis XVI, long after France first planted its flag in Canada and in many other parts of the world, there was still at that time no such thing as Algeria or Algerians.

Societies and cultures change, and today in the 21st century, French identity may indeed be on the way to becoming, as Wikipedia has it, more a matter of French citizenship, “regardless of ancestry,” than a singular ethnic identity. But that does not mean that we can or should read this back through history – reading current situations back into history is among the worst of the historians’ fallacies, and while historians know to watch out for it, and to be careful not to do it, non-historians commit this error all the time. Just because today’s French society consists of Vietnamese, Arabs, Algerians, and people from any number of other origins does not mean that their stories constitute “French history.” They may constitute some portion of French history, and I do think that any French history museum that purports to relate a relatively full, thorough account of the country’s history needs to address colonialism and imperialism, inter-cultural exchanges and influences, etc.

As the NY Times article relates, Sarkozy has stated that France “has a problem with Islam,” the implication being, though not directly quoted or discussed in the article, that he believes this is a major problem to be addressed and corrected.

It is true that any museum is ideological, and that in creating such a museum, curators will need to tread very carefully to present a version of events that is both accurate and “true” – not sullied by political correctness or conscious intentional efforts to shade or color things are certain way – and at the same time acceptable. The museum must not be too pro-colonialist, of course, but neither should it be too anti-colonialist. It must treat Islam fairly, to combat the issues and difficulties so prominent in French society today, not decrying or disparaging it, which would of course only worsen the problem, but neither should such a museum extol Islam, a totally political move that would have everything to do with political motives of today, whitewashing things and completely failing to put into proper perspective the violence committed on both sides against the other – Muslims and Christians – for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Nicolas Offenstadt, a professor of history at the Sorbonne, argues that “To know about French Algeria you need to know about Algeria before France arrived there … If we need any history museum, it would be a world history museum, not a French history museum, to give us a real perspective on who we are, and what is France today.” But while he accuses “The very idea of a specifically French history museum [as] ideological,” his suggestion seems to me just as ideological, if not more so. To have a museum, or any accounting of history, be as objective, fair, accurate, and balanced as possible, it needs to be organized, not based on anything tied to the present, any idea of better understanding who we are today, but rather, in being tied to understanding who we once were in the past. A museum focusing on the impacts of France around the world and/or on the countries and cultures from which prominent minorities in France come, is a museum that picks and chooses and is very selective in what it addresses and in what manner, for the very ideological purpose of furthering certain political views – certain liberal, anti-imperialist, progressive, pro-multicultural views – which are ultimately, it would seem, opposed to the idea of a distinctly French people or French culture prior to the influx of peoples from around the world.

Some of the words Sarkozy has chosen do in fact make me nervous, and worry that he is politically motivated and ideological – stating that “French people want to reappropriate their history.”

But my point is simply to say that there is a such thing as French history prior to imperialism and multiculturalism, and that this, from Charlemagne down to the 16th century, should be understood on its own merits, and not purely or primarily from a post-modern, post-colonial, point of view that acts to serve 2011 politics. One must of course tread lightly when discussing the Crusades and certain other topics, but the Hundred Years War and countless other aspects of French history should be addressed in a manner that helps us better understand the 13th century, not the 21st. Twisting history to serve purposes of the present is pretty much the definition of ideological, and it is what we should avoid, whether it be twisting history to serve a nationalistic purpose, glorifying the white French ethnic nation and its history (as some are accusing Sarkozy of advocating), or whether it be twisting history to serve a post-colonial, pro-minorities sort of agenda.

I do not follow French news or situations particularly closely, but from what one hears in the news, it seems France is something of an example of the formerly imperial nation-state struggling to find a post-modern identity. It seems to be struggling more than England or Germany, more than China or Japan, and one can predict history books 100 years from now, or for that matter, journal articles which may already be being written, using it as an ideal case study for how societies deal with these issues. How does a nation-state, built on nearly 2000 years of being its own specific, distinct people – the white French people, descended from Gauls and Franks, from Charlemagne and Louis XVI and Napoleon, none of whom were Arab, Algerian, Tahitian, or Vietnamese – refashion itself into the kind of post-modern state that allows people of different ethnic backgrounds to be just as French, just as integrated and accepted, as the ethnic French themselves?

Whatever happens, continued developments should prove quite interesting.

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(1) Hawaiian ‘local’ culture, as distinguished from native Hawaiian culture, derives from the interaction of Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino, Hawaiian, Samoan, and other peoples and their cultures, resulting in a unique ‘local’ culture exemplified by pidgin English, plate lunch and other typical ‘local’ foods, etc.

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Sometimes I find myself quite well-informed about certain exhibitions I wish to go to; other times, I’m afraid I don’t quite do my research. When I visited Boston just past Christmas, I had hoped to go to the Peabody Essex Museum, but missed out. I knew they were having some show of treasures from the Forbidden Palace, but I basically figured it was just another paintings / ceramics / etc. show, and it wasn’t the end of the world if I missed it. Which I did, on account of the snowpocalypse, as they’re calling it. I was home in New York for a week earlier this month, saw that the Metropolitan was now having some show of treasures from the Forbidden City – didn’t make the connection – but boy oh boy am I glad that I took the time and made sure to see the exhibit.

It turns out that The Emperor’s Private Paradise: Treasures from the Forbidden City is a stunning, breathtaking, incredible exhibit, just about as close as one imagines they could ever get to actually transporting the Forbidden City into the inside of the Metropolitan Museum. Hardly just a show of paintings, ceramics, and other relatively easily transported treasures, this show included window trimmings and door frames, actual thrones that the Qianlong Emperor himself (presumably) actually sat on, and all kinds of other things that I never expected would ever leave their place, let alone leave Beijing, let alone leave China.

