The Art of Resistance: Painting by Candlelight in Mao’s China 0295741953, 9780295741956

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THE ART OF RESISTANCE

The Art of Resistance Painting by Candlelight in Mao’s China

Shelley Drake Hawks

university of washington press Seattle & London

This book is made possible by a collaborative grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

Publication of this book has also been aided by a grant from the Millard Meiss Publication Fund of the College Art Association. Copyright © 2017 by the University of Washington Press Printed and bound in South Korea Design by Katrina Noble Composed in Minion Pro, typeface designed by Robert Slimbach 21 20 19 18 17 5 4 3 2 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. University of Washington Press www.washington.edu/uwpress Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hawks, Shelley Drake, author. Title: The art of resistance : painting by candlelight in Mao's China / Shelley Drake Hawks. Description: Seattle : University of Washington Press, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2017015275 (print) | LCCN 2017016893 (ebook) | ISBN 9780295741963 (ebook) | ISBN 9780295741956 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Art—Political aspects—China—History—20th century. | Dissenters, Artistic—China— Biography. | Art, Chinese—20th century—Themes, motives. Classification: LCC N72.P6 (ebook) | LCC N72.P6 H38 2017 (print) | DDC 709.51/0904—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017015275 Cover: Li Keran, Stubborn Buffalo, detail (1962). Art historian and painter Sun Meilan interprets this stubborn water buffalo, tugging back at the rope, as an expression of the artist’s striving for independence. Sun is one of Li Keran’s students. Ink and color on paper, 26.6 x 17.5 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting. Frontispiece: Wang Naizhuang, Painting by Candlelight (1995). Wang taught art at Tsinghua University in Beijing and studied calligraphy under Li Kuchan. The phrase means painting as one wishes during the quiet of the night. Ink on paper, painted on reverse side soaking through to the front, 38.5 x 20.5 in. Gift made for the author. Parts of chapter 1 are reprinted with permission of Professor John A. Lent, Temple University, publisher/ editor in chief, from International Journal of Comic Art 12, nos. 2–3 (Fall 2010): 402–24. Parts of chapters 7, 8, and 9 are reprinted with permission of the publisher from Art in Turmoil edited by Richard King © University of British Columbia Press, 2010. All rights reserved by the publisher. The paper used in this publication is acid-free and meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1984. ∞

For Jim, Sam, and Johnny

CONTENTS Preface ix Acknowledgments xi Chronology of Major Events

xv

Introduction: Painting by Candlelight in Mao’s China

3

PART 1 / Cartoonists 1

Ding Cong’s True Story of the Outcast Ah Q

17

2

Feng Zikai Protests the Giant Hedge Cutters

31

PART 2 / Academy Painters and a President 3

Li Keran’s Luminous Path through Mountains

4

Li Kuchan’s Eagle Gazes Far

5

Huang Yongyu’s Eye Talk

6

Pan Tianshou’s Nocturne for a Plum Tree

53

75

95 115

PART 3 / Communist Idealist Shi Lu 7

Inside the Secret Notebook

8

At Cliff ’s Edge 155

9

From Trauma to Recovery

Conclusion

139

179

203

Appendix: Poems from Shi Lu’s Secret Notebook, ca. 1973–75 Notes 215 Glossary 245 Bibliography 253 Index 275

211

PREFACE “Painting by candlelight” means painting according to one’s wishes and aspirations. The phrase takes on special meaning with respect to painters under Maoist rule (1949–76). It speaks to their striving for independence in the face of severe pressures to conform to political requirements. The metaphor of candlelight suggests a time late at night when quiet reflection is paramount and normal restraints are removed. In this expansive mental space, the painter can express true emotions and convictions or experiment with new forms. Under Maoist rule, to paint like this was dangerous. For the most part, China’s artists were obliged to paint on assignment. Many creative avenues were blocked. Some artists dared to call for less interference and more freedom. Li Keran’s 1962 painting, Stubborn Buffalo, suggests this dawning spirit of resistance. The herd boy insists that the buffalo must follow his lead, but the animal tugs on the rope. A few years later, the Cultural Revolution clamped down on any artist who championed independence. During that dark time, when only revolutionary propaganda was acceptable and creativity was cut to the bone, some artists continued making art. They painted to assert self-worth, encourage a friend, or practice brushwork until normal times returned. This private art, stashed away in a desk drawer or circulated among close friends, lifted their spirits. In the words of Polish dissident Stanislaw Baranczak, it allowed them to “come up for air” after being forced to “breathe under water.”1 Li Keran survived the Cultural Revolution. When asked what his father was most proud of accomplishing in his life, Li Geng, his youngest son and also a distinguished painter, said that his father did not talk much in his later years. He mostly stayed at home and practiced calligraphy. But a housekeeper remembers that when no one else was about, Li spent hours studying his older paintings of ancient scholars and buffalo, two themes that revolutionary politics discouraged. This is a surprise, because he is mostly known for landscapes. Had he more freedom to paint as he wished, he might have done more works in these styles.2

P. 1 Li Keran, Stubborn Buffalo (1962). The artist’s inscription reads: “The water buffalo has a mild nature but can become stubborn at times.” In this tug-of-war, Li Keran identifies with the buffalo who resists being led. Note how skillfully the painter contrasts the taut rope with the loose remainder near the herd boy’s feet. Ink and color on paper, 26.6 x 17.5 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

ix

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My interest in China began as a history major at Dartmouth College studying under John S. Major. Professors Major and Gregory Prince supported my senior thesis, researching the life and work of the British sinologist Joseph Needham, author of the multivolume series Science and Civilisation in China. A Richter Studies grant funded my trip to Cambridge University to meet Dr. Needham. At eighty-three, Needham was still exuberant and made research seem like an adventure, inspiring me to become a historian of China. At Harvard University’s Regional Studies–East Asia program, I attended lectures by Roderick MacFarquhar, Benjamin Schwartz, Patrick Hanan, and Robin Yates, and began my Chinese language studies—a lifelong endeavor. After completing my Master of Arts degree, I accepted a job as coordinator of an exhibition of contemporary Chinese oil painting in New York sponsored by Oklahoma-based entrepreneur Robert A. Hefner III. Through this experience, involving travel and negotiation with Hu Mingzhi of the Chinese Artists Association in Beijing, I gained appreciation for the ways that politics intersects with artistic life. In New York, I was fortunate to meet painters Wang Huaiqing, Wang Yidong, Ai Xuan, Xing Fei, and Yang Mingyi, and photographer and curator Jon Burris, who worked with me then—and more recently, to film artist interviews in China. Through the 1987 Chinese oil paintings exhibition at the Harkness House, I met the curator of Asiatic art at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Wu Tung, who gave me a tremendous opportunity when he hired me to be his assistant in 1988. Working at the museum for two years, I had daily exposure to fine examples of ancient Chinese ceramics, sculpture, and painting. There I saw a Chinese album painting, a series of landscapes, by Cheng Shifa (1921–2007). The final album leaf was particularly dramatic: a leaning pine tree covered in snow, practically falling over. Wu Tung purchased the painting at auction in 1981 and visited the painter in Shanghai. Cheng was delighted to learn that the museum planned to acquire his work. He told Wu that the album series was confiscated from his home by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution after he painted it secretly, “by candlelight.” Hearing this made me wonder: Did the artwork reveal private resistance to the Cultural Revolution? This question set me on the journey that ended with this book. When I interviewed him in 1995 and asked him about the Cultural Revolution, Cheng referred to it as a dark time when the “gods were sleeping.” He did not want to talk about it much further, but he showed me a painting mourning the loss of talent. His painting xi

depicts the ancient Daoist philosopher Ji Kang (223–262) playing his zither as he awaits execution. Ji’s life is unjustly cut short, and the melody only he knew is lost forever.3 In 1990, I left the museum to pursue a doctoral degree in history at Brown University, where I found an adviser, Jerome Grieder, who was enthusiastic about my plan to dig deeper into the Cultural Revolution story. His classes on early twentieth-century intellectual and social history were critical for understanding the dilemma facing painters. Richard L. Davis, who specializes in Song dynasty history, taught me fresh insights on Confucian culture and offered kind encouragement. Other Brown professors, such as David Lattimore, Jim McClain, and Maggie Bickford, inspired me by their teaching and scholarship. My project benefited immeasurably from detailed comments by Vera Schwarcz of Wesleyan. The power of her scholarship on the Cultural Revolution energized my work. Many other scholars offered guidance in workshops or through correspondence: Ralph Croizier, Julia Andrews, Chu-tsing Li, Wan Qingli, Sun Meilan, Wang Mingxian, Wanli Hu, Geremie R. Barmé, Hong Zaixin, Yang Siliang, Qianshen Bai, Wm. Theodore de Bary, Eugene Wang, Julia K. Murray, Jerome Silbergeld, Merle Goldman, Ron Suleski, and Rudolf Wagner. Among other exceptional individuals whose knowledge of Chinese history and culture far exceeded my own and whose willingness to help was unusually generous are Su-san Lee, Wu Fusheng, Ling Shiao, and especially Jiang Chengyu, who met with me regularly after my first research trip and continues to deepen my understanding of art. More recently, Yang Juanjuan, Peihui Wang, Yang Jie, Xiaohua Zhang, and Jinqing Li have supported my research. Susan Richmonds and Stephen Ratiner shared their expertise on poetry with me. Donald Kelly, Jonna Kirschner, and Stefanie Cloutier read my manuscript and gave important feedback. Richard Higgins, a gifted independent editor and author, gave crucial advice on how to reorganize my first draft. Jon Burris and Chuck Nacke produced excellent photography. I am grateful for the insightful recommendations from anonymous readers during the review process at University of Washington Press. Special thanks to Whitney Johnson, Beth Fuget, Elizabeth Berg, Margaret K. Sullivan, Carrie Wicks, and especially my editor, Lorri Hagman, for seeing merit in this book. In 2016, I was fortunate to receive assistance from the Millard Meiss Publication Award of the College Art Association. In 2003, Harvard University Fairbank Center provided me with the opportunity to be a fellow. Following that year, I served as faculty in the Division of Social Sciences at the College of General Studies, Boston University. Many faculty and students there showed interest in my book project. Colleagues at the Boston University Center for the Study of Asia supported my research, especially Eugenio Menegon, Joseph Fewsmith, William Grimes, June Grasso, John Berthrong, and Ha Jin. Currently, I have the good fortune to teach world history and art history at Middlesex Community College in Lowell and Bedford, Massachusetts. Among many talented colleagues there, I want to thank Robert Kaulfuss, Margaret Swan, Cathy McCarron, Priscilla Eng, and Dean of Global Education Dona Cady for their leadership and support. xii

ACK NOWLEDG M ENTS

I was blessed with wonderful parents. My mother, Carole, instilled in me a love for art and my father, John, for history. I want to acknowledge the encouragement I received from my brothers, Ramsey, Carl, and Dan, and their wives, Susan, Elise, and Britt; my cousin Catherine and the Sullivan family, who accompanied me on trips to China; and to Jeannie, Carolyn, Casidy, Sukie, Deborah, Trynie, Jonna, Lea Ann, Sheila, Kathy M., Nancy, Kathy P., Eileen, Shari, Amy, Laura, and Susie, who cheered me on. Special thanks to Katrina, Lyndi, Paula, and Petra for assisting with childcare. My dear husband, Jim, rescued me from computer disasters and supplied me with good cheer every morning. My treasured sons, Sam and Johnny, know that there is a third child called “book” in our family, and they welcome it. Finally, I want to thank the Chinese artists, their students and families, for their trust and honesty. It has been an honor to study their art. I alone bear responsibility for my book’s interpretations.

ACKNOW L EDGMENTS

xiii

CHRONOLOGY OF MAJOR EVENTS 1864 1880 1897 1898 1900 1902–1905 1907 1916 1918 1919

1921 1924 1927–1929

1937–1945

1949

1950

Qi Baishi (teacher of Li Kuchan and Li Keran) is born. Li Shutong (teacher of Feng Zikai and Pan Tianshou) is born. Pan Tianshou is born. Feng Zikai and Li Kuchan are born. Lin Fengmian (teacher of Li Keran and first president of the China Academy of Art) is born. China’s modern educational system is established. Li Keran is born. Ding Cong is born. National Beijing Art College, the forerunner of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing, is founded. May Fourth demonstrations instill a sense of urgency to dramatically change Chinese culture. Shi Li is born. The Chinese Communist Party is founded. Author Lu Xun publishes “True Story of Ah Q” in serial format. Huang Yongyu is born. Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist government is established in Nanjing. China Academy of Art is founded in Hangzhou in 1928. Feng Zikai and Li Shutong collaborate on the first of six volumes of Protecting Life Painting Collection. War with Japan Shi Lu joins the Communist movement at Yan’an in 1940. Ding Cong completes a series of woodcuts illustrating Lu Xun’s “True Story of Ah Q” in 1943. Pan Tianshou serves as president of the China Academy of Art from 1944 to 1947. Mao proclaims that the Chinese people have stood up. The People’s Republic of China is founded. Xi’an Academy of Fine Arts is established. Li Kuchan’s letter to Mao results in his reinstatement at the Central Academy, but the atmosphere for bird-and-flower painters remains difficult. xv

1954–1956

Li Keran sets out to develop a fresh approach to landscape painting by sketching outdoors. Shi Lu exhibits travel sketches from his trip to India and Egypt. Hundred Flowers liberalization begins in 1956. 1957 Anti-Rightist Campaign ushers in a crackdown. Ding Cong is denounced as a Rightist and sentenced to three years of hard labor in Heilongjiang. The situation for traditional Chinese painters improves after chief art administrator Jiang Feng is removed from power. 1958–1962 Mao initiates the Great Leap Forward to rapidly increase grain, cotton, coal, and steel production. Famine begins during the winter of 1958 and continues through 1961. Shi Lu is commissioned to paint a battle scene with Mao at the center for display at the Museum of Chinese Revolution in Tiananmen Square. Pan Tianshou is appointed president of the China Academy of Art for a second time. Feng Zikai is appointed president of the Shanghai Chinese Painting Academy and chairman of the Shanghai Artists Association, but he is punished after he makes a blunt speech in 1962. A one-man show of Li Keran’s landscape paintings tours eight cities in 1959. On the brink of starvation, Ding Cong is sent back to Beijing in 1960. 1963 Li Keran’s and Shi Lu’s paintings are criticized as too black in an article by Yan Liquan. Shi Lu privately writes a poem, “My Motto of ‘Wild, Strange, Chaotic, and Black.’” Huang Yongyu creates Animal Crackers, a book of humorous captions and pictures. 1964 Shi Lu’s 1959 painting featuring Mao, Fighting in Northern Shaanxi, is criticized and removed from display as the atmosphere becomes radicalized. 1966–1969 Mao launches the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. All major artists are detained in makeshift jails called cowsheds. Many are beaten severely. Some commit suicide. 1970–1976 The Cultural Revolution continues. Persecution is sporadic and milder. Some secret painting is possible. Many artists are sent to the countryside to perform labor. Pan Tianshou dies in 1971. Zhou Enlai invites disgraced painters to create artwork for China’s guesthouses in preparation for Nixon’s visit in 1972. Radical Maoists allied with Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, stage Black Painting Exhibitions in 1974 to denounce the ink painters Zhou patronized. xvi

CH RO NO LO GY O F M AJ O R EVENTS

1976 1978 1979

1982 1983 1989 2009 2017

Mao says he likes Huang Yongyu’s “winking owl” painting, stopping criticism of it. Feng Zikai dies in 1975. Zhou Enlai and Mao Zedong die. Jiang Qing is arrested. Deng Xiaoping initiates far-reaching economic reforms. The final volume of Feng Zikai’s Protecting Life Painting Collection is published in Hong Kong to coincide with the one-hundredth anniversary of the birth of his teacher, Li Shutong. Shi Lu dies. Li Kuchan dies. Tiananmen Square demonstrations end in tragedy. Li Keran dies. Ding Cong dies. Huang Yongyu, in his nineties, lives in Beijing.

CHRONOLOGY OF MAJOR EVENTS

xvii

THE ART OF RESISTANCE

Introduction PAINTING BY CANDLELIGHT IN MAO’S CHINA

I

n 1966, China’s youth feverishly responded to Mao Zedong’s call for Cultural Revolution. Relics of Old China—temples, paintings, books, and furniture—were destroyed, and authors and artists forcibly brought into line. From 1966 to 1976, an estimated 1.5 million people were harmed. Roughly the same number died. Victims were harassed and imprisoned, and some tortured to death.1 At China’s two premier universities, Peking and Tsinghua, more than thirty-one professors committed suicide.2 Among the most persecuted were China’s painters (fig. I.1). This book focuses on seven whose stories capture Mao’s assault on China’s creative traditions—and the art of resistance they practiced. They are Ding Cong (1916–2009), Feng Zikai (1898–1975), Li Keran (1907–1989), Li Kuchan (1898–1983), Huang Yongyu (b. 1924), Pan Tianshou (1897–1971), and Shi Lu (1919–1982). The suffering of some artists, such as Ding Cong and Shi Lu, began prior to the Cultural Revolution. However, the wave of extremism that broke out in 1966 was more penetrating and extensive than before. It swept up virtually every famous painter in its path. Removed from their positions as teachers and administrators, separated from their families, publicly ridiculed, and physically beaten, most anyone would lose his or her

I. 1 Shovel Out the Art World’s Revisionist Black Line (Shanghai, 1967). Recently sacked president Liu Shaoqi is shown here with a bruised nose. Below him is a bespectacled and bearded Feng Zikai with outstretched arms still holding his blacklisted book, Protecting Life Painting Collection. From Chanchu meishujie de xiuzhengzhuyi heixian, cover. Collection of the author.

3

bearings. What sets these seven apart is that they remained artists in spite of the terror. They used unguarded moments to secretly paint or write poetry. Sometimes, they did not even have access to brush and paper. A shaken Pan Tianshou wrote his final poem on a discarded cigarette wrapper, using a pencil stub picked off the floor. Expressly forbidden to use a paintbrush, Ding Cong switched to scissors, skillfully transforming bits of sponge into small sculptures of animals, birds, and literary figures. He drew on the back of exhibition labels at the gallery where he served as janitor. Huang Yongyu overcame obstacles too. Authorities presumed that he would stop painting after they moved him to a tiny shed with no window except one facing a neighbor’s wall. Instead, the lack of a window galvanized him to paint an “eternal” window to bring sunlight and fresh flowers into the room. Shi Lu never stopped practicing calligraphy, even during the worst phase of the Cultural Revolution, circa 1966–69. To occupy himself during “struggle meetings,” he moved his head, hand, or eyes to imagine writing with a brush. He drew the character jian (“sharp-pointed” or “ruthless”) with his fingers or toes to talk back to his accusers. He later explained these actions to his son as practicing “hand, foot, head, and eyes” calligraphy.3 Mao instigated the Cultural Revolution to dispense with real or imagined rivals and cleanse society of perceived backwardness. He accused members of his own Chinese Communist Party (CCP) of heading toward capitalism. Art became an important battleground in Mao’s struggle to realize his aspirations.4 His avid followers considered the visual arts vital to their revolutionary program. In their view, the goal of painting was to validate Mao’s leadership of the Chinese Communist Party. Nothing in the style or content of a painting could suggest anything but fervent enthusiasm for Mao, whatever direction his policies might take. This applied to traditional Chinese ink paintings as well as oil paintings in the socialist realist style. The demand that all art be fervently political had roots in Chinese culture prior to Communist rule. Social realism (a style of art and literature predating Stalin’s socialist realism of the 1930s) gained influence in China during the early twentieth century, when activists looked abroad for new ways to mobilize popular support for dramatic change. They admired the directness and immediacy of cinema, street theater, posters, woodcuts, and oil paintings, for these formats could be used to communicate with illiterate and semiliterate audiences. Chinese ink painting, with its poetic quality and expressive brushwork, could not convey messages with the same clarity. The traditional art form required knowledge of symbols and prolonged study to unlock its meaning. Its narrow range of motifs—flowers, birds, animals, ancient figures, and landscapes—seemed disconnected to urgent social problems. As China’s crisis deepened, the native painting tradition waned in popularity. Early twentieth-century Chinese activists hoped that by using art as a staging ground for their ideas, they could bring about a radical transformation of the popular mind-set. Impatient for results, some Chinese progressives began to think of

4

I N T RO D uCTI O N

art entirely for its use value and consider it most effective when it bombarded the prospective viewer by “saying the same thing over and over.”5 During the Cultural Revolution, the Eight Model Performances (five operas, two ballets, and a symphony) promoted by Jiang Qing, Mao’s wife, epitomized the aspiration to create a uniform standard of propaganda and immerse audiences in it.6 When this goal of “reeducating” through art was pressed to an extreme, as it was by radical Maoists, art became the servant of command-style politics. Before the Communists gained power in 1949, their politically sponsored art mainly depicted the gloom of war-torn, capitalist China; once power had been won, only praise for socialism was acceptable. Accustomed to functioning as critics of the social order, progressive artists faced a psychological adjustment after 1949. Although their living conditions were better, political sensitivities made art-making precarious.7 During some periods after 1949, pressure to conform to a strict program was extreme; at other times, some artistic experimentation was encouraged. Artists had to be alert to these frequent shifts. Those tasked with painting the Great Leader had to be especially careful.8 A hint of something questionable could lead to removing the painting from public view and end the painter’s career. This is precisely what happened to Shi Lu, who suffered extreme persecution on account of suspicions about his 1959 portrait of Mao. Modern Chinese painters had to be mindful of New China’s evolving cultural identity, distancing themselves from their Confucian forebears to avoid the stigma of being branded elitist or feudal. Early twentieth-century activist and CCP founder Chen Duxiu famously admonished Chinese artists who continued to paint in the orthodox style of Qing dynasty landscape painting to stop practicing an “evil art.”9 Chen argued that China’s heritage must be replaced by an entirely new cultural legacy centered on revolutionary agitation. He made a direct correlation between China’s inability to stave off foreign aggressors and the habit of “bury[ing] our heads in old books day and night.”10 Inspired by such rhetoric, art students responded enthusiastically to the challenge of representing contemporary life directly rather than copying centuries-old paintings. China’s modern art academies, founded on Western methods, accelerated the exodus from traditional practice. Artists who continued to paint in ink remained vulnerable to the claim that they had not gone far enough to dispense with the old ways. Ink painters who ventured too far out of the native tradition risked reproach for appearing servile to foreign tastes. Shi Lu and Li Keran were caught in this dilemma. Both painters cross-fertilized their practice of ink painting with techniques from other artistic genres. Li Keran had originally trained to be an oil painter, and Shi Lu had been a woodcut artist. Their inventive creations earned them fame in the 1950s, but the political tide shifted during the thaw of 1961–63. Complaints aired in the national magazine Fine Arts (Meishu) criticized them for making ink painting seem “messy,” “too dark,”

INTRODu CTION

5

“wild,” and “chaotic.”11 Shi Lu’s critics claimed that he was insufficiently trained in the fundamentals of traditional Chinese painting and unqualified to be hailed as standard bearer. Viewers reacted negatively to the “stifling” heaviness of the ink in Li Keran’s dense landscape paintings and their seemingly somber tone. The pejorative language used to denounce the artistic quality of Shi Lu’s and Li Keran’s paintings in the early 1960s set a precedent for later recriminations. The emotional tenor of the earlier debate made it easy for radical Maoists to persuade youth that the “wild and black” paintings of Shi Lu and Li Keran were not simply “messy” but dangerously counterrevolutionary. Immersed in the hysterical climate of 1966, militant youth, the so-called Red Guards, came to accept that it was their heroic mission on behalf of Chairman Mao to stop “Black Painters” from producing more black paintings. Unwanted cultural expressions were considered “poisonous weeds” to be “shoveled out,” and artists were to be discarded in the same summary fashion. On Cultural Revolution–era posters, militant youth shake their fists and threaten to paint over with a brush anyone deemed conservative, including even Mao’s onetime successor, President Liu Shaoqi, denounced as “China’s Khrushchev.” During that uncompromising time, nothing could dim the luster of Mao’s creative genius. An often-reproduced portrait of a colossal Mao holding a writing brush (fig. I.2) implied that he was not merely the greatest statesman China had ever produced but also the most esteemed poet and calligrapher.12 All hope for China’s future seemed to emanate from this one great man. Now, five decades later, the campaign against “Black Painters” seems baffling, even surrealistic. Artists incarcerated in “cowsheds”13 (niupeng) and persecuted to death because of their artwork? It sounds preposterous! According to the party’s own retrospective evaluation in 1981, the Cultural Revolution was a catastrophe caused by Mao and exacerbated by his wife, Jiang Qing (the most notorious member of the “Gang of Four”). Promulgated under Deng Xiaoping’s leadership, this report (pronouncing Mao 70 percent good and 30 percent bad) aimed to salvage the Communist Party’s legitimacy by attributing the mistaken direction of the Cultural Revolution to Mao’s extremism in his old age.14 The current Chinese government does not defend the Cultural Revolution, but neither will it allow a deep probing of its causes or effects. Today, publications on the topic in China are still subject to censorship. While oral history remains one of the most important avenues for retrieving information about the Cultural Revolution, the seasoned interviewer realizes that even decades later some information remains too sensitive to be disclosed. Personal and emotional considerations combine with caution to make survivors and their families reluctant to share all they remember. Trauma can make victims fall silent. Out of respect for the artist’s privacy, even third parties familiar with the circumstances of a painting’s creation may not reveal all they know. As records frozen in time, paintings or poems, when studied closely, may disclose more than will surviving witnesses.

6

I N T RO D uCTI O N

I.2 Wang Weizheng, portrait of Chairman Mao holding a calligraphy brush (ca. 1967). The inscription, in Mao’s calligraphy, is the slogan “Bombard the headquarters” from Mao’s August 5, 1966, big-character-poster launching the Cultural Revolution. Silk cloth, 16 x 10.5 in. Given to the author by painter Liu Chunhua in 1995.

Obstacles preventing serious investigation of the Cultural Revolution lead many to shrug off the entire era as a decade of “madness.”15 However, Mao was not, in fact, mentally incapacitated during his final years, as he is sometimes depicted.16 Until his death in September 1976, he remained proud of the Cultural Revolution and wished to continue promoting its radical agenda, even after it was clear that the movement had damaged the economy and put national security at risk. Mao tried to establish a successor who would support the Cultural Revolution but failed to find one capable of keeping it going. Clearly, the Cultural Revolution was something that Mao cherished and considered necessary. He even claimed in June 1976 that it was one of his two supreme achievements, the other being his unification of China in 1949.17 From Mao’s perspective, the Cultural Revolution was a deliberate and integral part of his revolutionary program.

INTRODu CTION

7

I. 3 Mass criticism special bulletin (Tianjin rebel groups, September 1967). The captions read: “Follow closely Chairman Mao’s magnificent strategic plan,” “Chairman Mao says: You must concern yourselves with national affairs and advance the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution to the fullest degree,” and “What enemy in the world can match the strength of the army when united with the people?” From Dapipan lietou manhua zhuanji, cover. Collection of the author.

8

Why Mao wanted the Cultural Revolution and what it accomplished continue to be sources of historical controversy. According to political scientist Roderick MacFarquhar, Mao instigated the upheaval but had no master plan for it.18 If he intended only to remove perceived rivals Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping from power, the turmoil could have ended after a few years. That Mao continued to stoke the fire of Cultural Revolution until his death suggests that he perceived it as a final push to implant his ideological legacy and to instill radicalism in the heart of every youth. Mao felt a sense of historic mission as the founder of a new age. He sought to harness the energy of the Chinese population to build a heroic future. After his Great Leap Forward policies of 1958–61 resulted in famine and he was sidelined from active leadership, Mao saw the larger Communist revolution as endangered; the Cultural Revolution was his means of combating the perceived “revisionism” of his heir, Liu Shaoqi, and Stalin’s heir, Khrushchev. To mobilize two loyal constituencies—youth and soldiers—Mao needed to stir up righteous anger against China’s cultural and political elite (fig. I.3). To get the Cultural Revolution going, he fostered a drama that contrasted the “black” counterrevolutionary mentality with “red” revolutionary virtue. “Struggle” rituals were established in every locality to make clear distinctions between those who should be denounced and those who should lead, under the terms of the new society. Within this callously conceived political theater, the senior-generation ink painters found themselves cast in the role of old-style Confucian intellectuals. They became foils for the values that Mao and his allies wanted to cultivate in youth, the so-called revolutionary successors. A hallmark of Mao Zedong thought was its aspiration to reach inside the subjective world of every Chinese person to “wash out” thoughts.19 At the outset of Communist rule, elder intellectuals were considered capable of “thought reform”; however, as Mao aged, his quest to make socialism final became more reckless. A battle-weary Mao sought to purge all the stubborn relics from the body politic. Within this morality tale, the older-generation artists became analogs for the ghosts of the past still inhibiting progress. Castigated in the vocabulary of the time as “reactionary academic authorities” or “stinking ninth-category intellectuals” or “ox demons and snake spirits,” these artists were made to look like the sinister remnants of a thoroughly discredited but stubbornly lingering Confucian order. The elder generation of artists and their paintings gave the protagonists of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, the Red Guards, someone to ridicule and something concrete to stomp into dust. Singling out individuals as surrogates for Confucius and then shaming them in a public denunciation drama gave each community a way to show solidarity with the Chairman’s vision for a revolutionary culture severed from the past. Cartoonists who had argued for reduced governmental interference were similarly denounced as traitors.20 Paintings produced at the major art academies could be confiscated from storerooms or the painter’s home and used as fodder for inflated claims. A self-expressive painting could become a persuasive stage prop within the theatrics of a “struggle INTRODu CTION

9

session.” For example, a painting like Pan Tianshou’s Plum Tree and Moon (fig. 6.6), crossed out with big Xs, made a dramatic display, one that might convince at least some impressionable people that the artist harbored “black” intentions. Chinese tradition held that “outer” appearances reflected “inner” qualities.21 Thus a painting that looked decidedly black in its appearance, as Pan’s heavily inked painting certainly did, could make accusations that he was a criminal seem palpable. Like a diary, another self-revealing form of expression used to document “counterrevolutionary thinking,” paintings revealed intimacies and eccentricities endangering their makers. Condemned paintings became analogs for Communism’s hidden enemy, a robust selfhood (“excessive bourgeois individualism”). A painting displaying an emphatic personal aesthetic signaled a personality unlikely to go along with revolutionary discipline, and thus, a “foot-dragger.” Until the advent of professional painting as a modern vocation in the early twentieth century, painting was primarily a leisure activity—and a highly esteemed one. In China, much more than in the West, painting was closely interwoven with poetry, calligraphy, and seal making; all these aesthetic practices were united in the same framework and were designed to interrelate.22 Poetry’s partnership with painting remained a defining element in the radically reconstituted practice of Chinese painting initiated during the early twentieth century. Painters such as Shi Lu, Pan Tianshou, and Feng Zikai, who wrote their own poems and inscribed them next to an image, demonstrated that modern Chinese painting should not be disentangled from its collaboration with poetry, seal making, and calligraphy. To them, painting’s combination with these art forms was what made it Chinese.23 Because appreciating it to the fullest extent required reading inscriptions and understanding symbols, bureaucrats found traditional Chinese painting difficult to police. Dangerous meanings could escape their attention. To eliminate the prospect, militants discouraged art that was complicated. When Mao set in motion the old imperial purging mechanism “to burn the books and bury the scholars,” traditional Chinese painters and their images fell victim to these exterminatory impulses. Once the process was unleashed, persecution spared no one.24 And yet the need to create a compelling political theater led radical Maoists to shape persecution to suit their revolutionary program. The objects of struggle needed to be persuasive analogs for stubborn old “ghosts.” The paintings they targeted needed to appear disloyal. So the apparently ludicrous and shrill accusation that a genuine Communist believer like Shi Lu was actually a “reactionary academic authority” had some basis. He was a member of the educated class who commanded authority based on cultural accomplishment. He posed a threat to the razing of history because he had the talent and conviction to defend civilization’s enduring values. Historically, Chinese traditional painting was a sanctuary for independent thinking. Personality registered visually in certain subject matter, such as the eyes of an eagle or the twist of a flower stem.

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The artists hardest hit by the Cultural Revolution were the stubbornly creative ones. They saw themselves as defenders of Chinese culture’s spiritual resources.25 The painters pejoratively called “Confucians” were not necessarily tied to the old wisdom. They thought of tradition as open to fresh possibilities. Shi Lu, Feng Zikai, and Li Keran considered it essential to forge links with world art.26 All of the painters profiled in this book were social progressives, either committed communists or fellow travelers. Their art was not overtly political, but it was artistically penetrating.27 What distinguished this group was that they were the potential leaders of an alternative, less extreme communism, one that was more compatible with independent thinking, respect for nature, and historical preservation. Prior to the Cultural Revolution, they stood out as important contributors to the impassioned project of modernizing Chinese art. Reflecting on their words and images helps to make posterity more appreciative of the human talent that was diminished or lost. During the Cultural Revolution, creativity did not die out. Particularly in the fields of dance and revolutionary opera, the party sponsored lively new art forms.28 Idealistic songs, military-style clothing, badges, and posters praising Mao still hold appeal today. What happened outside of official channels was also significant. Banned writings and condemned images circulated despite tight censorship; some national policies were thwarted at the local level.29 Most of the violence associated with the Cultural Revolution occurred during the first three years (1966–69). The terror and the chaos of the first phase then gave way to a milder, although still dangerous, second phase (1969–71) and third phase (1971–76). Having the privacy to create secret art or literature was more common during the latter two periods. For example, adventurous young poets like Bei Dao and Duo Duo, who gained fame in the 1980s, experienced the early 1970s as a time of experimentation. Society’s disarray gave them the opportunity to read voraciously and develop new ideas.30 Within this environment of lessening repression, ink painters who had been severely persecuted a few years before snatched free moments to paint “by candlelight,”31 stowing their work away until China’s night subsided. Recent scholarship has illuminated the complexities of interpreting art.32 Environmental factors, political biases, prior knowledge, and social background profoundly shape how a person views a specific artwork. Still, there are some common reactions. The visual effect of a painting’s composition or its physical properties engender certain responses.33 For example, the illumination of a face or the central positioning of a figure are two universally recognized techniques for conveying status in a picture.34 Only some paintings express clear messages. Many artists purposely leave space for viewers to create their own meaning. Their goal is to stir the imagination and allow art to speak for itself. In repressive states, artists have an added incentive to retain an air of mystery about their work. To protect themselves and their confidantes, they deliberately craft ambiguous images so that hostile parties will not detect politically

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sensitive content.35 When artists feel safe to openly discuss their work, their commentary enriches subsequent discourse. However, much of the creative process is intuitive. Artists’ memories of their thoughts and actions may be limited or difficult to verbalize.36 Once complete, paintings take on a life of their own. They ignite controversies and acquire associations that the artist scarcely anticipated.37 A painting’s meaning, although it varies from viewer to viewer, is not so indeterminate that a substantive interpretation of it cannot be achieved. Besides establishing the basic facts about an artwork, one must study visual details and inscriptions, consider multiple readings of the imagery, assess overall trends affecting art and artists, and consider the work’s subject matter in relation to Chinese, Soviet, and Western iconography. Interviewing the artist, or his or her students, colleagues, or family members, about a given artwork offers insights about the thinking of the artist and the circumstances of the work’s creation, such as whether it was painted secretly or on official assignment. Obtaining this context helps us enter into the imaginative world of these paintings and the artists’ mental states, allowing us to better assess the psychological impact of repression on them. Then, a more complete narrative of the Cultural Revolution can emerge to fill the void of official silences.38 Gaze theory contributes to my interpretation of Shi Lu’s famous cliff-side portrait of Mao, discussed in chapter 8 (fig. I.4). The feminist theorist Laura Mulvey first used the term “male gaze” to describe the way directors trivialized and objectified women in cinema through control of the camera.39 Michel Foucault identified another pernicious gaze: state-sponsored surveillance, functioning like “thousands of eyes posted everywhere,” punishing nonconformity, encouraging self-censorship, and leaving “no zone of shade.”40 More recently, Lisa Wedeen examined the use of leader portraits in Syria to generate obedience.41 These theorists define the gaze as a tool of domination, because the recipient of the gaze is made to feel accountable to the gazer’s expectations. A powerful gaze emanates from Mao’s portrait overlooking Tiananmen Square. In this iconic representation astride the headquarters of Communist rule and the old imperial palace, Mao’s eyes stare out as if he is eternally watching.42 The image functions as a “highly effective tool of ideological indoctrination” and “surveillance.”43 From the 1950s through the 1970s, Mao’s portrait hung in practically every classroom, meeting place, and home. Mao’s “great gaze” seemed to examine “every single thought or action, at anytime, anywhere.”44 Shi Lu’s painting of Mao (fig. 8.2) was different. It did not plainly show Mao’s eyes. Instead, Mao’s back is partially turned, and the domineering gaze is directed out toward the vista.45 Shi Lu’s unusual choice to portray Mao mostly from the back and relatively tiny had implications for official reactions to the painting. Absent the customary frontal view and colossal size, this image of Mao lacked an imposing presence and seemed to suggest psychological aloofness.46 Not seeing Mao’s face stirred the viewer’s memory and imagination, leaving room for unauthorized thinking. In 1959, Shi Lu’s painting of Mao had been commissioned for

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I.4 Shi Lu’s 1959 painting Fighting in Northern Shaanxi displayed in the National Museum of China, Tiananmen Square, Beijing, 2016. Photography by Jon Burris.

display inside the Museum of Chinese Revolution (Zhongguo Geming Bowuguan; now National Museum of China) situated on one side of Tiananmen Square. Paintings in this museum, located at the very heart of the political district, were supervised carefully to reflect current ideology and ensure that Mao’s supreme status was showcased.47 In 1964, when Shi Lu’s painting of Mao was targeted for criticism, the cult around Mao was intensifying. This painting fell short of soaring expectations regarding how Mao should be depicted. Chinese authorities “feared unclear messages.”48 Mao himself did not always agree with his ardent defenders. Occasionally, he intervened to help accused artists.49 In his 1942 “Yan’an Talks,” Mao set out an ambitious vision for art and literature in the new Communist era. In those speeches, which became fundamental doctrine, Mao emphasized the ideological dimension of art, particularly the goal that art should reflect the class perspective of workers, peasants, and soldiers. He called for political content to be expressed using the “highest possible perfection of artistic form,” because otherwise it would have “no force.”50 Policy makers labored to meet Mao’s high expectations for art, but the sands were always shifting. This fickleness in political life had a profound impact on artists. Gradually, it led them to question reigning ideologies and rediscover ancient Chinese philosophy

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and forbidden styles of modern art. The experience of being criticized or persecuted opened their eyes to injustices and freed them from their usual obligation, when the regime held them in favor, to paint on assignment. Instead they produced counterimages, resituating the gaze at the level of individual consciousness and asserting the right to live and think independently. Today, their paintings of ironically winking or sad-eyed birds, weather-beaten trees, acrobatic flowers, open windows, and selfportraits reveal a private art of resistance.

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1

Cartoonists

CHAPTER 1

Ding Cong’s True Story of the Outcast Ah Q

I

n 1943, Ding Cong (1916–2009, fig. 1.1), also known as Xiao Ding, produced twenty-four illustrations for “The True Story of Ah Q,” the famous short story by the fiction writer Lu Xun (1881–1936).1 Published in 1921 in the vernacular rather than the literary language, Lu Xun’s story of Ah Q became the defining text of the May Fourth Movement, a period of ferment and experimentation that had begun in 1919 and inspired a wave of social reform among China’s youth. Ding Cong invited woodcut artist Xu Shuping to carve illustrations for the book based on images he had painted using ink and brush.2 By illustrating the story with woodcuts—the visual medium endorsed by Lu Xun as the most expressive of ordinary people’s concerns—Ding signaled his strong identification with Lu Xun’s aspirations for ushering in social change. Because woodcuts were inexpensive to produce and could be widely circulated, Lu Xun urged followers to adopt this art form to advocate on behalf of society’s devalued members. The plain color scheme and the raw, tactile effect of the knife’s traces made

1.1 Ding Cong, circa 1980s. Known primarily as a cartoonist, Ding Cong created a series of illustrations in 1943 to illustrate Lu Xun’s short story about an outcast named Ah Q. Tragically, part of Lu Xun’s fictional story came true in 1957, when Ding was unfairly branded a Rightist and sent to perform hard labor in the Great Northern Wilderness in Heilongjiang. Despite the disruption to his life and career, he managed to keep his humor and imagination alive, as this photo attests. From Li Hui, Ding Cong (2001), 77; reproduced with permission from the artist’s family.