The exhibition focuses exclusively on the “Qianlong Gardens,” completed around 1776, at the orders of the Qianlong Emperor (r. 1735-96), an emperor particularly known for his love of art, and for his embrace of Western ideas and influences. It was under the Qianlong Emperor that a great many treasures of painting entered the Imperial collection, and that the Italian Jesuit Giuseppe Castiglione was welcomed into the Court and commissioned to create a great many Western-style, relatively realistic, oil paintings of the emperor and of other subjects. A great many of the most famous Chinese paintings today bear the seal of the Qianlong Emperor.

The “garden,” really a sub-palace all its own, consisting of 27 buildings and pavilions, was intended to be Qianlong’s retirement palace. But he never retired, abdicating three years before his death, and continuing to wield power during that time. As the Emperor had a separate Summer Palace, the buildings of this retirement palace are grouped very close together, for greater warmth in the winter months.


Upon entering the exhibition, we are presented with a pair of large vases to the left, with a photograph plastered on the walls to give the impression of looking out into a garden or bamboo grove; and to the right, a door frame or wall decoration, with, beyond it, a wall painting that employs Western-style linear perspective to great effect, giving the illusion of being led deeper into a larger space. The Qianlong Emperor loved these kinds of illusions, and one can see why. Naive though it may be by Western oil painting standards, or modern photography & digital media standards, in terms of its relative lack of realism, the illusion still works – the painting still does not fail to produce the effect it was intended to, and definitely impresses.

Above: A perspectival illusion wall painting from the Supreme Chamber for Cultivating Harmony. Image from Metropolitan Museum website; you can find images of other works from the show, with curators’ descriptions, by clicking here.

We are then presented with two portraits of the Qianlong Emperor, one of which is one of multiple versions of the famous portrait you see here. Seeing it on slides, in books, and here on the computer screen does not compare to the actual artwork. The details of the robes, chair, and face are unbelievable, the pigments are thick and bold, and there’s just something really impressive, and truly breath-taking (yes, I know my adjectival vocabulary is a bit limited) about the way the colors are employed. The way the red shows through the gold of the chair is really incredible, and helps the image seem more real and more three-dimensional…. At first this may seem an extremely traditional & Chinese painting, and it is of course both of those things; but having focused so much in recent semesters on the adaptation of elements of Western artistic techniques into East Asian neo-traditional arts, it becomes obvious to me those non-traditional elements which have been employed here. Individualized, realistic, detailed depiction of the face; the use of shading and shadow to imply roundness of form and volume; and of course, linear perspective.

It was really wonderful to get to examine these paintings so closely. I’ve seen exhibits where paintings are kept back in full display boxes designed for, for example, standing folding screens, blocking you from getting anywhere near close enough to really examine the piece and appreciate the details. That was not a problem here – the vitrines were nice and shallow, allowing you to get within inches of the surface of the painting, and allowing the details to really shine.

Among other objects I was amazed to see was a paper & wood model of one of the halls & gardens, presumably created as part of planning and preparation to build the palace originally, back in the 18th century. That such a thing still survives is fairly unexpected, but that it should leave the archives and come all the way to Boston and New York is astonishing.

In addition to the inclusion of a number of 18th century Chinese treasures from the Metropolitan’s own collection, the exhibition included a very short, but well-done, video virtual tour of one section of the Palace (the juanqinzhai), and some displays on conservation efforts. If you have ever studied Chinese architecture at all, even in an intro survey art history class, you’re probably familiar with the Qianlong Emperor’s indoor theatre, with the ceiling painted with blue sky and purple wisteria on a trellis to give the illusion of the summer sky, with linear perspective wall paintings giving the impression of a much larger space, and of hidden doors behind mirrors leading from one room to the next. It was fun to be reminded of this room, and to realize where it fits in to the wider story – where in the Forbidden City it is located, and which emperor (Qianlong) it was built for.

Conservation efforts have been ongoing since 2001, if not earlier, and have employed, to the greatest extent possible, expert craftsmen in various traditional specialties, who had to be sought out and recruited from all over the country. As we learn in the exhibition, it is in large part due to conservation efforts begun in 2001 that these objects have been removed from their original context to begin with, and are therefore a bit freer to travel, before being permanently reinstalled in the Palace.

Having spent a lot of time in Japan, I think I’ve gotten a fairly good sense of a lot of the basic aesthetics, forms, and elements of Japanese traditional architecture and interior design; but it would be a fallacy to think the Chinese to be fairly similar. While nowhere else in China could compare to a Palace, of course, still, I think this exhibition – in addition to being visually stunning – really helped me gain a better understanding of what sorts of ways the Chinese traditionally decorated: with paintings and works of calligraphy incorporated into intricately carved wooden frames, and the wonderfully ironic and schizophrenic way that the Emperor embraced both signs of extravagant wealth and luxury, and signs of the rustic, simple, spare lifestyle of the cultural/moral/intellectual elite scholar-literati.

The Emperor’s Private Paradise is showing at the Metropolitan Museum, 1000 Fifth Avenue, New York City, until May 1st. I strongly encourage you, if you have the chance, to make a visit. This is not just an exhibit – it’s an experience: as close as we might ever get in New York to the feeling of actually being inside the Imperial Palace.

All images are taken from Wikipedia / Wikimedia Commons, and are used under a Creative Commons license, except where indicated otherwise.

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