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woodcuts seem to express humanity at its most basic, a fitting platform for championing the downtrodden. The vigorous lines produced by the knife on wood symbolized the writer’s pen cutting through habitual thinking. According to Lu Xun, the woodcut more than any other visual art conveyed “the soul of modern society.”3 Ding was slightly too young to have known Lu Xun personally, although both were Shanghai residents. His allegiance grew out respect for the author’s trailblazing fiction and his sponsorship of alternative art forms, including cartoons, Ding’s favorite expressive medium. A 1940 photograph of Ding with friends posed under a giant portrait of Lu Xun reveals the depth of their admiration for the author.4 Lu Xun’s daring use of irony and unsparing attacks on sacred tenets of Chinese culture paved the way for Ding to embrace social satire. Ding’s father, Ding Song (1879–1969), a prominent member of Shanghai art circles and a cartoonist himself, tried to prevent his eldest son from becoming a cartoonist because he thought the profession too dangerous and not lucrative enough. He went so far as to insist that no paper or brushes be given to his son, but Little Ding, as he was sometimes called, persevered against his father’s wishes.5 Ding’s illustrations of Ah Q were produced at the invitation of Chen Baichen, editor of West China Evening Newspaper (Huaxi wanbao) in 1944; in 1945, they were published in book form.6 A fresh edition of his Ah Q illustrations, printed from the original woodcuts, was published in 1992. Ding was twenty-seven years old when he produced the illustrations. During the intervening years, he had suffered terribly. In 1957, he was condemned as a Rightist; banned from making art, even privately; removed from his position as editor of the prominent journal People’s Pictorial (Renmin huabao); separated from his new wife and infant son; and exiled to a labor camp in the remote North under famine conditions. Rehabilitated in 1979, Ding snapped back from the catastrophe with seeming ease. By 1995, he was well into the second peak of his art career. Perhaps his smooth recovery was due in part to the fact that he never quit producing art despite the ban, contrary to common belief.7 Ding’s illustrations for the Ah Q story were created during the Anti-Japanese War, a relatively positive period for his career despite the devastation. He produced the illustrations while living humbly in Chengdu, Sichuan. Japanese bombings of coastal cities had forced Shanghai residents to migrate to China’s interior. Refugees like Ding had to scramble to find places to live. He and his close friend, playwright Wu Zuguang, set up makeshift living quarters in a courtyard pavilion designed for summer weather. Many fellow artists lived in close proximity. Half-jokingly, these friends came to call their informal but convivial living arrangement the House of Loafers (Erliutang, from the slang term for “loafers,” erliuzi). In a popular folk opera admired by the group of friends, the opera’s lead female used this term to scold her brother for falling asleep in the field. In jest, Ding and friends christened the place where they congregated for meals and conversation the House of Loafers, since most of them were creative people with no regular job.8 Their lives revolved around producing art and supporting the war effort. Energized by daily interactions with playwrights, actors, and fellow cartoonists, Ding entered his most productive 18

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period as a satirical artist. At this time he created his most famous work, a 1944 handscroll titled Looking at Images, which exposed the corruption of the Nationalist regime.9 Ding was certainly not “loafing around,” despite what critics later said. “The True Story of Ah Q” is a mock-heroic tale of a life spiraling downward, the kind of biography that had no place in conventional Confucian literature.10 The plot revolves around a low-class nobody whose inflated view of himself and lack of empathy for others worsens his predicament at every turn. A good example of Ah Q’s poor judgment is his decision to make unwanted advances toward a nursemaid in the household where he holds temporary work. When his indiscretion is discovered, he is kicked out without pay and left shirtless. After word of Ah Q’s sexual overtures spreads, the ladies of the village cross to the other side of the street whenever they see him. This sudden infamy puzzles Ah Q; he deludes himself into believing that his compounding misfortunes are actually “spiritual victories.” His boastful attitude prevents him from understanding the dangers awaiting him. As the story progresses, Ah Q is revealed as a kind of analog for China itself and for the failed mind-set paralyzing China’s response to Western and Japanese imperialism.11 Lu Xun tells the Ah Q story through a pretentious narrator whose pontificating manner heightens the reader’s sensitivity to the inadequate lens through which Ah Q’s story is told. The narrator seems strangely indifferent to what happens to Ah Q and overly concerned with fitting Ah Q’s story into a standardized formula for biography. The narrator’s efforts to assemble even the barest facts about his subject are largely frustrated, because no written records or family members can be found to verify Ah Q’s name or place of birth. Gradually, the insufficiency of the narrator’s version of events becomes shockingly apparent. By the end of the story, the reader shifts from having a good laugh at Ah Q’s foolishness to sympathizing with his plight, flawed and uncultivated though the man is. Indeed, as Ah Q’s hair is pulled, his head pounded, and his scrawny body manhandled, it becomes clear that the true scoundrels are the interrogators and beaters rather than Ah Q. Society looks much more criminal than the outcast. In the finale, the full measure of the world’s callousness is revealed as Ah Q is hauled before a firing squad and executed for a crime he did not commit. The gawking crowd feels no emotion. If anything, the spectators felt shortchanged, as they had hoped for a beheading. Watching the village idiot get shot does not leave them sufficiently entertained. In the opening frame of Ding’s series, the man referred to as Ah Q—only an approximation since his real name has been forgotten—stands holding a pipe with his head cocked to one side (fig. 1.2). His eyes squint as he looks suspiciously toward the viewer. His expression looks pugnacious and irritable. The sleeves on his coat are way too long. Obviously, the coat was made to fit someone else, but at least he is clothed. In contrast, a shirtless and emaciated smaller Ah Q (below the standing figure) has fallen into a more desperate state. The face of this second Ah Q looks dazed and his body listless. The third Ah Q—on the other side of the picture—is in far worse condition. He has already been executed and holds his detached head in his hands. The still-vital Ah Q at the center DING CONG ’ S TRuE STO RY OF AH Q

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1.2 Ding Cong, title page for Lu Xun’s 1921 “True Story of Ah Q” (1943). In the opening frame, the man referred to as Ah Q—only an approximation since his real name has been forgotten—stands holding a pipe with his head cocked to one side. His life spirals downward: a second Ah Q is shirtless and emaciated, and a third Ah Q is headless. Print from woodcut by Xu Shuping based on illustration by Ding Cong, 5 x 4 in. From Ding Cong, Ah Q zheng zhuan manhua (1992), 17; reproduced with permission from the artist’s family.

1.3  Ding Cong, Ah Q in Court (1943). By the end of Lu Xun’s story, the reader shifts from having a good laugh at Ah Q’s foolishness to sympathizing with his plight. Print from woodcut by Xu Shuping based on illustration by Ding Cong, 5 x 4 in. From Ding Cong, Ah Q zheng zhuan manhua (1992), 63; reproduced with permission from the artist’s family.

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stands sandwiched between the letters of his name. His physical appearance is unkempt, but he projects assuredness, if not dignity. Ding’s portrayal does not deny that Ah Q is a fool, but he is a fool with presence. He seems to be a stubbornly resilient person still declaring his self-worth. The three Ah Qs represent different stages in the snuffing out of a life. The figures form a trinity. Ding uses this design to suggest the gravitas of a religious icon and urges us to remember Ah Q’s name rather than consign him to namelessness. The playful quality of Ding’s calligraphy for Ah Q’s name lifts the mood of this otherwise somber picture. In fact, the bottom line of the foreign letter Q and the outer line of the Chinese character Ah tilt inward like donkey tails and make one think, humorously, of the queue on the back of Ah Q’s head. Some sources say that Lu Xun adopted the letter Q for his title character because it looks like a blank face with a queue.12 By the time Lu Xun wrote the Ah Q story in 1921, the braided pigtail was a laughable relic of the imperial era, a mark of subjugation imposed on Chinese men by their Manchu conquerors during the Qing dynasty. Ding made skillful use of its negative associations to lampoon Ah Q’s physical appearance by exaggerating his long braid and the ringworm scars on his shaven forehead. However, the cartoonish quality of Ding’s Ah Q remains muted. To capture the essence of Lu Xun’s story, Ding had to be careful not to go too far in mocking Ah Q. He humanized Ah Q enough to coax readers to imagine themselves as Ah Q and, thus, make the mental correction necessary to feel sympathy for him. That Ding’s illustrations contributed something fresh to the conversation on Ah Q is most salient in the last two plates of the series. The twenty-third woodcut captures the poignant moment when authorities interrogate Ah Q in connection with a robbery of the Zhao household (fig. 1.3). Ah Q is a likely suspect, because he had fallen into trouble with the Zhao household before and tried unsuccessfully to join a band of revolutionaries who probably were the real culprits. This is one crime that Ah Q did not commit, yet Ah Q is not articulate enough to defend himself in court. A stern judge presses him to say or write something in his defense. All Ah Q can muster is a circle, and even that is not well drawn. Ding has designed this scene so that Ah Q faces the viewer as he writes his imperfect circle. His face looks innocent and childlike, as does his crawling posture. If our eyes move leftward across the slope of Ah Q’s shoulders, up the long arm and over the bent head of the robed attendant, down to the soldier’s feet (which appear to ride on Ah Q’s back), up to the bald judge at his desk, and back to Ah Q’s piece of paper, they will have made a complete circuit. This design approximates a heart and echoes the circle that Ah Q writes on the page. It is Ding’s technique for expressing solidarity with Ah Q. We viewers form the heart and make the circle with our eyes. The circle represents Ah Q’s identity. It is the best he can do. Engrossed in the task of holding the brush for the first time, he looks sympathetic despite his awkwardness. Ah Q never had the chance to develop literacy; now his life will be brought to a swift close. Whereas Lu Xun’s text emphasized the “wolf-like” stare and “ant-like” uniformity of the crowd watching Ah Q’s execution, Ding’s final plate shows confidence in the public’s power of discernment (fig. 1.4). In Ding’s version, the onlookers are decent DING CONG ’ S TRuE STO RY OF AH Q

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1.4  Ding Cong, Ah Q’s Execution (1943). In this final illustration in the series, Ding depicts the moment just before a firing squad takes Ah Q’s life for a crime he did not commit. The typically foolish Ah Q, with head bowed, accepts his fate, as two rifles close in on him like scissor blades. Unlike Lu Xun’s story, which emphasizes the crowd’s callousness, Ding presents onlookers as compassionate and discerning. Print from woodcut by Xu Shuping based on illustration by Ding Cong, 5 x 4 in. From Ding Cong, Ah Q zheng zhuan manhua (1992), 65; reproduced with permission from the artist’s family.

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people coming to terms with the tragic spectacle. Their faces are individualized; their eyes and expressions show concern. A reckoning seems to have taken place: the people recognize Ah Q’s humanity. They see themselves in the accused. Ah Q looks humbled too. In his last moments, his head is lowered and his face partially hidden from view. This design directs our gaze out toward the crowd. The spectators watching the execution remind us of ourselves looking at these illustrations. We are left with a collective injunction to remember the consequences of averting our eyes and turning our backs on Mr. Nobody. In 1957, Ding Cong was labeled a Rightist after he advocated for more independence for artists. He was not a Communist Party member, but as founding editor of a leading art pictorial, his opinion carried weight in painting and photography circles. During the brief thaw accompanying the Hundred Flowers Movement of 1956–57, Ding had offered a candid assessment of the lack of scope for the arts under Communist rule. He proposed the establishment of a new kind of art publication, expansively titled Ten Thousand Phenomena (Wan xiang), to be placed under the creative control of editors rather than bureaucrats.13 Party authorities feared the destabilizing impact of intellectual critiques like Ding’s. They mounted a crackdown against anyone expressing a dissenting view. Mao authorized a purge of some 550,000 critics, removing from office and sending into exile much of the nation’s top scientific and artistic talent.14 During the Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957, the once-humorous self-appellation House of Loafers, describing Ding and his friends during the war years, was revived to incriminate him and his salon-style gatherings. He was accused of forming an illicit opposition group. As a result, Ding, the playwright Wu Zuguang, and fellow cartoonist Huang Miaozi were among hundreds exiled to the Great Northern Wilderness in Heilongjiang and sentenced to hard labor. The “Loafers” spent three harrowing years there in 1957–60. Upon arriving at the labor camp, Ding joined others in shoveling out a reservoir. After half a year, he was fortunate to be recruited as the backroom editor and illustrator of a local army-sponsored magazine for farmers. He received no salary, but it gave him access to art supplies and reduced his physical labor to half-time. His editing duties included escorting the manuscript to the printing press in another town. He discovered that he could make use of unsupervised time during his travels to do occasional sketching.15 The artwork that Ding prepared anonymously to contribute to the magazine had to conform to a strict ideological agenda. For example, he created a highly stylized portrait of settlers bringing industry to the wilderness. In contrast to the heroic art he produced for the magazine, Ding secretly sketched ordinary people in the midst of their daily activities.16 He could hastily sketch a scene only when others were busy watching something else. For example, he drew schoolchildren from the back as they faced the teacher or theatergoers watching opera on an outdoor stage. By 1959–60, the excesses of the Great Leap Forward had produced a massive shortfall of food; populations in the arid North were particularly vulnerable. Initially, Ding had been separated from his friends, but as the famine worsened, his friends were brought DING CONG ’ S TRuE STO RY OF AH Q

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to the same place. Food was extremely scarce, and Ding remembered Huang Miaozi’s face being swollen from malnutrition.17 Had authorities not intervened to bring them back to Beijing in 1960, Ding and his friends faced certain death. After returning to Beijing in 1960, Ding still suffered under the Rightist stigma. He earned a very low salary and was not entrusted with any responsibilities other than office work. In 1967–68, he was again swept up in a political tornado and was sent out to the countryside to a so-called May 7 Cadre School. According to Mao’s instructions, these were to be places for reeducating intellectuals and cadres “to strengthen their intellectual and emotional ties to the laboring people.”18 Ding’s job was to raise pigs and goats. He was strictly warned not to “pick up a paint brush,” because it was presumed that he would use it to oppose the Communist Party. Ding simply could not lose his connection to art, for it was the one thing that gave him sustenance. He saw an old woman using scissors to cut a sponge to make small folk sculptures. Since he was not prohibited from using scissors, he followed the old woman’s lead and began making sponge sculptures. He cut model busts of admired father figures Lu Xun and Maxim Gorky. This experiment with a local folk art proved deeply satisfying for him. It took him about two hours to complete each sculpture. He did it for fun in his spare time and gave away many as gifts. What he cut in sponge evoked the feeling of paintings. Many of his subjects—dogs, cats, roosters, or hens, for example—were more typically represented in brush and ink. In 1976, Ding returned to Beijing, and his situation improved. However, suspicions about him lingered, and he was not exonerated until the spring of 1979. During those years when unjust political stigmas still held him back, he worked as the custodian for the National Art Museum of China, hanging paintings and making exhibition labels for other painters. At that time, paper was scarce. Ding did not have sufficient status to use official art supplies. However, there was no rule against his using the backs of discarded labels. They were only small index cards, but he used them to draft illustrations for Lu Xun’s short stories, including “Diary of a Madman” and “My Old Home,” while home on sick leave.19 Before his Rightist label was removed, Ding continued to make art invoking Lu Xun. He wanted to avoid trouble, and Lu Xun was considered a safe subject. Although the actual Lu Xun was a nuanced thinker who maintained an independent stance toward the Communist Party, in death his rebellious tone was used to affirm whatever Mao proposed.20 Some even claimed that Lu Xun would have approved of the Cultural Revolution.21 However, Ding understood that Lu Xun, despite his strong rejection of Chinese tradition earlier in the century, would not have endorsed the extremism of Mao’s Cultural Revolution. His stories aimed to curb the cruelty of the mob. Ding repeatedly paid homage to Lu Xun in his art, because he admired the author’s use of humor and satire to awaken audiences to social problems. Illustrating Lu Xun’s “The True Story of Ah Q” early in his career focused Ding on the importance of showing respect for marginalized members of society. When Ding’s own life fell apart during 24

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1.5  Huang Yongyu, Portrait of Ding Cong Honoring His Rock-Like Character (early 1990s). Inscribed by fellow artists Huang Yongyu and Huang Miaozi, commemorating their shared experience of adversity. Ink and color on paper, approx. 42 x 23 in. Gift of Huang Yongyu to Ding Cong. Photographed by author with Ding Cong’s permission in 2004.

his middle years, Lu Xun became a positive fixture in his imagination, reminding him of his self-worth and his duty to stay connected to art. Compared to other persecuted artists, Ding survived the catastrophe relatively unscathed, in spite of the long separation from his family and profession, and the derision under which he lived.22 As a tribute to Ding’s steadfastness, a friend from the “Loafer” contingent, Huang Yongyu, painted a portrait of Ding as a “rock” of integrity (fig. 1.5).23 Huang’s painting was coinscribed by Ding’s old friend and fellow Rightist, Huang Miaozi, at a gathering of old friends in Beijing during the early 1990s. Like Ding, Huang Yongyu survived the political disaster admirably. However, Ding suffered for a longer period and under harsher circumstances. In his tribute, Huang Yongyu makes note of Ding’s superiority, deferring to him as the premier authority on how to hold on to one’s integrity and artistic sensibility. He depicts Ding as the largest rock among lesser rocks. According to his inscription, only “this person is so rock-like that even the rocks bow to him.” Huang Miaozi’s inscription pronounces Ding “the art world’s beautiful rock.” It is fitting that Ding’s friends prepared a portrait in his honor, because Ding became known as a master portraitist after his rehabilitation in 1979. For over twenty-five years, he drew almost every contributor’s portrait for the leading journal Reading (Du shu). His portraits form a who’s who of China’s art and literary circles.24 DING CONG ’S TRuE STO RY OF AH Q

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1.6  Ding Cong, self-portrait (May 1976). The enigmatic treatment of his own face looks to be a protest against the disruption to his life. Here is Ding’s face, by his own hand, projecting an identity all his own. White pigment on black paper evoking the appearance of a woodcut, dimensions unknown. From Li Hui, Ding Cong (2001), 76; photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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According to Chen Seyi, who interviewed him about his creative process, Ding was extremely conscientious about studying his subject’s likeness from various angles. His practice was to ask for two photographs, one frontal and one profile, before making the portrait. His most distinctive contribution was the treatment around the eyes, capturing the spirit of his subject’s personality.25 Sometimes he drew with a pen and other times with a Chinese brush. Mexican muralists like Diego Rivera and José Orozco and the Spaniard painter Francisco Goya influenced his sensitive treatment of facial expressions.26 In addition to portraiture, Ding devoted himself to making cartoons during the second peak of his career. After he was exonerated in 1979, he was offered his old position back as editor of People’s Pictorial, the same journal that he edited prior to being labeled a Rightist. He declined because he wanted to devote himself full-time to cartoons, the medium that he loved most but never had the opportunity to pursue as more than a spare-time endeavor.27 For twenty-two years, Ding had been unjustly made into a pariah, losing his profession, salary, and home life. During his middle years, the downward spiral of his life resembled Ah Q’s. Although he never called himself Ah Q, his friend Huang Yongyu once used Ah Q as a self-reference in an essay. Discussing a time during the Cultural Revolution when friends shunned him, Huang described feeling as though he were Ah Q: “Some drew a line separating themselves from me in meetings; others retained their friendship but were afraid to express it.”28 Huang was crushed by the betrayal of some of his friends and particularly grateful for those who stuck by him. His tribute to Ding as a rock acknowledged Ding’s unfaltering quality not only as a loyal friend but also as a fellow sufferer whose stoicism was superior to his own. Ding’s self-respect is conspicuous in his self-portraits. There are at least five among his extant works. Revolutionary politics discouraged focus on the self, so the number of self-portraits he made is surprising. All have the same pose, as if intended as a series. Beginning in 1943, the year he produced the Ah Q illustrations, Ding arranged every self-portrait similarly: as a candid front view of his face down to his collar. In all but one of the published examples, his wide, bespectacled face is sober and unsmiling. In one particularly interesting one dated May 1976, Ding drew his face and collar against a black background, with half of his face sketched in white and the other half blank except for a few sketchy outlines (fig. 1.6). According to Li Hui, who published a reproduction of this self-portrait, Ding used white pigment on paper to evoke the feeling of a woodcut.29 By choosing to make his self-portrait resemble a woodcut, Ding suggested a link between himself and the downtrodden. Judging from the date, Ding must have created this self-portrait upon his return home from labor reform after the political atmosphere eased; otherwise, the risk of creating something so experimental would have been unthinkable. The enigmatic treatment of his own face looks to be a protest against the disruption to his life. Half of his life potential had been wasted by persecution, leaving his “face” half-developed. DING CONG ’ S TRuE STO RY OF AH Q

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1.7 Ding Cong, Statue of the Perfect Citizen (1945). In his early career, Ding boldly challenged Nationalist rule with cartoons like this one, showing a person with locked lips and ears stuffed with cash. Cartoon. From Li Hui, Ding Cong (2001), 29; photographed with permission of artist’s family.

1.8 Ding Cong, Supervision (1987). Following his rehabilitation after the Cultural Revolution, Ding returned to making satirical cartoons. Here the shadow of a stern, oversized cadre stands disapprovingly over the artist as he draws. Cartoon. From Li Hui, Ding Cong (2001), 87; photographed with permission of artist’s family.

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Alternatively, the black-and-white contrast dividing his face could be a rebuttal to the idea that “thought reform” could change him. Here is Ding’s own face, by his own hand, projecting an identity all his own, consistent over the span of his life. He remained the same person regardless of circumstances—black or white, Rightist or not. Tragedy registers honestly on his face, much like a Rembrandt self-portrait. Before the Communist era, Ding’s cartoons focused on the repression of the individual. One famous cartoon criticized censorship under Chiang Kai-shek’s rule. He portrayed a person whose lips were locked shut and his ears stuffed with cash, calling it Statue of the Perfect Citizen (fig. 1.7).30 In another cartoon from the 1940s, Ding pointed to the hypocrisy of the so-called public servant who fails to recognize the true cost of his extravagant lifestyle. A well-fed couple rides on the back of an emaciated, crawling person. Among the figures on his famous 1944 handscroll Looking at Images, Ding portrayed the glaring eyeball of a censor looking through a magnifying glass.31 Decades later, after he was rehabilitated, Ding returned to the same themes that had earlier brought him trouble. In a cartoon dated 1987, he defended the autonomy of the artist—not the bureaucrat—to decide. The shadow of a stern, oversized cadre stands disapprovingly over the artist as he draws (fig. 1.8). In a preface written on April 29, 1944, to accompany the publication of Ding’s illustrations of the Ah Q story, the famed author Mao Dun endorsed the young artist as a talented illustrator.32 Mao Dun noted that Ding had succeeded on two counts: his images capture the essence of Ah Q as Lu Xun had conceived him and also contribute something new from Ding’s own personality and artistic vision. This evaluation recognized that Ding’s illustrations endowed the Ah Q story with a more expansive sensibility. Ah Q is typically remembered for his despicable qualities, but in Ding’s treatment, the less studied dimension of the story—urging readers to respect Ah Q more rather than less—is brought out to the fullest extent.33 When Ding later suffered a fate similar to Ah Q’s, he revealed himself to be vastly different from Lu Xun’s fictional character. Ah Q never mustered the strength to rise out of adversity. In contrast, future generations will remember Ding Cong as “the art world’s beautiful rock,” an unfaltering artist who transcended catastrophe.

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CHAPTER 2

Feng Zikai Protests the Giant Hedge Cutters

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eng Zikai (1898–1975, fig. 2.1) addressed the Second Congress of the Shanghai Artists and Writers Association on May 9, 1962, with the words “If plants could talk, they would cry out in protest [tichu kangyi].”1 The veteran cartoonist and author compared the policies of the last few years to the shearing of evergreen plants into a low wall of hedges. He spoke of creative minds “bound and twisted” like the branches of a bonsai tree. Aligning himself with the new climate of reform that prevailed after the Great Leap Forward, he publicly challenged officials to allow space for individual expression. Feng’s description of maimed and discarded plants triggered memories of his famous Protecting Life Painting Collection (Husheng huaji).2 This Buddhist-inspired collection of images and poems started as a collaborative project with his renowned teacher, Li Shutong, circa 1929, after which Feng published a fresh volume every decade. The series featured cartoons of plants and animals in imminent danger (figs. 2.2 and 2.3). Feng used humor to awaken readers to the callousness of killing animals for meat or stepping

2.1 Feng Zikai with cat Ah Mi (1963). Feng praised this family cat, Ah Mi, for enlivening his entire household. In a story published in 1962, Feng did not refrain from discussing another beloved pet, Uncle Cat (Mao Bobo), whose name sounds dangerously close to Mao’s. During the Cultural Revolution, Feng’s biography of his cats was criticized as a “poisonous arrow” aimed at Mao. Photograph from Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa Fengshen, 306; reproduced with permission of the artist’s family.

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2.2 Feng Zikai, Looking at the Cutting of Evergreens; Thinking of Something Else (1949). Aligning himself with policies of relaxation in the early 1960s, in a 1962 speech Feng publicly challenged officials to allow more space for self-expression. He compared the policies constraining artists and writers to the shearing of evergreen plants using giant hedge cutters, an image he had painted in the 1940s. Ink on paper, book illustration, 7 x 4 in. From Feng Zikai et al., Protecting Life Painting Collection, vol. 3, 130. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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2.3 Feng Zikai, Looking at a Potted Plant; Thinking of Something Else (1949). In his 1962 speech, Feng spoke of creative minds “bound and twisted” like the branches of a bonsai tree. Following the speech, authorities removed him from leadership positions. Ink on paper, book illustration, 7 x 4 in. From Feng Zikai et al., Protecting Life Painting Collection, vol. 3, 128. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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on ants or dandelions. He hoped to instill compassion by making tiny things loom large and the mute “cry out.” Viewers of his images were reminded to think before squandering a life. In the third volume of Protecting Life, published in 1949, Feng dramatized the pain caused by gardeners who shear hedges indiscriminately. The outcome is “scattered and broken branches” and “white blood spilling everywhere.”3 Now, in his 1962 speech, Feng used the same imagery to make his audience think of recent political events: [The Chinese Communist Party] has called for one hundred flowers to bloom for years now, and of course, many have. Nonetheless, in the past most of those flowers were large and famous buds, all with a distinctive hue and a particular significance. . . . But there are many smaller unknown flowers that have never had the chance to bloom. . . . [S]ome of them are fragrant in their own right. Only when they too are free to express themselves will we actually encourage one hundred flowers to bloom. Since we accept that these too are fragrant flowers [and not “poisonous weeds”], buds that should also be free to develop, why not let them grow of their own accord? Please! I beg of you. Don’t “help” them to grow. Stop constantly interfering with them! I’ve seen a bonsai plant in which the branches of the tree were bent out of shape and bound tight—forced to grow in contorted fashion. As a result, they are crippled. These artificial and prettified creations are truly ugly. People can plant hedges that are quite beautiful if they allow them to grow naturally. Unfortunately gardeners are wont to trim them to a uniform size with their hedge cutters [da jiandao], producing the effect of a crude haircut. . . . What is beautiful about a hedgerow in which each plant looks the same? If such plants could talk and were allowed to speak their minds, they would cry out in protest.”4

The author Wang Xiyan remembers feeling astonished at Feng’s courage: “I was one of the people who applauded him enthusiastically. My eyes brimmed with tears, for the quiet Buddhist layman I had known for so long was now a courageous fighter ready to oppose the forces of evil wherever he might find them.”5 The penalty for his daring speech came swiftly. Authorities removed Feng from his positions as vice director of the East China Artists Association of Shanghai and director of the Shanghai Chinese Painting Academy. As the Cultural Revolution unfolded, he found himself subject to the same bondage he had warned against in his writing and art. A Red Guard tabloid published circa 1967 caricatured Feng as a small dandelion about to be crushed by a heavy boot (fig. 2.4).6 On the cover of another Red Guard tabloid, a muscular young soldier separates Feng from his books and looks at him sternly.7 Buddhist beads trail from Feng’s neck, and huge spectacles frame his face. The soldier’s clenched fist squeezes the artist’s arms, letting his body dangle. This “poisonous weed” will soon be tossed into history’s garbage heap. 34

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2.4 Topple Anti-Communist Old Hand Feng Zikai: Ten Cartoons (Shanghai, 1967). These caricatures belittle Feng, showing him caged and about to be stepped on, subjecting him to the cruelty he had warned against in Protecting Life Painting Collection. He suffered beatings not only in the images but also in real life. Top cartoon: It Sings a Long Song as It Cries. Bottom cartoon: Empty Mountain Small Disaster. From Dadao fan-gong laoshou Feng Zikai, 19. Collection of the author.

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Feng’s famous teacher, Li Shutong, introduced Western-style art training to China. As a student at the Zhejiang First Normal College in Hangzhou, Feng eagerly absorbed Li’s teachings on Western art and music.8 After Li gave up his career as an art instructor to become a Buddhist monk in 1918, Feng remained his closest disciple. He learned from Li to observe nature with heightened awareness and to teach humaneness through art.9 Although his teacher retreated into religion, Feng remained a layman and never gave up his thirst for knowledge about the world. He mastered several foreign languages, including Japanese and Russian. In 1921, he studied in Tokyo for ten months. He maintained a correspondence with foreign friends throughout his life. Feng’s nimble mind became the lens through which generations of Chinese readers learned of international trends in music, art history, education, and literature. Feng is best known as the inventor of a lyrical form of painting that came to be called manhua in Chinese and cartoon in English.10 The term manhua was not of Feng’s choosing; it was based on a loanword from the Japanese term manga, meaning “impromptu sketch.” The name stuck after an influential member of Shanghai intellectual circles, Zheng Zhenduo, used the term to categorize Feng’s paintings. Feng’s gracefully brushed, socially aware cartoons followed in the tradition of artists like Takehisa Yumeji, Chen Shizeng, and Katsushika Hokusai.11 However, his focus on children was rooted in his personal situation as a young father. He devised a spare approach to quickly sketch his children without disturbing their spontaneity. For most of his career, Feng was a stay-athome scholar, supporting his family through his publications. He relished the immersion in domestic life that this independent lifestyle afforded him. The deference that Feng paid to children’s viewpoints was unusual in a society accustomed to putting elders on a pedestal. He admired the way children responded to their surroundings with curiosity and compassion. One well-known painting pictures a young girl heroically setting free a caged bird (fig. 2.5). Feng’s inscription reads, “The sky is wide enough to allow a bird to fly as it wishes.” Feng’s cartoons emphasized the ingenuity of child’s play. He warned parents and educators not to stifle a child’s creativity: A child’s world is expansive and full of freedom. If they desire something, they ask for it. They might ask for the roof to be removed to look at an airplane; a bed to grow grass, flowers, and butterflies so that they can play there; the feet of a stool to wear shoes. They might build a railway within a house. Siblings can be a bride and groom. They might even ask for the moon to come down from the sky. Adults laugh, call them silly, saying, “It’s just a child’s game.” They curse them as “naughty” and prohibit them from making noise. This is the narrowly subjective view of an adult. I consider it a rude attitude with no regard for a child’s psychology.12

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2.5 Feng Zikai, The Sky Is Wide Enough to Allow a Bird to Fly as It Wishes (ca. 1938–46). Feng admired the innocent way children respond to their surroundings. Here a young girl heroically sets free a caged bird. Ink and color on paper. From Treasury of Feng Zikai’s Favorite Works (1988), 21. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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Feng deplored formality. His art and writings gave importance to private time spent among family members and in the company of a few intimate friends. He celebrated the home as a refuge where both work and play could flourish. He honored his residences by giving them special names.13 The value he placed on refraining from political and institutional entanglements, in fact, earned him the nickname Mr. Thrice No (San Bu Xiansheng).14 His mentor, Li Shutong, chose reclusion over public life; under Li’s influence, Feng too became a devout practitioner of Buddhism, but his ambivalence toward the public realm should not be confused with Buddhist ideas of withdrawal. The retreat that Feng envisioned centered on family and companionship, not the solitary, contemplative life of a monk. Feng’s early cartoons featured few brushstrokes. The figures do not even have facial expressions, yet they reveal their identities and sentiments through salient gestures. His aspiration to create a poetic sensibility set him apart from most cartoonists. Feng disagreed with the sentiment that cartoons must express a strong political position. He defended the importance of preserving lyricism and subtlety in art. He argued that nuanced art forms prolong the viewer’s engagement and ultimately make a stronger impact than art with blatant, overt messages.15 In inscriptions to his images, Feng advised viewers to engage a multilevel reading of his images by looking at what is on the page, then “thinking of something else.”16 Starting in the 1930s, Feng found himself at odds with the avant-garde woodcut movement. According to Lu Xun, the movement’s champion, art must be made to “cry out” against social injustices; otherwise, citizens will not react sufficiently.17 Feng regarded himself as an advocate for social change, but he defended a broader conception of art that honored the poetic and the whimsical as well as the political. He was forced to temper his position in response to the Japanese invasion. Under such dire circumstances, he recognized the importance of joining ranks with other artists to mount a propaganda campaign protesting the carnage. For the first time in his career, his images became more strident and less concerned with preserving artistry. He focused on portraying the havoc wreaked on children by Japan’s bombing campaigns. Gory scenes of children losing limbs while breast-feeding on their mother’s lap or playing piggyback heightened awareness of the invasion’s brutality.18 Even his wartime cartoons included portrayals of people taking time out from the battlefield to enjoy leisurely pursuits. From the soldier who sets down his rifle to play music to the hollow bombshell transformed into a flower vase, Feng celebrated attempts to maintain grace despite the devastation. His portrayal of restful moments reflected his commitment to the value of play and leisure. The tenaciousness with which he defended nonutilitarian pursuits became controversial after 1949. Many of Feng’s surviving paintings from the period prior to 1949 originated from Protecting Life, a project that ultimately spanned fifty years and six volumes.19 Until his death in 1975, Feng released sequel volumes to coincide with every ten-year anniversary of the birth of his teacher, Li Shutong. Each decade, the images and inscriptions 38

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increased by ten. No matter what the historical backdrop—the war with Japan or even the Cultural Revolution—Feng managed to complete another volume for the series more or less on schedule. In Protecting Life, children and cats feature prominently as heroes pointing the way to a more just existence. Although the series originated in a Buddhist context, very few of the images and inscriptions are overtly religious.20 For the most part, they represent a continuation of the themes Feng developed in his art and writing prior to 1927, before he was baptized as a lay devotee of Hongyi Fashi (Li Shutong’s Buddhist name). Feng’s strong commitment to Buddhism and his bond with his teacher complicated his relations with political authorities after 1949. For Feng to still consider himself a disciple of someone other than Mao was problematic under Communist rule. The new regime appeared intent on assigning a pejorative label to practically everything connected with the old society. Whether his early cartoons were worthy of the new regime’s patronage was unclear and subject to change. Anthologies of his cartoons published by Communist authorities gave pride of place to the relatively few new works he created after 1949.21 Like many progressive intellectuals of the older generation, Feng had high expectations for the new government. Weary of the chaos of World War II and China’s civil war, he welcomed what promised to be a brighter era for the Chinese people. In 1949, he wrote a letter to two of his children living outside China expressing his enthusiasm about the imminent changeover and beckoning them to return home to Shanghai.22 Indeed, his overall favorable impression of the Communist Party and the People’s Liberation Army made him amenable to assuming a public role for the first time. As a leading intellectual known for advocating the downtrodden, he could anticipate being invited to participate in consultative assemblies sponsored by the party. His initial encounter with the new Communist leadership, however, did not go well. In 1949, he attended a conference designed to introduce Shanghai-based artists to the party’s new policies. He did not understand that he was invited there to receive instruction and not to be consulted. After the presentation was over, the host asked him to respond to what he had heard. According to a book by his daughter, Feng Yiyin (fig. 2.6), this is what happened: Feng Zikai was always very straightforward and not very good at sizing up such situations. He spoke what he felt. He expressed his enthusiasm for learning from “liberated areas” and from “the worker, peasant, and soldier.” Then he said, “But—I cannot speak as the others spoke. I can only say what I feel. Traditional Chinese painting subjects such as the plum, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum should still be painted. Workers, peasants, and soldiers are tired after working all day. Paintings [on such subjects] help to relieve their exhaustion. Just like today [at this meeting]—[the organizers] put a flower on every table. Or like a fist—the workers, peasants, and soldiers compose the fingers, but that does not make the pinky unnecessary.” Feng Zikai reminded those present not FENG Z IKAI P ROTESTS THE HEDGE CuTTERS

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to forget traditional art. Even amid “struggle,” beauty has value. But his words at that time could not be accepted. Immediately afterward, people stood up and criticized him. Feng Zikai had not expected such a reaction and was quieted. Upon further reflection, he still thought what he had said was correct but realized that speaking his mind under such circumstances was inappropriate.23

Prior to disclosures in memoirs like Feng Yiyin’s during the 1990s, the prevailing view was that Feng had acquiesced to the party’s policies without much contest. Among the testimonies available in the public domain, a self-criticism by Feng published in the Communist-sympathetic Hong Kong newspaper Da gong bao in 1952 gave the misimpression that Feng had been brainwashed. In that statement, Feng claimed in an uncharacteristically wooden tone that his thought had been “remolded.” His new political faith in Chinese Communism seemed to supplant all previous beliefs. The rote fashion with which he enumerated past mistakes and professed new commitments suggested that his days of provocative commentary were over.24 Far from being “remolded,” Feng maintained a consistent identity across the 1949 divide. Rather than modifying himself to conform to the new standards, he found ways to pursue his old aspirations within the new circumstances. A close reading of selected public speeches and writings attests to the fact that “the old Feng Zikai” was alive and well after 1949, contrary to the misleading impression left by his self-criticism statement of 1952. Indeed, if Feng reinvented himself at all during the 1950s, it was to become more guarded about sizing up political situations. Experiences like the one at the conference attested to the importance of proceeding cautiously if he wanted to continue publishing. He recognized the need to become more attuned to cues within the political environment. Whenever conditions appeared to tighten, he retreated to safe projects such as translating.25 When circumstances dictated that he make propagandistic work, he complied perfunctorily, knowing that expressing refusal would attract negative attention. He negotiated a strategy for continuing to produce meaningful work without exposing himself to attack. At the outset of Communist rule, Feng’s style of cartooning appeared to have no future. Authorities endorsed only blatantly political art that directly affirmed the current party line.26 Feng found himself scuttled in a manner analogous to the bird-andflower specialists, Pan Tianshou and Li Kuchan. Despite the prestige of his earlier career, he faced the choice of either retraining himself or resigning himself to obsolescence for the remainder of his productive years. Lacking an institutional affiliation and having lost his beloved estate in Zhejiang during the bombing campaigns, his unstable finances required that he quickly find some publication project from which he could derive income. Undaunted by the fact that he had learned only a smattering of Russian during his study in Japan decades before, he devoted himself to translating Russian novels into Chinese. Admiration for the Soviet Union was high at the time. 40

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2.6 Feng Zikai’s daughters, Feng Yiyin (far left) and Feng Chenbao, with the author in between and his student Hu Zhijun (far right) in Shanghai, 1995. After his death in 1975, Feng’s daughters organized the publication of his essays and paintings and established a small private museum in Shanghai at the site of Feng’s former residence. Author’s photograph.

Beginning in the fall of 1953, party officials outlined new policies raising standards and reviving native Chinese art.27 In this new climate, Feng’s star rose quickly. Apparently, his pre-1949 cartoons had admirers among the highest echelons of the party—most notably, Premier Zhou Enlai.28 Wang Zhaowen, a sculptor and influential party official with close ties to Zhou, sponsored the publication of an anthology of Feng’s pre-1949 cartoons and invited him to prepare a preface for it. Feng was flattered by this attention but wary of treading on politically sensitive terrain. Only a year before, Wang had written an article in the People’s Daily accusing Feng’s early cartoons of possessing “unhealthy content.”29 In view of the lingering uncertainty regarding whether his old-style cartoons were permitted, Feng took pains to state in the preface that he had deferred to Wang’s judgment on matters of selection. He adopted an equivocal stance on whether his cartoons “of thirty years ago” could serve as a model for contemporary cartoonists.30 During the same year, Feng was solicited for a variety of leadership posts within the art establishment, including membership on the standing committee of the nationwide Chinese Artists Association and vice presidency of Shanghai’s regional association.31 After recovering from lung disease in 1955, he consented to become more active in Shanghai art and literature circles. To enlist the help of a widely respected intellectual like Feng who had repeatedly shunned previous governments was a public relations victory for the Communist Party.32 Feng garnered considerable benefits from his new leadership posts. Not only did he find a greater level of receptivity among publishers for his projects, but the salary he received made him more financially secure than ever before.33 Feng, however, was not well suited for the role of political functionary. His style of expression was too candid and idiosyncratic. He was still inexperienced at assessing the risks associated with speaking his mind in public settings. Even when he made a calculated effort to rein himself in, his private sentiments spilled out in ways that provoked controversy. Feng’s reentry into public life coincided with the trend toward liberalization fostered by Mao’s Hundred Flowers policies. With the spirit of criticism in the air, Feng felt FENG Z IKAI P ROTESTS THE HEDGE CuTTERS

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the moment was right to publicly air his views. He joined the chorus of voices critical of the restrictive nature of recent cultural policies. One of his most provocative statements on this subject was a short essay titled “In Lieu of a Painting” (Dai hua), published in Literary and Art News (Wenhui bao) in December of 1956. Because this essay reveals Feng Zikai’s attitude toward painting in the new era, it will be considered in detail. The essay begins: I noticed a very striking object on the side of the road that I wanted to paint. I thought about painting it several times, but just as I was about to begin, suddenly I could not go through with it. But if I do not paint it, I will feel sad, so I suppose I’ll write an essay in lieu of a painting. There stands a well-appointed art gallery with bright light shining through its windows. Inside the windows are paintings depicting the happy, peaceful, and beautiful life of people in socialist countries. About five or six feet from the window is an electric streetlight with a small ladder leaning against it. There is one very thick iron chain wrapped around the streetlight and the ladder, and one huge iron lock connecting the two ends of the chain. That’s it. Nothing out of the ordinary, so why give it so much attention? The friend who accompanied me down the road heard me express shock when I saw it. He thought I was making a fuss over a small matter. He questioned me about the trash can on the side of the road, saying, “Now that trash can has many dirty things inside, but you don’t feel disgusted by that. Why the ladder?” I answered him, saying, “That’s strange. My opinion is totally contrary to yours. I feel that the trash can is pretty and clean. Only this ladder is dirty. . . . Why do we have trash cans? We want to enjoy delicious food. We want our life to be clean. We need the trash can to accept the things that we want to discard. The trash can makes life happy. . . . On the other hand, the lock on the ladder uses a vicious face to confront each passerby. It suspects that everyone passing along this road is a thief. . . . The sight of it disturbs me because it suggests that among those walking down this street there are some who appear perfectly nice but are vicious on the inside. That lock is in sharp discord with the adjacent art gallery full of bright, happy depictions of life in socialist countries! My friend had nothing more to say.34

Throughout this passage, Feng explores the gap between an apparent reality and a deeper reality that requires observant eyes to discern. The idealized paintings within the gallery contrast with the real world of the locked-up ladder outside the gallery’s window. Feng’s sensitivity to this hypocrisy contrasts with the indifference of his friend. There is an additional contrast between the apparent ugliness of the trash can and the beauty of its function. Feng sets up a situation in which nothing is as it appears. His skepticism challenges the cheery optimism and absolute certainty informing party 42

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pronouncements of the 1950s. No wonder his insistent questioning discomforted his walking companion. In the next paragraph, Feng’s narrative takes a surprising turn. He recounts another occasion thirty years before when he observed something on the streets of Shanghai that troubled him and spurred him to create a painting. The scene involved two men, one in Western dress, the other in Chinese attire, on adjacent balconies with their backs to each other. Between the two balconies was a large iron fan, its ribs pointing like spears at one of the men. Feng gave the image the ironic title Neighbors. Not long after the picture was published, Feng says, he was approached in a bookstore by a Japanese customer who wanted to ask him if the two alienated neighbors in the cartoon symbolized China and Japan. At the time, Japan had just invaded China. Feng describes the thoughts racing through his head: “These two neighbors really were like that era’s Japan and China. So my reply should have been ‘Yes! Yes!’ But the meaning was deeper and broader than simply those two countries’ diplomacy; therefore, the answer should also have been ‘No! No!’ What I wanted to satirize in my painting was human life—vast and expansive human life; the two countries’ diplomacy was only part of it.”35 Then Feng shifts back to his initial topic of the ladder with the lock: “Now, when I saw that ladder locked up with an iron chain, I found it just as startling as that spear-like iron fan. But I didn’t make a painting, and I didn’t give it a title like Neighbors. I would not want to stir up people’s narrow suppositions. I do not want to be considered a satirist of current affairs.”36 He concludes the short essay by exposing his wavering over whether to proceed with his desire to paint the locked ladder. He describes one internal voice admonishing him not to be overly sarcastic and to put his brush down, and another stirring him to paint the image. The title of the essay, “In Lieu of a Painting,” implies that caution won out. This essay reveals the psychological experience of an artist living in a frightening atmosphere. Feng shows the hesitancy he experiences before his thoughts become words, words become text, and text becomes image, although the last did not come to fruition in this case. He shows how words, and especially images, once entered into the public record, became subject to arbitrary, or at least narrow, consignments of meaning. By making his own inner struggles transparent, he highlights the constraint that he, and others like him, experience every time they feel inspired to create. Feng suggests his discomfort when the public assigns one particular meaning to his work, a predicament that he experienced prior to the Communist era. But his juxtaposition of the recent ladder episode with the anecdote from the 1930s suggests that he found his situation in the 1950s more inhibiting than before, because now he lacked the resolve to paint at all for fear of the controversy that might ensue. Through the analogy of his earlier painting, Neighbors, Feng prods his audience to make a responsible multilevel interpretation of his work. He admits that the link made by the Japanese customer between Neighbors and the Japanese invasion of China had some basis. However, he did not want the cartoon to be read solely as a satire FENG Z IKAI P ROTESTS THE HEDGE CuTTERS

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of current affairs. What troubled him was not that the Japanese customer arbitrarily assigned a meaning absent in the cartoon. Rather, he rejected the man’s narrow focus. He faulted the Japanese customer, and by implication modern readers, for distilling only one meaning from a web so richly layered. Although he wrote and translated prolifically after 1949, Feng created relatively few new paintings under Communist rule. The only times he created a considerable number of new images was in the context of his private commitment to the Protecting Life series or in service of political campaigns such as the Great Leap Forward.37 The previous essay, “In Lieu of a Painting,” suggests that the political climate was one factor inhibiting him from painting.38 Some high officials took notice of his small output. Upon meeting him in 1959, Premier Zhou Enlai expressly encouraged Feng to create more paintings.39 Because of provocative commentary like the essay just discussed, Feng came very close to being labeled a Rightist in 1958.40 Chastened by the close call, he returned to translating projects and kept a low profile until the atmosphere shifted again toward moderation around 1960. As reforms took hold, Feng once again found himself in demand to fill leadership posts within the Shanghai cultural establishment. In 1960, he was invited to assume the presidency of the Shanghai Chinese Painting Academy. In addition to becoming president of the academy, he was elected chairman of the Shanghai Artists Association. In August 1962, Feng published an essay titled “Ah Mi,” which returned to his trademark theme of reducing constraints on creative endeavor.41 A whimsical painting, one of the few high-profile cartoons that Feng produced after 1949, accompanied the essay as a companion illustration.42 The inspiration for this piece was a remarkable and beloved family cat that had died several years previously. In the opening paragraph of the short essay, Feng explains that he wanted to memorialize the tabby cat at the time of its death but could not, for reasons he does not explain. He notes that his family recently acquired another cat, a white kitten named Ah Mi. Apologizing for pursuing a topic that bears “no relevance to the lives of the people,” Feng confesses that he just cannot any longer suppress his wish to pay tribute to the deceased cat and the current family pet. Because his children were grown, the daytime hours in the Feng apartment were “quiet as a Christian church” before Ah Mi arrived. Now his home is warm and lively again. He describes how the presence of Ah Mi caused both the maid and the postman, formerly unsociable, to become happy and talkative. Feng credits Ah Mi with loosening up several overly serious guests who had come to his home to discuss vexing matters. Then he turns to the deceased tabby, Uncle Cat (Mao Bobo).43 He relates a humorous episode when an important guest visited his home. Uncle Cat wanted to play, and Feng tried in vain to shoo him away to preserve a respectful atmosphere. When the guest bent over to take a sip of tea, Uncle Cat leaped onto the back of the guest’s neck. Even as he tried to remove the cat, Feng says that he could not help but marvel to himself what a great cartoon the humorous spectacle would make. The considerate guest even lowered his head to make the cat more comfortable. 44

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In this essay, Feng sets up a contrast between the tedium of life before the cat arrived and the lighthearted atmosphere that its presence created. He draws another contrast between current conditions and those of a few years before, when he had to postpone memorializing the humorous incident, which he only now can recount and even illustrate. At the beginning of the essay, the reader detects irony in Feng’s disclaimer that cats bear no relevance to people’s lives. In his concluding paragraph, he makes clear his respect for cats: “Cats really can turn quiet into lively, boring into interesting, sadness into laughter, and alienation into intimacy. Even if the cat doesn’t catch mice, the cat is still essential for people’s lives. Therefore, today I write a biography of my cats, and I hope it is not something that someone will say something critical about.”44 Feng’s cat story poignantly expresses his long-established contention that letting down one’s guard is essential to living. Humanity cannot exist on work alone; there must be space afforded for play. His audience could not miss the relevance of his commentary to the Great Leap Forward, a political campaign that glorified nonstop work to catch up with Western economies. Feng’s comment that catching mice is not a cat’s sole function challenges policies emphasizing production quotas above all else. Deng Xiaoping made the cat metaphor famous when he compared capitalism to a black cat that could be tolerated as long as it achieved results. During the Cultural Revolution, Feng Zikai became the “Number One Black Painter of Shanghai,” and his essay on Ah Mi the cat and its illustration were used to accuse him of counterrevolutionary acts. What could be the basis for declaring the essay a “poisonous arrow” aimed at Mao himself? This claim, one of many found in Red Guard materials, centers on a few lines buried within the text.45 In the beginning paragraph, Feng discusses the hesitancy he felt a few years earlier to speak about a family cat that has since died. Significantly, the cat identified in the essay’s title is not the one pictured, nor is it the one Feng seems most intent on discussing. The main protagonist of Feng Zikai’s “biography for cats” is Uncle Cat, whose name is withheld until three-quarters of the way through the article. There is a good reason for the delay in naming him. Pronounced Mao Bobo, Uncle Cat sounds similar to Uncle Mao (although the tone is different). Read in this way as a surrogate for Chairman Mao, the lines in question do appear subversive: “As I write here [about Ah Mi], I remember the now deceased yellow cat called Uncle Cat [sounds like Uncle Mao]. In our hometown, ‘uncle’ was not a respectful form of address. We called ghosts ‘uncle ghost,’ thieves ‘uncle thief,’ cats [mao] ‘uncle cat.’” In the transcript of Feng’s essay that appeared in Red Guard publications, an additional example (which may be phony) emphasizes the link between the cat and the paramount leader of similar name. According to a note from Red Guard editors, the original manuscript submitted to Shanghai Literature (Shanghai wenxue) contained a reference to the custom of calling the emperor “Uncle Emperor.” The Red Guard publication states that the staff edited out this remark before the manuscript was published.46 Even in the redacted version, the provocative nature of Feng’s sentence cannot be easily dismissed. The term ghost, in particular, possessed perverse political connotations after FENG Z IKAI P ROTESTS THE HEDGE CuTTERS

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Mao used it in 1957 to refer to residual traditional elements poisoning socialist culture.47 To use a homophone suggestive of Mao’s name so casually, casting it in the same category as thieves and ghosts, was risky indeed. Using an approximation of Mao’s name to refer to a cat could make some think of the literary inquisition of the seventeenth century, when Chinese officials violated the taboo against using the characters of the Manchu emperor’s name or at least were accused of doing so and punished for it.48 Red Guard publications went too far in claiming that Feng was attacking Mao, but Feng’s remarks do seem to bait the censors, or perhaps to have a chuckle at their expense.49 In his post-1949 works, he regularly highlighted the discrepancy between what he wished to portray and what was safe to portray or discuss in the current political context. His earlier piece, “In Lieu of a Painting,” describing the undermining of his creative impulse, resonated with a contemporaneous statement by the philosopher Zhu Guangqian: “[Before now,] I did not write one single scholarly article nor read a fairly good book nor seriously do some thinking on questions of aesthetics. It was not because I did not want to; it was because I did not dare. . . . I did not raise my head nor say a word. . . . I thought there was no use thinking, reading, or studying.”50 In the “Ah Mi” essay, Feng basked in the wider parameters of public discussion recently authorized by the party. Although he stopped short of titling the essay “Mao Bobo” after his deceased cat, Feng did not restrain himself from discussing the pet whose name sounded so dangerously close to Chairman Mao’s. By writing the essay despite the risk of being misconstrued, he demonstrated that a more hospitable climate for authors and artists was taking hold. In his new leadership role, he wanted to urge artists and writers to stop being so hesitant and to “raise their heads.” In Protecting Life, Feng depicted cats whimsically perched on shoulders or resting on family members’ feet.51 Now the “Ah Mi” essay signaled that a freer art was again possible. In the “Ah Mi” essay, Feng taunted potential detractors by suggesting, or at least not expunging, plausible links to Mao’s character. He probably did not intend to create a fullfledged analogy between Uncle Cat (Mao Bobo) and Chairman Mao, but rather to titillate his audience by sprinkling his discussion with innuendoes that could be misconstrued. For example, he elaborated on the semantic usage of uncle, explaining that the term was applied to anyone “who called attention to himself.” He noted that when the cat slept on his daughter’s paper, it curled its body in a way that looked like “cow manure.” When Mao Bobo proved naughty, Feng tried to “put him on the floor, hoping that it would go away.” Instead, the cat immediately jumped to the back of the sofa and climbed up “to sit on the back of the important guest’s neck” and remained there peering over the guest’s head for a good long time. This was the moment that Feng captured in his illustration to the story. It seems far-fetched to interpret Feng’s description of the cat’s behavior as a hidden critique of Mao’s unremitting hold on political power, but creating an essay so playfully ambiguous on a topic phonetically close to Mao’s name was unheard of. At the beginning of the essay, Feng positions himself shrewdly by noting his initial hesitancy to focus on a topic so “irrelevant to the masses’ benefit.” But throughout the 46

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body of the essay and especially in its final paragraph, he exposes the weakness of the presumption that cats have no value for human life. The “Ah Mi” essay was clearly one more assertion of his lifelong defense of playfulness. The hope expressed in the final paragraph—that the newly arrived cat would have a long life—was linked to his wish that the new policy of relaxation similarly remain. Mao Bobo had survived only four years. Feng hoped that his recently acquired cat, Ah Mi, would not be so short lived. Feng’s “biography for cats” can be read on another level. The title chosen for this essay, “Ah Mi,” evokes Lu Xun’s influential story of a similar name. Indeed, the narrative voice in the first paragraph bears a strong resemblance to Lu Xun’s opening in “The True Story of Ah Q.”52 In both stories, the narrator describes a feeling of trepidation about memorializing an apparent nobody in grander terms than convention allows. Both narrators assure readers that they initially suppressed a wish to write such an inappropriate memorial, only to have the urge return with such force that they could no longer rein it in. By taking a profound interest in what society devalues, both narrators exposed the limitations of reigning belief systems. After publishing “Ah Mi” and the daring speech protesting the “giant hedge cutters” in the same year, Feng’s political troubles began in earnest. His references to a contorted bonsai plant with bound limbs and a hedge subjected to constant “haircuts” suggested that bureaucrats had brutalized artists in their misguided attempt to control everything. Author Ba Jin noted that Feng’s speech “unleashed” a “whirlwind.”53 From that time forward, Feng’s opportunities for public expression were extremely limited. He redirected his prodigious energies toward other outlets, as he had on other occasions. During the years immediately prior to the Cultural Revolution, he completed another volume of the Protecting Life series, this time well in advance of the anniversary of Li Shutong’s birth, as well as a lengthy translation of the eleventh-century Japanese novel The Tale of Genji. Feng managed to be productive even during the Cultural Revolution by waking at four o’clock and working furtively for two hours in the small bedroom where he was confined within his own apartment.54 From 1969 to 1973, he completed a sixth volume of his Protecting Life Painting Collection (a total of one hundred paintings); a twenty-three-essay sequel to a prose collection named for his onetime family estate, Fate Fate Hall (Yuan Yuan Tang); and a translation of a Buddhist sutra.55 He managed to produce more than a hundred paintings for a series called Prizing One’s Own Worthless Broom (Bi zhou zi zhen), painted on behalf of friends and family to replace works destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. Feng considered his artwork to be like a worn-out broom prized by its owner and loved ones yet devalued by the world at large. A devoted friend, Hu Zhijun, had become so frightened about having Feng’s paintings in his possession that he tore up hundreds and threw them in a river. Hu later became so distraught that Feng decided to replace the lost paintings, giving him one piece of contraband sealed in an envelope each time he saw him. Feng felt terrible that his political problems were spilling over and injuring those he loved. After his son was transferred to Shijiazhuang in Hebei in 1968, Feng wrote him scores of detailed letters.56 FENG Z IKAI P ROTESTS THE HEDGE CuTTERS

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Like Pan Tianshou and Shi Lu in their respective cities of Hangzhou and Xi’an, Feng had the dubious honor of being Shanghai’s number-one target among painters. His home was ransacked and occupied by radical authorities.57 His family was relocated to the top floor, and his salary was replaced with a bare subsistence wage.58 Feng called the cramped upstairs space that became his workroom during the Cultural Revolution the Studio of the Nape and Spine (Xiangjixuan); it was too small for him to hold his head erect or stretch out his legs.59 And yet, from this unpromising site, Feng managed his underground activities (dixia huodong).60 Throughout his life, he had honored his residences with ceremonial names and lovingly painted the quiet desks where his creative work took place. The contrast between the expansive quarters of his prewar residence, Fate Fate Hall, and the Studio of the Nape and Spine could not have been more drastic, but Feng worked away nonetheless. Reflecting in letters to his son on what it felt like to be a prisoner, Feng assured him that his self-esteem and vision remained unchanged. Feng never reshaped his art to confront the Cultural Revolution threat. He refused to dignify the Cultural Revolution by assigning it so much importance. He styled himself as exactly the same, renewing his trademark themes and fulfilling his prior commitments. He wished to prove to himself, to friends and family and a sympathetic readership, that this jarring disruption would not shatter him. Feng told his son that he thought of the Cultural Revolution as “a big joke.”61 In such an absurd situation, he did not consider outright resistance to be logical or productive. He did what was necessary to get through public spectacles, carefully reserving his energies for meaningful projects in the off-hours. He was counting on the fact that sympathetic minds would discriminate between his wooden behavior in public settings and the authentic, passionate words and images he issued in private. He told his son that the best way to “deny the splendid achievement of the Cultural Revolution” was to continue to paint regardless of prohibitions against it.62 But he took care to avert danger: “I must be careful. I will not go out the door, and my ink will not go out the door either.”63 During the autumn of 1969, Feng was uprooted from his residence and transferred to a labor camp outside Shanghai. Housing conditions were deplorable there. Snow gathered near his bed. In January 1970, he was rescued and hospitalized in Shanghai. From his recovery room, he wrote an urgent letter to his old friend Guangqia, the Buddhist monk in Singapore who had helped him finance and publish previous volumes of Protecting Life. Feng expressed his determination to fulfill the pledge he had made to his teacher by completing a sixth and final volume commemorating one hundred years since Li Shutong’s birth.64 This final installment can be seen as Feng Zikai’s boldest refutation of the Cultural Revolution. By reiterating in each image the need to “protect life,” he urged an end to callous extremism. In one image of a mother eel, for example, Feng illustrated the determined effort of a parent to protect her offspring from harm (fig. 2.7). In the midst of being boiled, she holds up her midsection to try to save the unborn eels in her stomach. The inscription 48

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2.7 Feng Zikai, Raising the Middle So the Ends Boil First (early 1970s). This mother eel holds up her midsection to save her unborn offspring. Painted secretly during the Cultural Revolution, this image urges reflection before squandering a life. Ink on paper, book illustration, 7 x 4 in. From Feng Zikai et al., Protecting Life Painting Collection, vol. 6, 200. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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accompanying this image is written from the perspective of the cook who wonders why the eel is going through this strange contortion. Only after the eel is split open does the cook realize that the mother eel was trying to save her family.65 Feng often emphasized that the goal of his project was not simply to protect vulnerable living things but to protect one’s own heart from growing callous.66 Completing one hundred paintings was a staggering challenge for Feng even in his prime. When his teacher first proposed that the project should span six volumes, Feng fretted that he was not capable. He consented in spite of self-doubt, saying, “If my life span allows, I will obey.”67 Feng began the series in the late 1920s, after he formally declared his Buddhist faith. He completed the first volume to commemorate Li Shutong’s fiftieth birthday. Afterward, the project expanded to include many prominent members of the Buddhist community. To maintain the spirit of collaboration so integral to the project, Feng needed to enlist another devotee to take part in the sixth volume. He broached the subject with fellow Shanghai resident Zhu Youlan, an amateur calligrapher. Zhu prepared the hundred inscriptions to accompany Feng’s painted images and supplied reference materials to inspire the stories. The two managed to complete the volume by 1973, even though Feng’s right hand shook, making control of the brush difficult. Feng gave the final manuscript to Zhu to stow away until it could be passed to Guangqia to publish abroad.68 Although Feng passed away in 1975, the sixth volume was published in Hong Kong in 1979 to coincide with the one-hundred-year anniversary of Li Shutong’s birth. In completing his vow to Li Shutong in the face of overwhelming odds, Feng honored his teacher and quietly protested the Cultural Revolution’s denigration of elders and teachers. He showed that personal and spiritual allegiances endure despite overwhelming efforts to sever them. Feng’s final reminder to humanity to protect life was the most poignant, because his achievement of it had been so hard won. In the preface to the sixth volume, Guangqia paid tribute to Feng’s determination to see the series finished: “Only a slight flame emanates from the candle, but it is enough to light a dark room for one thousand years.”69

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Academy Painters and a President

CHAPTER 3

Li Keran’s Luminous Path through Mountains

I

n 1961 the painter Li Keran (1907–1989, fig. 3.1) became a spokesman for a renewed emphasis on professionalism in the arts when he published an influential essay titled “On the Hard Work of Artistic Practice” in People’s Daily.1 Only a few years earlier, the value of expertise in art had been seriously questioned. The Great Leap Forward campaign, Mao’s drive to overtake Britain’s economy in less than fifteen years, made the pursuit of any activity other than coal and steel production seem trivial. Art academies were turned into factories, and amateur art was praised as the wave of the future.2 Initial success in raising coal and steel output encouraged a belief that enthusiasm alone could bring about advancement in all areas. But the outbreak of famine, starting in the winter of 1958 in some provinces and becoming acute and widespread by 1959, changed the climate of opinion.3 Respect for professional training returned to favor. Li was a willing propagandist for this new policy direction.4 He related how, as a student, he had observed his teachers constantly practicing. Years later, Li stamped his paintings with the seal “White-Haired Student” to stress that learning must continue into old age.5

3.1 Li Keran at Beihai Garden, Beijing (1979). Li rose from an illiterate family to become one of the most distinguished painters of the twentieth century. His landscape painting style emerged over decades of on-site observation and practice. Photograph by David Ma. From Li Song, “Li Keran nianbiao,” 152; permission of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

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In 1962, Li created a painting on this theme (fig. 3.2). It pictures the ancient poet Jia Dao (779–843) seated at a desk illuminated by candlelight.6 Lost in thought, the poet leans his head on one hand, debating his word choice. According to the inscription, the poet is so painstakingly precise that it takes him “three years to complete two lines.” The night grows long; the candle diminishes, but the page remains empty. The poet’s upturned brush points to two characters, lei淚 (tears) and liu流 (flow), in the inscription. The left sides of the two characters echo the curve of his elbow.7 This interplay between image and calligraphy enhances Li’s theme: tears signal effort. He calls this the “Jia Dao spirit.” It epitomizes his conviction that an artist must strive every day and even into the night. Success occurs at the end of a long road of arduous effort. During the Cultural Revolution, militants denounced Li for making this image. That the blacklisted journalist Deng Tuo had also referred to Jia Dao in a published essay made it appear as if he and Li were colluding.8 Red Guards confiscated and destroyed Li’s 1962 Jia Dao painting; surviving paintings on this theme are later versions.9 Li was criticized for his absorption in the leisurely pastimes of Old China. A Red Guard pamphlet questioned why he had been given the special privilege to stay home and paint (fig. 3.3). It spoke dismissively of Li: in exchange for “a high salary from the nation, he did no real work.”10 Ironically, during the Cultural Revolution, Li, like Jia Dao, found himself seated at a desk scrutinizing words in laborious detail. These words were not his own; he had to echo or transcribe the sayings of Mao. He was forced to sit for hours each day exhaustively writing confessions based on Mao’s theories, a daily requirement for prisoners of the cowshed. Wan Qingli, a younger artist seated nearby, could see that Li was working especially hard on this, and yet curiously, his daily output was only a few lines. Later, Li confided that he used confession writing as an opportunity to practice brush skills and to meditate on ways to develop a new style of calligraphy.11 He did not feel safe departing from an exact transcription of Mao’s words, yet even within this imposing circumstance, Li found an opportunity to pursue his aesthetic goals. He could concentrate wholly on form rather than content, rehearsing the brushstrokes that would be valued again someday. After his release in 1967, Li secretly devoted himself to tracing ink rubbings of ancient stone inscriptions, the only part of his extensive art collection not confiscated by Red Guards, possibly because they did not perceive the rubbings as political. Based on the painstaking study of these ancient seal-script forms, Li developed an innovative style of calligraphy that won him acclaim later. This new style showed a forcefulness that had not been present earlier. Previously, his writing had seemed uniform and standardized; now each character possessed energy. In one masterpiece of calligraphy (fig. 3.4), he 3.2 Li Keran, Painstaking Creation (1982, after a 1960s-era painting destroyed during the Cultural Revolution). According to the inscription, the poet is so precise that it takes him “three years to complete two lines,” expressing Li’s conviction that creativity at its peak requires constant practice and supreme effort. Ink and color on paper, 14.8 x 17.8 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

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3.3 Topple Black Painter Li Keran; Topple Reactionary Academic Authority Li Kuchan (Beijing, 1967). Both surnamed Li, these two major artists were colleagues at the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing, and studied under the same famous master Qi Baishi. This pamphlet argues that they are bad elements spreading poisonous influences. From “Ba Hei Shihua jiu chu shi zhong,” n.p. Collection of the author.

stated his philosophy of art: “What is precious is courage; what is necessary is soul” (Ke guizhe dan, suo yaozhe hun). The eight characters stating his motto are especially thick and large. They project the courage and soul he aspires to achieve. We see something curious: his brushstrokes contain stops and starts, dramatizing the process of creation. Blank spaces shine through the lines where the ink is insufficient or where Li lifted his brush. The brushstrokes mirror his life: they show strain rather than gliding effortlessly. We imagine him summoning all his stamina to write each character. Li Keran was born Li Sanqi in 1907 to an impoverished family in Xuzhou, Jiangsu. His father worked at a series of menial jobs, including farming and fishing, before becoming a chef. His mother, who raised three children besides Keran, was never given a personal name.12 Despite these humble roots, Li seemed born to greatness. He was a child prodigy in both music and painting. He loved opera performances. He later taught himself to play the jinghu, a two-stringed bowed instrument used in Beijing opera.13 At five, he delighted onlookers at a market fair by using broken pieces of a bowl to draw opera figures in the sand. At nine, he used a large brush to write couplets in the style of famous calligraphers. At ten, an elementary teacher honored him with the name Keran, meaning “capable of being ‘dyed’ or taught.”14 At thirteen, a local painter, Qian Shizhi, accepted him as his student. 56

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3.4 Li Keran, What Is Precious Is Courage, What Is Necessary Is Soul (1988). After his release from the cowshed in 1967, Li secretly devoted himself to tracing ink rubbings of ancient stone inscriptions, the only part of his art collection not confiscated by militants, possibly because they did not perceive the work as political. Based on careful study of ancient script, Li developed a style of thick calligraphy that showed a forcefulness that had not been present earlier. Ink on paper, 26.8 x 17.7 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

Li Geng credits his father’s unusual upbringing with fostering his strong visual imagination. He learned to read late because his mother was illiterate and his family had no books, except for one very important one: The Mustard Seed Garden Painting Manual (Jieziyuan huazhuan).15 As a child, he valued this painting handbook so highly that he held on to it even when he went to sleep. With no one to push him to study for the civil service exams, he spent his free time drawing. In 1916, when he was sixteen years old, he asked his mother if he could go to Shanghai. Not only did she allow him to go; she gave him practically all the money she had. That tremendous opportunity exposed the village boy to a world of possibility: he watched Shanghai opera and Charlie Chaplin movies, learned a musical instrument, and read Ernest Hemingway. After two years he returned home determined to launch himself into a creative profession. He considered becoming a musician, film director, magician, or painter. Compared to his peers, he lacked education. He worked tremendously hard all his life to catch up.16 At the age of twenty-two, Li applied for admission in a postgraduate program in oil painting at the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou (Zhongguo Meishu Xueyuan).17 Li barely had any training in oil painting and lacked an undergraduate degree, but the French-trained president, Lin Fengmian, made an exception and accepted Li into the program after viewing his paintings. The driven young artist compensated for his lack L I KERAN ’S LuMINOuS PATH

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of training by arriving at the studio two hours early each day to practice. He was soon first among his peers. Later, in the chaos of wartime, Li abandoned oils in favor of ink painting. He went on to study under most, if not all, of the great traditional painting masters of the twentieth century, including Fu Baoshi, whose style of painting ancient figures Li studied when they both lived in the outskirts of Chongqing during the early 1940s.18 Two teachers late in life made the most profound impact on his art. Both the farmer-born ink painter Qi Baishi and the traditionalist Huang Binhong tutored him privately in Beijing following the war with Japan. Li’s participation in left-wing organizations prior to 1949 favorably disposed Communist authorities toward him. His membership in one of these, the Eighteen Art Society, as a young art student and his active participation in propaganda during wartime consolidated his reputation as a person with a revolutionary outlook.19 His impoverished background strengthened his political position. He epitomized the Chinese Communist ideal: an accomplished person who rose up from the illiterate masses. Frank appraisals by colleagues portray Li as a politically cautious man, reluctant to rock the boat.20 Such descriptions, while accurate to a degree, do not convey Li’s force of will and his steadfast commitment to art. Underneath his meek exterior, he was a man of surprising intensity and conviction. His boldness was most evident in his painting. His style of landscape painting was distinctively his own, having emerged over decades of systematic study, close observation, and diligent practice. One distinctive characteristic of his painting was a heavy use of ink. Controversy surrounding his paintings’ dark quality eventually stigmatized Li, but he never substantially modified his painting style. Until the end of his career, he continued to flood his paintings with ink. Chinese and Western commentators commend Li for his dogged pursuit of artistic development and adaptability. According to art historian Julia Andrews, he was “an exceptional figure in the Chinese art world of his time. He maneuvered his way through Communist theories of art and largely succeeded in bringing forth a new, modern, yet individualistic form of painting.”21 A similarly positive but more romantic conception of Li can be found in an award-winning poem by Chen Li published in the Taiwan newspaper China Times.22 Chen Li played upon Li’s reputation as a landscape painter who traveled to remote regions to sketch on-site. He eulogized Li as a rugged mountaineer who weathered the steep ascents and descents of revolutionary politics to safeguard China’s artistic inheritance and who “mounted the nation’s ‘mountains and rivers’ on his back.” Truly, Li scaled mountains, literally and figuratively, to pursue art. But Chen Li’s heroic imagery may make us wrongly presume that Li preserved artistic integrity by staying aloof from politics. Actually, one of the important reasons for his success in an intensely political environment was his sensitivity to it. He was a key player in art circles and took advantage of the opportunities and privileges that flowed from such a position by remaining vigilant and responsive to policy shifts. As a southerner relocated to the northern capital and a person of humble origins living among the privileged and powerful, Li never took his position for granted. His strong personal connections and 58

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political savvy contributed to an ability to bounce back sooner after the Cultural Revolution compared to other persecuted artists. Prior to 1949, Li was most famous for his paintings of ancient figures and water buffalo (niu).23 These animal and figure paintings were humorous in tone and drew heavily upon folk traditions. In 1944, author Lao She credited Li with replacing the “wooden” faces commonly found on previous Chinese paintings with lively facial expressions.24 Li’s paintings of water buffalo, in particular, became famous during the war years.25 Two cultural luminaries, the poet Guo Moruo and the painter Xu Beihong, endorsed Li’s paintings of water buffalo as a symbol of China’s resilience in the face of the Japanese invasion. Informed by Lu Xun’s famous poem “Self-Mockery,” the buffalo came to represent the spirit of humbly working for the welfare of the Chinese people. Li observed buffaloes closely when he lived with a farmer’s family near a buffalo shed in the 1940s.26 Li had to stop painting animals and ancient figures during the early years of Communist rule, when all art was directed toward praising the new era of Communism. His distinguished mentor Qi Baishi, then in his nineties, was given latitude to continue painting traditional subject matter, but Li felt pressed to stop until the climate became more sympathetic to Chinese painting after 1956.27 In 1958 he painted several ancient scholars admiring a painting scroll together (fig. 3.5). This nostalgic scene evokes the pleasure of physically holding a painting and examining it at close range rather than viewing it mounted to a wall. The scroll pictured inside Li’s painting is left blank, or at least outside our view, leaving us to imagine what the group sees. This painting is said to have been one of Li’s favorites. After 1949, Li was best known for his landscape paintings. He began to reformulate the landscape tradition in the mid-1950s, when most painters, under the influence of socialist realism, were still exclusively painting human figures. Before he publicly advocated for it, the future of landscape painting was in question, stigmatized by its association with China’s last imperial dynasty.28 Li sought to produce a fresh aesthetic for New China, blending inherited tradition with the scientific outlook of the West, as early twentieth-century progressives Kang Youwei and Xu Beihong had envisioned.29 An obstacle stood in Li’s way: the chief Communist official presiding over the art world, Jiang Feng, a revolutionary printmaker associated with Lu Xun’s woodcut movement, championed an uncompromising emphasis on Western techniques. Until his removal during the Anti-Rightist Campaign in 1957, Jiang Feng used his influence over the art bureaucracy to suppress “old forms” in painting, including traditional Chinese painting.30 In February 1950, when Jiang Feng’s policies were still in gestation, Li published an opinion piece in People’s Art (Renmin meishu).31 In “Discussing the Reform of Chinese Painting,” he counseled against what he considered two unacceptable responses to China’s Communist era. According to Li, conservative-minded painters who continued painting exactly as before could not justifiably do so. For centuries, Chinese painters had confined their scope to imitating the brushstrokes of ancient masters. The rules governing painting had become so restrictive that it was reduced to “a formula without L I KERAN ’S LuMINOuS PATH

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3.5 Li Keran, Appreciating a Painting (1958). This work shows Li’s genius for figure painting. Two robed men hold a scroll open so that a connoisseur, possibly a prospective buyer, can inspect it at close range. The image on the scroll remains outside our view, stimulating our imagination and allowing the contemplative moment to be the focus. Ink and color on paper, 27.2 x 17.4 in. Permission of Li Keran Academy of Painting. Photography by Jon Burris.

a soul.”32 Now painters needed to take bold measures to correct these imitative tendencies. Painting should be redirected toward depicting objective reality and ordinary people’s everyday life. On the other hand, Li cautioned against rejecting Chinese tradition out of hand. Addressing the revolutionary elite, he argued that it would be foolish to reject the nutrition that could be culled from China’s artistic legacy. He suggested that the highly expressive line could be the basis for fostering a modern aesthetic. He proposed using a “colander” to save the good and discard the bad. Tradition need not be abandoned for 60

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fear of its toxicity, he boldly asserted. Marxist-Leninist thought would work like a “protective mask” shielding Communist art from false aspects of China’s inherited legacies.33 Although he fared better than most painters during the transition to Communist rule, the first few years were depressing for Li, who had invested so much of his life in the study of traditional Chinese painting. He later reminisced that students enrolled at the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing, during the early 1950s shunned any mention of tradition, as if it were an outlawed substance like opium.34 When party policies softened in late 1953, Li and two other painters at the Central Academy, Zhang Ding and Luo Ming, made a proposal to reformulate landscape painting. They petitioned authorities for permission to tour southern regions and create ink paintings based on detailed observation of actual geographic sites. Central Academy administrators met the proposed “sketch from life” (xie sheng) landscape trip with skepticism and gave it only begrudging approval. A prepaid author’s remuneration from the magazine New Observer (Xin guancha), rather than the Central Academy, funded Li’s initial trip.35 Apparently, there was considerable doubt among authorities about the feasibility of blending two aesthetics as widely divergent as Chinese painting and socialist realism.36 Few Chinese painters had ever attempted to sketch en plein air using Chinese brush and ink.37 Many of the older generation still believed that painting the idea was superior to painting what the eye literally sees. From a political standpoint as well, support for the landscape medium was still tentative. Pure landscape and bird-and-flower subjects were widely regarded as insufficiently political to hold up as a model for youth. Aware of the high stakes of their experiment, Li and his colleagues undertook the sketch tour with great seriousness. For Li, this project represented a sincere attempt to put into practice his generation’s aspirations for reforming traditional painting. In August 1953, a speech by the poet Ai Qing articulated these priorities. Ai Qing clarified what he felt was wrong with inherited painting practice: These landscape paintings mostly come from books of ancient models, and are concocted without basis in fact after an extended period of copying. The unconvincing piecing together and piling up [of such elements] has become the fashion. . . . It doesn’t matter if [the mountains are] painted to look like they will collapse; still a building made of matchsticks must be erected on the highest mountain peak. The artist’s idea is that the viewers of the painting can climb up to enjoy themselves. As for himself, he actually strolls on the asphalt streets of Shanghai. This [approach] is a lie.38

Li sought to correct the “lie” of painting nature according to a prior formula without ever leaving the city. His landscapes would be fresh creations, meticulously researched and largely produced outdoors. He and his colleagues climbed mountains, entered forests, and walked along rivers; then they debated how to make authentic depictions L I KERAN ’S LuMINOuS PATH

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of specific places. They studied trees with the same rigor that Renaissance painters directed toward human anatomy. Upon their return after three months of sketching, Li Keran, Luo Ming, and Zhang Ding were invited to exhibit their work by the Chinese Artists Association.39 Their “sketch from life” paintings received endorsements from many influential painters and connoisseurs, including Qi Baishi. Excitement surrounding their work coincided with and fueled a new commitment to traditional painting by the party establishment. Li’s initiative occurred at an opportune political moment, when Jiang Feng was feeling pressure from Zhou Yang, the party’s ideological chief for cultural affairs, to put more emphasis on native, rather than Soviet, forms.40 Laying claim to this endeavor allowed Jiang Feng to realign his administration with recent shifts without abandoning his strong commitment to socialist realism. In a report published in late 1954, Jiang Feng reserved special praise for Li Keran’s and Zhang Ding’s landscapes, portraying their sketch tour as a direct outgrowth of his policy.41 Li’s career skyrocketed following Jiang Feng’s endorsement of him as a model painter. He was exempted from teaching to focus exclusively on painting.42 The party gave him permission and funding to travel within the country and even the rare opportunity to visit East Germany in 1957. In 1959, he became the only traditional painter aside from Qi Baishi to be granted a one-man show that toured across the country. Li welcomed this recognition, but his own artistic development remained his driving passion. As a young art student, Li had been known to write on his practice studies the exhortation “Paint well or die!” At middle age, Li still drove himself like a harsh taskmaster. During the course of four trips from 1954 to 1959, he amassed over three hundred ink and color sketches, not including works in pencil or fountain pen.43 According to Huang Yongyu, his neighbor in Beijing and a night owl himself, Li frequently painted well into the night.44 Most commentators divide the development of Li’s landscape painting into several phases. Broadly speaking, his landscapes from the 1950s are more literal and descriptive, whereas his works completed after 1960 are more abstract. In 1959, he published a step-by-step explanation of his landscape painting theory. He emphasized the need for both careful observation of real scenery and imaginative reorganization of what one sees, adding “soul” and “cutting out inessentials.”45 After 1960, age and poor health, among other factors, prevented him from sketching in the wilderness. But even late in life, he never lost his fascination with depicting trees and atmospheric conditions as he observed them in nature. The sketches he had completed during early tours remained the raw material for his later creations. Li undertook his early sketching trips in a spirit of open-ended inquiry, approaching each setting with the curiosity of “someone from another planet,” as he would later describe it.46 His student, Sun Meilan, says that he made several important breakthroughs based on his sensitive observations.47 His knowledge of the painting tradition allowed

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him to compare what he saw in nature with images he remembered from painting. He discovered that, in some cases, the way mountains and water look in nature does not correspond to how they are customarily represented. While convention dictated that near objects be depicted as clear and dark, and remote objects as blurred and light, he found that the opposite prevailed in nature under certain conditions.48 Li believed his mentor Qi Baishi had faithfully represented nature. He often spoke about the time he looked up at the big pine tree under which he had been napping and had the strange sensation that he had seen it before. Suddenly, he remembered that the same branches and leaves appeared in a Qi Baishi painting.49 Li’s sketch tours reinforced a fascination, evident even during the early stages of his career, with light and dark contrasts, and particularly with the color black. He set himself apart from fellow students at the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou by smudging charcoal with his thumb for expressive effect in sketches and using black and other dark colors in his oil painting (fig. 3.6). His foreign-born faculty supervisor, André Claudot, initially criticized Li for using too much black in his oil painting, but later apologized.50 After 1949, Li continued to regard the color black in entirely positive terms, sidestepping the consistent preference within party pronouncements for bright colors, especially red, in painting. For Li, black was like lacquer—bright, thick, and lustrous.51 Time spent learning from the famous master Huang Binhong reinforced his fascination with ink. With each layer of accumulated ink—as many as several dozen—Huang Binhong made his paintings “brighter.” Huang achieved a wide range of tones and effects using ink and water alone. He described five methods of brushwork, seven methods of applying ink, and nine methods of manipulating water.52 In his later years, Huang developed poor eyesight and had to rely on memory and his tactile senses to keep painting. His mountain ranges became even darker and more expressive.53 Deeply moved by Huang’s late works, Li dedicated himself to cultivating his own “bright black” aesthetic based on a heavy application of ink.54 The influence of his other teacher from late in life, Qi Baishi, was no less profound. Li often said that what most startled him when he first saw Qi paint was the master’s slow, deliberate way of using the brush, particularly when writing calligraphy. Qi took a long time to prepare himself before painting, summoning his strength before channeling it into a few monumental strokes. Before becoming Qi’s student, Li had painted very quickly.55 Under Qi’s influence, he drastically slowed his brushwork and concentrated on making every single stroke emit power. In Qi’s painting, Li saw the expression of vigor and masculinity that Kang Youwei and other statesmen had argued was critical for the reform of Chinese painting.56 Li imagined dark mountain landscapes as “iron cities.” The building up of ink was meant to awaken consciousness like the “heavy clapper of a bell.”57 Li published articles defending his controversial mentor as early as 1950, at a time when neither his own place in the Communist establishment nor Qi’s was assured. Prior

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to 1949, Qi’s heterodox style and unabashedly commercial approach to Chinese painting received a tepid reception in Beijing art circles.58 Rumors about Qi’s stinginess circulated widely. Such questions about Qi’s temperament, combined with the vulnerable state of traditional painting in general, made Qi’s status during the early years of Communist rule uncertain. By Li’s account, Jiang Feng was reputed to have said at a conference of art workers in July 1949 that Qi’s paintings had “reached the end of the road, and his style could not be further developed.”59 During the 1950s, the venerable ninety-year-old, recognized internationally for his folksy and inventive paintings of shrimps, crabs, and many other subjects, was mostly shielded from political pressure. Out of respect for their common origins in rural Hunan, Mao once invited Qi to his official residence and occasionally corresponded with him.60 However, Qi was denounced with fury during the Cultural Revolution. Despite his humble roots, he was criticized for “climbing to the status of a landlord” and caring too much about money (fig. 3.7).61 It did not seem to matter that Qi had died in 1957. In an article published in People’s Daily (Renmin ribao) in 1950, Li refuted negative perceptions about Qi. He convinced party officials that his mentor’s scrupulous attention to accurately depicting plant and animal species was consistent with the party’s emphasis on realism. He described Qi refusing a commission to paint a palm tree because he did not know whether palm leaves curved to the left or to the right. This story of Qi’s exacting commitment to reality made cadres more respectful.62 Li persistently rebutted negative rumors about his teacher’s character by providing examples of his generosity, patriotism, and strong work ethic. He emphasized his teacher’s poor origins and his simple, easy manners. These factors, in combination with the shift toward a more favorable stance regarding traditional Chinese painting, paved the way for an outpouring of official patronage for Qi beginning in 1953. Another important catalyst to the development of Li’s controversial landscape style was his admiration for Western painters. Illustrations of Picasso’s work, shared and discussed with him by his colleague Zhang Ding, who met Picasso in France in 1956, motivated Li to attempt an all-over style of composition foreign to Chinese traditional painting.63 Departing from the conventional practice of leaving the top area unpainted to show the sky and the bottom area as earth or water, Li began filling up almost the entire space of his paintings with images or inscriptions. His new style of landscape paintings appeared so densely packed that critics called the effect “suffocating.”64 In leaving only a thin strip of unpainted surface (usually waterfalls or a path) amid his heavily inked mountains, Li challenged traditional painting’s 3.6 Li Keran, Dusk at Lake Rong (Banyon Tree Lake, Guilin City) (1963). Praised as a model painter during the late 1950s, Li fell under criticism in the early 1960s for using heavy ink in landscape paintings like this one. Critics called the dark tone stifling and pessimistic. Ink and color on paper, 27.4 x 18.5 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

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3.7 Thoroughly Topple the Big Black Flag That Liu Shaoqi and Zhou Yang Erected in the Art World: Qi Baishi (Shanghai, 1967). Li Keran and Li Kuchan’s teacher, Qi Baishi, was denounced during the Cultural Revolution for “climbing to the status of a landlord” and caring too much about money. The master’s legacy was the real target, because Qi himself had been dead for ten years at the time of this pamphlet. From “Chedi dadao Liu Shaoqi, Zhou Yang,” 15. Collection of the author.

minimalist aesthetic, especially the assumption that landscape images require ample “breathing” space. Another Western painter whose work made a significant impact on Li’s landscape style beginning in the late 1950s was, surprisingly, Rembrandt. Observing the master’s works firsthand when he traveled to East Germany in 1957, Li was moved by what he considered the luminous quality of Rembrandt’s late paintings of human figures. 66

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According to Wan Qingli, Li would later go so far as to post illustrations (among them, Rembrandt’s Raising of the Cross, 1633) in his studio and to consciously model the single waterfall cutting through his mountain landscapes after the beam of light focused on Christ in Rembrandt’s paintings.65 Li and his generation sought to give an expressive boost to Chinese painting so that it would have strong impact when exhibited publicly. Adapting the European tradition’s genius for representing light was one path Li explored. Li Keran was actively engaged in and at times consumed by technical and formal experimentation. His aesthetic agenda was his own. He always personalized what he created, even when forced to adhere to narrow standards. His “bright, black aesthetic” was a matter of artistic taste. Claims that the dark colors in his painting indicated malicious political overtones or even a morose mood were without basis. Like many connoisseurs of Chinese painting, Li believed in the subtle expression of ink alone. An ancient saying asserts that “if you have ink, you have all five colors.”66 While some looked at his paintings and saw only blackness, he and others who shared his vision distinguished three contrasting tones—dark, middle, and light.67 He contended that it was, in effect, the dark tones that enabled the bright tones to be dramatically present. Li could never understand why critics focused exclusively on his painting’s “blackness,” because in his mind his painting was about the interrelationship between dark and light. The areas where ink was absent or applied sparingly were as important as the places where it had been spread thickly. Even in the midst of his rise to celebrity after the first “sketch from life” tour, Li was dogged by the “black” label. An anonymous comment in the visitor’s book for his 1954 exhibition marked the first of many times that he was ridiculed for making the motherland’s mountains look “too black.”68 A related but slightly different complaint about the “unhealthy” emphasis on taste and technique in his landscape paintings appeared in the January 1955 issue of Fine Arts.69 This article, signed collectively by members of the Guangdong Provincial Artwork Studio, directed criticism at the Beijing art world and the editors of Fine Arts for patronizing paintings with “dark ink strokes” and a “pessimistic” mood. The Guangdong studio’s complaint that Li’s landscape paintings did not manifest enough “political content” or “heroism” to represent New China presaged accusations voiced by Red Guards ten years later. According to a Red Guard pamphlet attacking his style, Li Keran “kept painting those black landscapes, as though they were not black enough already.”70 When the government sponsored a national tour of his landscape paintings in 1959, painters whose own careers were languishing privately mocked the name of the exhibition, “Rivers and Mountains So Beautiful” ( jiang shan ruci duo jiao, after Mao Zedong’s 1936 poem “Snow”), by calling it “Rivers and Mountains So Black” ( jiang shan ruci duo hei).71 In April 1963, Yan Liquan, in an article in Fine Arts, publicly aired complaints about Li Keran’s painting. Yan said that Li’s landscapes made the viewer feel “blocked,” “stifled,” or “short of breath.”72 The same year, Li’s famous teacher, Lin L I KERAN ’S LuMINOuS PATH

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Fengmian, became a focus of controversy as well, when visitors to an exhibition of his paintings called them “unhealthy” and “pessimistic.”73 Both Li and Lin used heavy ink and saturated color to express changes in weather and season. Lin’s scenes of flying geese against autumn skies initially won praise for their poetic quality, but the climate of opinion reversed in 1963, paralleling what happened to Li Keran.74 Throughout his life, Li Keran conducted himself publicly with the utmost restraint. Even at the height of his fame, he remained modest when discussing his painting. He never directly addressed his critics until after the Cultural Revolution, and never in a pointed manner. But he was bothered by their derisive remarks about his painting and, by inference, his character. In subtle ways that largely went unnoticed at the time and in the years since, Li defended himself through images, inscriptions, and seals on his paintings of animals and figures. Following the removal of Jiang Feng from art administration in 1957, during the Anti-Rightist Campaign, a move that benefited traditional Chinese painters, Li felt safe to return to animal and figure painting, the genre for which he had first become famous. His paintings in this mode were more lighthearted and personal than his landscapes. He repeatedly painted one particular animal: the water buffalo. Li’s mentor Qi Baishi had initially painted buffaloes too, but stopped painting them out of respect for Li’s superior handling, calling Li’s buffaloes more “life-like.”75 In the early 1960s, Li’s paintings of water buffalo took on a more personal dimension.76 The intensity with which he addressed the theme in painting after painting during the 1960s suggests that the animal was a metaphor for himself and, by extension, other high-placed intellectuals whose revolutionary virtue had been questioned. Indeed, Li would later name his painting studio Learn from the Water Buffalo Studio (Shiniu Tang).77 In the calligraphy for his studio, the writing itself curves in ways suggesting the buffalo’s horns and tail (fig. 3.8). By closely identifying himself with its hardworking and humble character, he sought to shore up his flagging public image and to justify the party’s investment in his career. By 1962, Li was so identified with this animal in the public imagination that the poet Wen Jie wrote a poem in Li’s honor with the refrain, “Why do you like to paint water buffaloes so much?”78 Li’s 1962 work Five Water Buffaloes marked a watershed in the development of this theme.79 By creating five animals in various postures against a blank background, Li linked his painting with the early master Han Huang (723–787), who created a masterpiece with the same title.80 In a long inscription on his painting, Li described why he thought the buffalo’s character should be appreciated: The buffalo is powerful. It has never been boastful before a child but bows to him instead. It can drive carts and wear the plough, working through its whole life to serve the peasants but never ask for a reward. It is obedient, hardworking, and eager to improve itself.81

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3.8 The author with art historian and painter Sun Meilan and Li Keran’s daughter Li Zhu at the Li Keran Academy of Painting, Beijing, May 2016. In the background hangs the calligraphy banner Li painted in the 1980s for his Learn from the Water Buffalo Studio. Note how the characters echo the shape of the buffalo’s horns, hooves, and swishing tail. Photography by Jon Burris.

So described, the water buffalo exemplifies the loyal intellectual—one who works silently and obediently for the betterment of all. Indeed, most of the buffaloes Li depicted conformed to this “mute but indispensable” ideal, willingly transporting shepherd boys to their destination for work or play.82 The buffalo and herd-boy theme had various connotations through Chinese history, but twentieth-century endorsements of the buffalo by Lu Xun and Mao himself during his “Yan’an Talks” fixed its meaning rather narrowly to the idea that intellectuals must constantly subordinate themselves.83 It is notable, then, that in 1962 Li completed a painting depicting a defiant water buffalo (shown on the cover of this book), which at least one commentator has interpreted as a direct self-reference. According to his student Sun Meilan, “This stubborn buffalo could be viewed as a reply to all the hindrances he had met.”84 Li’s inscription on the painting reads, “The water buffalo has a mild nature but can become stubborn at times.” Li’s most direct public response to the complaint that his paintings were excessively black was an almost entirely red painting created in late 1962, Ten Thousand Crimson Hills (fig. 3.9), and a second version created in 1964, Red Leaves over the Mountains.85 Based on a line from Mao’s 1925 poem “Changsha,” “I see ten thousand crimson hills,” Li produced a scene virtually identical to his previous “black” landscapes but using red cinnabar instead of ink. Sun Meilan confirms that Li’s unusual formal strategy in the 1962 painting was an answer to criticisms of his painting style. She refers to the Yan Liquan article as an example of the negative sentiment to which his first red landscape responded.86 By painting primarily in red, the color associated internationally with communism, and referring explicitly to Mao’s poetry, Li fell into step with fellow traditional painters Guan Shanyue, Fu Baoshi, and Qian Songyan, who had received acclaim for incorporating these two politically motivated practices into their painting.87 Li hoped to demonstrate that his painting style was just as revolutionary as theirs. The degree to

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3.9 Li Keran, Ten Thousand Crimson Hills (1962). Li responded to the complaint that his paintings were too black with this almost entirely red landscape painting based on a line from Mao Zedong’s 1925 poem “Changsha.” He substituted red cinnabar for ink, but otherwise did not change his style much. This approach did not satisfy critics, who still felt his painting expressed a melancholy mood. Cinnabar and ink on paper, 53.1 x 33.5 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

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which Li modeled his red landscape of 1962 after earlier black ones, however, suggests a defiance absent in the other works. His decision to continue in virtually the same style indicates confidence that redness—both the color and its symbolic association— could be added without departing from his personal aesthetic. If his detractors clamored for red, he would oblige but without abandoning his interest in light and dark contrasts or dense arrangement. Baseless attacks on his character would not disrupt his aesthetic pursuits. Using heavy amounts of either black or red, his brush accomplished the same original effect. The timing of the red landscape’s initial publication suggests that it was part of a conscious effort to redeem Li in the face of mounting criticism over his prior paintings’ blackness.88 In the June 1963 issue of Fine Arts, Li’s Ten Thousand Crimson Hills was celebrated in an essay by Sun Meilan. In a comment intended to refute prior criticisms of Li’s work, Sun states that Li’s new red creation is so vivid and beautiful that “it represents a complete departure from traditional painting’s association with sorrow.”89 The noted poet and essayist Fang Ji also wrote a defense of Li’s paintings with Ten Thousand Crimson Hills as the focus.90 While both of Li’s defenders emphasized his formal and technical achievement, they also defended the artist’s political attitude, emphasizing his love for Mao’s poetry. High-profile praise for Li did not dissuade opponents from attacking Ten Thousand Crimson Hills. Standards for art were rapidly changing. Now artists invoking Mao’s poetry had to follow strict protocol or risk the accusation that they had not afforded his words due deference. The intensifying standards reinforced the perception that Li’s dark red mountains were problematic. In the February 1964 issue of Fine Arts, a reviewer complained that “the sad atmosphere” created by Ten Thousand Crimson Hills was “completely incompatible with the vivid spirit of Mao Zedong’s poetry.” 91 The acclaim received by traditional painters such as Qian Songyan or Guan Shanyue, who completed brighter, happier versions of red landscapes during the same year, made Li’s revisions seem insufficient.92 The more tolerant climate of the post-Mao reform decade finally gave Li the freedom to apply ink as thick as he pleased without fear of political retribution. In the new era of openness, the black tone of Li’s paintings became an asset rather than a liability. Avant-garde artists of the 1980s admired Li for his daring experimentation. In 1986, China Fine Arts Newspaper (Zhongguo meishubao) ran an article calling the blackness of Li’s paintings strong and beautiful.93 Indeed, Li’s “black landscapes” became such a desirable commodity on the Hong Kong art market during the 1980s that forgers began producing replicas and selling them for high prices. In a rare interview near the end of his life, Li offered advice to connoisseurs about how to differentiate between an authentic landscape painting by him and fakes.94 He noted that many people thought he added white paint to depict the thin waterfalls in his dark landscapes. He explained that actually he did not add color to those spaces.

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3.10 Li Keran, Double Waterfalls at Green Cliff (Mount Cangyan, Hebei) (1983). Controversy over the black tone of Li’s landscape paintings blinded many to his skillful use of voids and solids. Here Li created two shimmering waterfalls by omitting ink selectively. On ribbons of empty space, the bare paper shows through and creates a fluid feeling of water flowing. Next to the thickly applied ink, the plain surface looks luminous. Ink and color on paper, 26.8 x 17.7 in. Courtesy of Li Keran Academy of Painting.

The shining ribbons of water or vapor were simply untouched paper. The contrast between the blank space and the neighboring ink tonalities produced the visual effect of luminous white (fig. 3.10).95 Controversy over Li’s “black” landscapes blinded many to the subtleties associated with his light/dark contrasts. Viewing these landscapes close up, segment by segment, one fully appreciates the degree to which his color varies. When the importance of the blank areas of Li’s paintings is recognized, we adjust our vision to see the dark mountains as merely the background upon which the calligrapher “writes” white. Rushing streams cut through cliffs. Beams of light pierce foliage. A staircase scales mountains. Li believed in the Daoist principle of using the void positively.96 His pictures of clouds traveling through canyons, water passing under a bridge, or light shining through a doorway propose a way out of isolation.

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Li weathered the treacherous terrain of politics better than most painters of his generation. For most of his career, he was successful in introducing fresh perspectives without antagonizing the power structure. The Taiwan poet Chen Li lauded Li Keran for “liberating” Chinese painting from political ideology with his “knifelike brush.” Chen thanks Li in the poem for creating landscape paintings showing depth at a time when most artists felt too constrained to paint innovatively. Addressing Li posthumously, Chen writes: “When terror controlled art, [you] let the landscapes of the country live inside you.”97 Li became entangled in more upheaval at the end of his life. In the spring of 1989, he donated money to support the demonstrators at Tiananmen Square. During the crackdown that followed, he was visited by the security police on December 5, 1989, and suffered a fatal heart attack a few hours later.98 He was eighty-two years old. In the years since his passing, his family has established the Li Keran Academy of Painting in Beijing to house his paintings and continue his legacy of creative innovation. His sons, Li Xiaoke (b. 1944) and Li Geng (b. 1950), are accomplished painters.

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CHAPTER 4

Li Kuchan’s Eagle Gazes Far

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twenty-two-year-old recent graduate of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing, approached the platform to accompany his father home. For two hours on that July afternoon in 1966, Li Yan had been forced to watch Red Guards denounce his father, Li Kuchan (1898–1983). The sun scorched the seventy-year-old’s bald head as he knelt before the crowd in the school’s courtyard. The wire bearing the placard reading “reactionary academic authority counterrevolutionary Li Kuchan” cut the back of his neck. The Red Guards, including some of the painter’s former students, tried to make him wear a dunce cap, but he repeatedly threw it off. He shouted, “You were not even born yet when I was making revolution!”1 A master of martial arts, Professor Li was not easy to control physically (fig. 4.1). Men half his age could not rival his limberness and strength. The militants resorted to tying his hands. Once the struggle session was over, Li Yan and his father fled the courtyard. The crowd jeered and hurled objects as they passed. To the younger Li, the ordeal so reminded him of a film he had seen about fascist Germany that this sea of shouting people might as well have been saying, “Scram, Jew!” When the two arrived home, the elderly painter’s wife carefully removed his bloodstained shirt and washed his wounds. His clothes were saturated with ink, glue, blood, and perspiration. As his wife tended him, he arose in a flash of anger. He used his finger to trace the outlines of a Chinese

4.1  Li Kuchan (ca. 1978). Li practiced martial arts in the courtyard near his residence at the Central Academy of Fine Arts. When jailed inside the academy during the late 1960s, Li silently moved through poses early in the morning before the watchmen awakened. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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cabbage (baicai) in the water puddled on the floor; painting this symbol of purity was his way of encouraging himself to resist the ugliness around him. It was a proud self-emblem that he had painted on paper many times. He told his wife and son, “So dirty! So dirty! There never has been such a dirty affair. China must never lose its native painting tradition. The future has got to have it.”2 In the early years of Communist rule, Li’s career was already faltering. The radical reorganization of academies after 1949 displaced bird-and-flower painters like Li from their teaching positions.3 The party official directing these changes, Jiang Feng, eliminated Li’s specialty from the curriculum at the National Beiping Arts College (soon to be renamed the Central Academy of Fine Arts) because he considered bird-and-flower painting to be an elitist holdover from the capitalist and imperial eras. Jiang thought the bird-and-flower theme too fanciful and esoteric to serve the needs of the revolutionary masses.4 He did not want young artists-in-training exposed to it, so he eliminated it from the curriculum of art schools across the country, including the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, where Li’s friend and onetime colleague Pan Tianshou also lost his teaching position. Many painters suffered as a result of this uncompromising stance, but Li’s mistreatment was extreme by 1950s standards. At first, his teaching responsibilities were reduced to two hours per week. He was expected to spend the rest of his time decorating teapots. Within months, he lost his faculty position entirely, and his salary was decreased to a pittance. He was asked to perform menial tasks, such as buying movie tickets for school officials and then selling the remainders. Later he learned that authorities instructed art publications not to promote or publish his painting because his thinking was “reactionary.” His humiliation was heightened by daily contact with colleagues whose faculty positions were still intact. His two famous mentors, Xu Beihong and Qi Baishi, remained powerless to help him.5 Unfounded rumors compounded Li’s mistreatment. A letter in his dossier condemned him based on a perceived connection to the Beijing underworld. Li had become acquainted with strongmen out of necessity when he was a young man and pulled rickshaws along dangerous routes at night to earn money for school expenses. After 1949, party officials viewed these connections with suspicion, even though Li, an underground worker for the Eighth Army, had called on such acquaintances to protect Communists and resist the Japanese.6 Li could not understand why the party treated him so poorly. Prior to 1949, he had sheltered party members at his home during the Japanese occupation of Beijing and later convinced members of the arts community, including Qi Baishi, not to flee when the People’s Liberation Army captured Beijing.7 The party’s rejection weighed on him more than earlier hardships in his life because his honor and identity as a painter were at stake. Xu Beihong tried to comfort him, saying, “Kuchan, real art cannot be buried. The true pearl will shine. Nobody can prevent that.”8 But Li became despondent. His neighbors noticed him drinking heavily.9 76

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On a summer night in 1950, after drinking a half bottle of liquor, Li made the fateful decision to compose a letter to Mao himself, with whom he had become acquainted while attending a work-study program at Peking University in 1919. Back then, Mao and Li had studied French and machinery skills in hopes of getting factory jobs in France, but the French government had denied their visas. Although Mao did not often attend the training, he still remembered Li, whose desk had been next to his. Now Li appealed to his famous classmate for justice and asked specifically for reinstatement of his position as professor. He aimed for maximum impact, writing his request on a three-yard-long piece of fine Japanese rice paper in the cursive style of the Tang-dynasty monk Huaisu (737–785). After creating a large envelope to accommodate the calligraphy, he sent it to the central government. Once he sobered up, he regretted what he had done, but it was too late to retrieve the letter. Surprisingly, this bold act produced excellent results. On August 26, 1950, Mao wrote a response to Central Academy president Xu Beihong: Mr. Beihong: Mr. XXX wrote me a letter claiming that he is a professor at the Art Institute and that life is very difficult for him. It seems he wishes me to help him. Please give the matter some thought and inform me as to what this person’s condition is and how his situation should be handled. I also send you my best wishes for your work in teaching! Enclosed is the letter from X. Mao Zedong 10

Within less than a month, Mao sent his secretary to meet with Li personally, a rare privilege.11 These events created a stir at the Central Academy, not only for the lengths taken by Mao to rectify a problem in the arts but also for the audacity of Li’s appeal. Mao’s intervention resulted in the reinstatement of Li’s professor status. However, the Anti-Rightist Campaign seven years later again cast Li in a negative light when he was condemned as someone who complained about life in the new era. His published remarks in the May 23, 1957, issue of Peking Daily reveal his uncommon bluntness. He told the reporter that a fellow painter, Wang Jingfang (ca. 1900–1956), had suffered great humiliation when his paintings were torn up in front of him. The torment led to the painter’s premature death. Li then described the poverty to which his own family had been subjected after the loss of his teaching job, explaining that he had been forced to sell off household possessions. He then asked ironically, “Under such conditions, how can I be expected to create an expression of the ‘new age’?”12 Li’s pointed comments brought him scrutiny, but he managed to escape being declared a Rightist, shielded by his perceived association with Mao. LI KuCHAN ’ S EAGL E GAZ ES FAR

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In the years after the Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957, Li continued to be vulnerable to the claim that he was dissatisfied with socialism, even though he had an optimistic nature and felt generally positive toward the Communist Party. It did not help that in Li’s adopted name, Kuchan, Ku means “bitterness.” Born in 1898 to a family of destitute farmers in Shandong, Li Yingjie, as he was known as a child, had no access to milk, barely any gruel to eat, and no real clothes. He wore a bag filled with sand instead of diapers.13 Through the encouragement of teachers and the financial backing of neighbors, Li went to Beijing in 1919 to advance his education. He found lodging in a Buddhist temple. Besides attending the work-study program where he met Mao, he studied art at the Beijing National School of Fine Arts. Because he had no stable income, he pulled a rickshaw in the evenings to earn a living. He had no winter clothes and little to eat. A sympathetic classmate called him “Kuchan” to credit him with transcending “bitterness” and to identify him with the free-thinking Chan (Zen) school of Buddhism. Li thought the name reflected his life experience and convictions and used it from then on.14 Li had a generous spirit and often spoke out on behalf of others. When the artist Sun Zhijun (1907–1966) was criticized for his book illustrations of Wu Xun during the Anti–Wu Xun campaign in 1951, Li went directly to his home to express sympathy. Sun had come under attack for illustrating a book that seemed in tune with communism’s regard for the poor but was subsequently banned. The subject of the book, philanthropist Wu Xun (1838–1896), had promoted universal education and established a school for poor children. After the book was published, Mao made it known that he did not want Wu Xun elevated as a model hero. He dismissed Wu Xun as a counterrevolutionary, possibly because he was a landlord. When a campaign attacking Wu Xun broke out, anyone associated with the book was swept into the storm. Li comforted his friend Sun, saying, “Why are your illustrations [of Wu Xun] being criticized endlessly? There was no communism when Wu Xun died. What’s wrong with him? Wu Xun had a school and wanted all poor children to go to school. What’s wrong? I think there are actually too few Wu Xuns today.”15 Sun quieted Li, saying, “Brother Kuchan, say less. If others hear, there will be trouble.” Sun’s wife opened the door to check if anyone was listening.16 Another notable example of Li’s outspokenness occurred in the late 1950s, during the Great Leap Forward. A fellow Shandong native visited Li in Beijing and told him of the devastating famine affecting his home village. Shocked, Li spread the word among colleagues. When his wife overheard him, she tried to repair the damage by saying that her husband was mistaken, that the famine occurred before Liberation. But Li missed his wife’s cue, insisting that he was referring to the recent famine. This conversation was later reported to Li’s work unit and became the basis for criticism.17 Even when national art publications made no mention of him in the early 1950s, Li continued to be famous in art circles. Fellow painter Huang Yongyu remembers watching Li practice martial arts in the courtyard of the residence for Central Academy faculty. Waving an immense sword, Li gracefully moved through his regimen to the delight of onlookers.18 One Chinese New Year in the early 1950s, he made an audience of 78

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4.2  Li Kuchan performing Peking Opera (1930s). Here Li performs the role of the heroic general Jiang Wei (202–264) from the opera Iron Cage Mountain. He was the first Chinese painter to integrate operatic performance into the teaching of calligraphy and bird-and-flower painting. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

a thousand people at the Central Academy auditorium roar with laughter and applause when he sang the part of Zhao Yun from Romance of the Three Kingdoms in full Peking Opera regalia (fig. 4.2).19 Li’s career did not significantly improve until 1961, when the Central Academy appointed him head of a teaching studio. By then, radicalism had receded. Bird-andflower painting had returned to favor after Jiang Feng, a harsh critic of it, was removed from power during the Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957.20 So identified with traditional Chinese painting has Li Kuchan become that it is surprising to learn that he began his professional career as an oil painter and was mentored throughout his career by Xu Beihong, arguably the leading promoter of Western techniques in Chinese art circles. More than most members of his generation, Li remained invested in China’s native traditions. Although he abandoned foreign methods early in his career, he retained some Western techniques, such as adding two black dots to each of his eagle’s square eyes to make them seem to emit light.21 The most profound influence on Li’s painting style was his long association with Qi Baishi, the same master who taught Li Keran. Discovering Qi’s paintings in Beijing fan shops during the 1920s, Li Kuchan set out to become his apprentice, even as he continued to attend classes on Western art forms. Charmed by the young man’s enthusiasm and talent, Qi accepted him as a student, despite Li’s inability to pay tuition. He became one of Qi’s most illustrious and loyal students, and the two formed a devoted friendship lasting until Qi’s death in 1957. Of all the master’s hundreds of students, Li was given LI KuCHAN ’S EAGL E GAZ ES FAR

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the honor of writing the calligraphy on Qi’s tombstone. While Li Keran was Qi’s most important student late in life, Li Kuchan was the master’s very first student. According to Qi himself, “Other students learned my hand; Kuchan learned my heart.”22 From Qi, Li learned how to create playful yet naturalistic depictions of flowers and birds. Master Qi was famously insistent that a painter of birds and flowers had to have direct knowledge of actual species. Li was similarly conscientious: his knowledge of birds was based on years of closely observing birds in the wild and raising domesticated ones in his home. Despite his careful study of birds, Li did not hesitate to modify or exaggerate certain features of the bird’s anatomy to add expressive power and humor. Once he sat down to paint, the process was quick and spontaneous. That such a lifelike presence could be achieved in a few expressive strokes was the chief source of his paintings’ appeal. He aspired to move the paintbrush with the grace of an operatic gesture. Mood and personality register in the eagle’s square beak and eyes like the caricature on an opera mask (fig. 4.3).23 Although he readily acknowledged his debt to Qi’s style, Li sought to establish a separate identity. He thrived on creating paintings before an audience. He wielded his brush on paper with the same theatricality with which he sung opera or swung his large sword. Li was the first Chinese painter to systematically teach Peking Opera, painting, and calligraphy as closely related art forms, and he integrated the heroic poses and choreography of Peking Opera into his brushwork.24 In the early 1950s, he spent many hours painting before delighted audiences at the Peace Calligraphy and Painting Shop, a lively meeting ground for Beijing residents from all walks of life—from street vendors to fellow artists and even prominent party officials. He was unusually generous about giving away his paintings to ordinary people. Until the mid-1950s, the Peace Shop was a private business managed by a close friend. After the shop was converted to a stateowned enterprise, the atmosphere was more tightly controlled, but Li still enjoyed going there to paint or authenticate antiques.25 During those years, Li began to develop his signature subject matter: large birds like eagles, cormorants, egrets, or cranes and small birds like quail or sparrows surrounded by vegetation. His subjects are typically depicted at close range with great immediacy and the background only minimally represented. The focal point drawing the viewer’s gaze is the facial expression of the bird, especially the eyes and beak. Li’s creations seem vividly conscious. His pictures invoke empathy for animals and birds subject to domination.26 At times, his ardent defense of natural species put him into conflict with political authorities, such as during the campaign to eliminate the “Four Pests” (Si Hai), one of which was the sparrow. Intended to increase the supply of grain by eliminating sparrows, this misguided initiative resulted in an ecological imbalance in 1958–60 that allowed crop-destroying insects to proliferate.27 The cruelty inflicted on sparrows deeply offended Li. He painted a dead bird inscribed with the caustic phrase “Hunter! How could this bird offend you?”28 Extant examples of Li’s pre-1966 bird-and-flower paintings suggest that he did little to accommodate his painting to the new regime’s political requirements. He never 80

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4.3 Li Kuchan, Gazing Far at Magnificent Mountains and Rivers (1979). Perched on a scenic overlook, robed in feathers, Li’s eagles project strength. Their square beaks and vigilant eyes convey life experience. Ink and color on paper, 6.2 x 10 ft. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

switched to a more politically acceptable genre, such as figure painting or landscapes. He seldom infused his paintings with red color or added revolutionary slogans to his inscriptions. An anecdote described by his biographer suggests that Li’s omission of prescribed political elements was a conscious decision. On one occasion during the Great Leap Forward, when he was forced to create a painting with straightforward propagandistic content, he felt so embarrassed that he ripped it up shortly after completion.29 How did he circumvent the political requirements faced by other professional painters? Perhaps he was under less scrutiny because he was excluded from the formal academy structure for most of the 1950s and exhibited few paintings publicly during that time. But when his public profile increased in the early 1960s, pressure to accommodate mounted. By 1963, a shift began toward a “more stringently political art.”30 Art was expected to show love for revolution in a way that was instantly identifiable. The freehand tradition that Li practiced, characterized by sweeps of the brush and humane regard for animals, could not readily fall into line. Nor was it clear how bird-and-flower subjects could praise politics in such an intensely enthusiastic way. Besides lacking an obvious propagandistic message, Li’s bird-and-flower images were characterized by a strong anthropomorphic quality. The expressions and gestures of the birds and the painting’s inscriptions suggested diffuse meanings beyond the ostensible theme. For example, a 1962 picture of a cormorant featured the inscription “Release it to swim on its own.” This call for freeing a bird typically leashed to a LI KuCHAN ’ S EAGL E GAZ ES FAR

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fisherman implied a wish for less constraint, an unwelcome stance when radicalism intensified just a few years later. Suspicions were compounded by the fact that the bird-and-flower genre, and particularly the heterodox stream associated with painters like Bada Shanren (1626–1705), had historically been used to oppose political authority. For example, Bada Shanren expressed his refusal to accept the legitimacy of the Manchu government during the early Qing dynasty through idiosyncratic renderings of fish, rocks, lotus, and birds.31 A 1961 conference organized by the publication Chinese Cultural Relics (Wenwu) noted with approval that Bada Shanren had used painting to criticize Qing rule.32 Li’s own teacher Qi Baishi had famously depicted crabs “walking sideways” to insult the Japanese when they occupied Beijing. Qi had also painted a wobbly toy (budaoweng) to symbolize corrupt officials who spring back no matter how many times you knock them down. According to Cultural Revolution–era materials, Premier Zhou Enlai privately expressed surprise when he learned that Qi was still painting wobbly toys in the early 1950s. In 1964, after Qi’s death, Jiang Qing posthumously denounced him for painting old subjects that had no place in the Communist era.33 Such precedents left Li Kuchan vulnerable to the claim that he was using his painting to express opposition, especially because he had complained before. In the frenzied environment of the Cultural Revolution, mere suspicion could ignite a firestorm. Some of Li’s frank opinions did find expression in his paintings. For example, one painting created prior to the Cultural Revolution was unusually blunt in talking back to those who dismissed his art as irrelevant. On an image of a rooster under the shade of a plantain leaf, Li inscribed, “Everyone says I am backward. Wait one hundred years— perhaps my name will still be inscribed on the people’s memory.” Red Guards later pointed to this painting as evidence of Li’s counterrevolutionary attitude.34 Li never considered the party illegitimate in the manner that Bada Shanren perceived the Manchus or Qi Baishi viewed the Japanese. The spirit of Li’s 1950 letter to Mao suggests that he believed the party would accept him once misunderstandings were cleared up. Even during the Cultural Revolution, when his loyalty to the party was put to the test, he continued to assume that his ideals could be realized under Communist rule. He warmly embraced the overtures of Zhou Enlai and other party members during the later stages of the Cultural Revolution. Such distinctions are worth noting because Red Guards wrongly accused Li of using Bada Shanren’s methods “to attack the Socialist system.”35 Li’s troubles were well known in the Beijing artistic community. He was the first painter at the Central Academy to be targeted for a struggle session after the Cultural Revolution began in 1966. From the perspective of Red Guards, Li’s history of noncompliance made him an obvious “reactionary academic authority.” The “bitter” mood discernible in his paintings attested to his “black” political attitude. In 1966, Li was separated from his family and jailed in the cowshed inside the Central Academy with other senior professors. After lights were turned out for the night or in the morning before the watchmen were awake, Li silently moved through a 82

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series of martial arts poses. The seventy-year-old artist could still touch his head to his knees.36 Aware of deep affinities among martial arts, Peking opera, and the brushstrokes in Chinese painting, he considered these elegant movements a correlate for painting when actual painting was impossible.37 This brushless, inkless, paperless form could be practiced in almost any environment. Amid his daily chores cleaning floors with fellow artist Hua Junwu, Li delighted fellow inmates with abbreviated Peking Opera performances, wielding the broomstick as if it were a stage prop. Admirers recognized in these elegant and disciplined gestures the outline of brushstrokes. Some students bowed discreetly to Li Kuchan as they passed him in the corridor while he was performing his janitorial duties.38 Li’s fellow inmate, Ye Qianyu, wryly commented in a post–Cultural Revolution cartoon that the Central Academy’s bathrooms “had never been so sparkling clean” as when blacklisted artists served as janitors.39 Li’s ability to lift huge barrels of trash with little effort astonished opponents and allies alike.40 At the height of the Red Guard movement, he was beaten daily with a military belt for approximately a week because he refused to “report crimes.”41 Despite lashings that made his head bleed profusely, the only name of a “counterrevolutionary” that he was willing to report was “I [wo].”42 According to Li Yan, Li Kuchan’s refusal to capitulate under this extreme pressure was “his most lasting and beautiful artwork [zuopin].”43 To such a seasoned survivor of hardships, the Cultural Revolution must have seemed a strange déjà vu. He had performed a similar “dance” of resistance when Japanese soldiers beat him in prison thirty years before. The same resilient body that pulled rickshaws through the most dangerous neighborhoods of Beijing as a young man was well prepared to face the health hazards posed by political persecution. As a penniless work-study student at Peking University, he had borne frigid temperatures in shabby clothing and scraped together art supplies by collecting discarded pencil stubs. His “iron-like” physical constitution proved a reliable ally in each of these tests of will.44 Li Kuchan was at the center of a loyal cadre of friends, including Huang Yongyu, Wu Zuoren, Li Keran, Hua Junwu, and Ye Qianyu, who reportedly never informed on each other throughout the Cultural Revolution.45 Li Kuchan defended not only his own patriotism and progressive beliefs but also those of his colleagues. Li Yan reports that his father spoke up on behalf of Pan Tianshou when the persecution campaign against the Hangzhou-based painter was extended nationwide. In a denunciation meeting held at the Central Academy, he disputed the erroneous claim that Pan was part of the Nationalists’ spy network prior to 1949.46 He also refused to back away from his loyalty to his teacher Qi Baishi. When pressed to list his teacher’s “crimes,” he wrote down only compliments. When other painters acquiesced to the mandate that the master’s name chops must be destroyed, Li still refused. He secretly arranged for family members to hide Qi’s carved name seals in chicken nests so that they would not be damaged.47 Li had no interest in getting involved in politics. He considered himself exclusively a painter (hua hua de ren), a professional affiliation that he believed should exempt him from contentious political battles.48 He had never held political or administrative posts LI KuCHAN ’ S EAGL E GAZ ES FAR

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during Republican or Communist rule. He considered the Cultural Revolution a political storm that people of goodwill were obliged to outlast until good times returned. With special urgency, he guarded his painting arm from injury. Red Guards deliberately and maliciously tried to injure the hands and arms of “reactionary” bird-and-flower painters so that they could never paint again.49 Li’s unusual capacity for resistance was informed by his passionate commitment to integrity. To borrow the language of his teacher, Qi Baishi, for whom integrity was also an important theme, Li styled himself an egret that would never eat the meat of another egret, even if he were starving.50 He refused to do or say anything that would implicate or compromise someone else, but was extremely generous when it came to forgiving others who jeopardized his welfare. After the Cultural Revolution, Li sought out and forgave a former student who had been a ringleader in persecuting him.51 He reconciled with Jiang Feng, the once-powerful art administrator who had spearheaded the ban on bird-and-flower painting during the early 1950s and whose decisions had made Li’s early years under Communist rule miserable. Near the end of their lives, Li and Jiang Feng became friends. Li wept upon hearing the news of Jiang’s death.52 During the final years of the Cultural Revolution, when he could secretly paint,53 Li developed a style of depicting birds that conveyed subtle opposition to the Cultural Revolution. In secretly created paintings from 1970 onward,54 he used old eagles to evoke the resilient, self-possessed character of senior-generation intellectuals whose talents had been wasted (fig. 4.4). Although power resided in their wings, claws, and beaks, these dignified birds did not poise themselves to fly. Instead, they remained grounded, planted atop high rocks like statues, their large square eyes surveying the distance. According to the talented essayist Sun Meilan, Li’s paintings of male eagles (xiong ying) were “sadly thinking giants” (sixiang beitong de juren) prevented from reaching their destination in the sky.55 By ascribing a cerebral character to the eagles, Li prods the viewer to recognize qualities that birds share with humans. Among bird-and-flower painters of the twentieth century—including Li’s teacher Qi Baishi and his colleague Pan Tianshou—the eagle was a vehicle for suggesting heroic qualities.56 The presumption that the eagle carried autobiographical significance was particularly strong in Li’s case, since he had painted eagles for virtually his entire professional life. Eagle paintings were considered Li’s representative work (daibiao zuo) even prior to the Cultural Revolution.57 His original name, Li Yingjie, sounds like ying, the word for eagle. Li himself readily acknowledged that his eagles were “thinking images” infused with his own passions and personality.58 He referred to them as “the eagles of my imagination,” conceding that although they were informed by knowledge of actual species, they 4.4  Li Kuchan, Pair of Eagles Gazing Far (1981). The eagle was Li’s trademark subject and personal symbol. He exaggerated the eagles’ features to make them look stronger than they do in nature. Here a pair of eagles stand as one. Ink and color on paper, 57.3 x 32.3 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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should not be understood as naturalistic studies. He told students that his images were composites of various bird species.59 His eagles looked bigger and heavier than actual birds. Their expressions and gestures reflected his own psychology. A viewer who knew of his ordeal during the Cultural Revolution and the courageous way that he responded under duress would presume a connection between the “bravely silent” eagles and the painter’s own history (fig. 4.5).60 That his eagles were “not inclined to fly” and remained in one corner hinted at the constraints inhibiting his self-actualization. Their piercing eyes “gazing afar” from a cliff-top perch suggested sage-like vision. Old friends to whom Li secretly showed his eagle paintings during the waning years of the Cultural Revolution needed no explanation of the artist’s implied meaning. Upon seeing a painting of an old eagle on a rock, a close friend visiting Li in his room under the cover of darkness gasped: “You cannot find language better than this!”61 Another friend who saw the same painting held Li’s hand and became tearful. Fellow painter Wu Zuoren told Li Yan that he instantly recognized Li’s mood of refusal during the Cultural Revolution when he saw one of Li’s recently produced eagle paintings circulated by a mutual friend.62 These anecdotes confirm that Li’s eagle paintings were understood as a “wordless” language conveying the artist’s disapproval of the

4.5  Li Kuchan, White Eagle (1973). After 1970, Li secretly produced small-scale paintings of eagles like this one. According to art historian Sun Meilan, they are “sadly thinking giants” prevented from flying. Ink on paper, 13.4 x 18.1 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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4.6 Li Kuchan, Falling Rain (1972). During the 1970s, Li hinted at hardships and encouraged fellow sufferers by painting bird communities taking shelter from the rain. Ink and color on paper, 17.7 x 13.5 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

Cultural Revolution to fellow “secret-sharers.”63 Author Feng Jicai made similar claims for the artwork of his fictionalized “Black Painter,” Lao Shen. According to the story’s narrator, Lao Shen’s painting of plum blossoms was a “silent answer” to all those who feared that persecution had subjugated the painter’s resolute spirit.64 Li would not need to explicitly draw the connection between violence afflicting birds and the human casualties of political campaigns because fellow artists would be familiar with metaphors used by the Tang poet Du Fu (712–770) likening the piercing of a bird’s wings by a hunter’s arrow to a virtuous minister’s unjust dismissal.65 The radical Maoists who organized the Black Painting exhibition in Beijing understood the metaphorical implications of a painting by Li showing a frightened small bird cornered by a hunter.66 His small birds seeking cover from rainstorms looked like victims of persecution (fig. 4.6).67 Alternatively, bird groupings could suggest the plight of starving villagers. During the Great Leap famine, Li created paintings with inscriptions describing the deprivations of his childhood in rural Shandong and his determination not to forget his impoverished origins. On a 1963 painting depicting vegetables and fish, he declared solidarity with destitute families. In the painting’s inscription, he recounted a boyhood memory of smelling the enticing aroma of fish, meat, and fruit served at a neighbor’s New Year’s celebration, yet knowing that his own family had only cabbage.68 Li openly commiserated with the rural poor during periods when such straightforward talk was risky. LI KuCHAN ’ S EAGL E GAZ ES FAR

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4.7  Li Kuchan, A Lesson in Flying (1963). A powerful theme in Li’s imagery is the bond between old and young. He was inspired by his observation of real eagles but sometimes made alterations: for example, eagles do not carry their young on their backs, though swans do. Ink and color on paper, 13.4 x 17.9 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

Although these paintings were not disseminated publicly, they were circulated privately within Beijing art circles. Many of the most subversive paintings are no longer extant because they were wrestled out of private hands to be used as incriminating evidence against Li during the Cultural Revolution and then destroyed.69 Many of Li’s paintings of the early 1960s and 1970s depict small groups of birds relating tenderly. In one example, a parent bird fearlessly gives its babies “a flying lesson” (fig. 4.7). In another, small birds chatter nervously as they look at the sky and each other, hoping for an end to fearsome weather. They peer out from the shade of a pine tree or the overhang of leaves. Cranes crouch in the underbrush (fig. 4.8). In these intimate scenes of birds huddling close, propping their heads on one another for comfort, there is evidence of the camaraderie that allowed Li and his “friends in adversity” (nan you) to survive long periods of suffering.

4.8  Li Kuchan, Crouching Crane: I Am the First to Paint It (1970s). In Chinese painting, cranes are often depicted dancing. In the inscription, Li announces that he is the first to paint the crane crouching to avoid danger. Ink and color on paper, 26.8 x 17.7 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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Besides his sensitive portrayals of birds, Li repeatedly painted another theme that held deep personal meaning for him: Chinese cabbage (baicai, “white vegetables”). Following a precedent established by Qi Baishi, who had risen from commoner roots to be hailed as China’s greatest twentieth-century painter, Li relished inserting this food staple of the rural poor into the traditional theme of the Four Purities (si qing). Both painters felt the need to add earthiness to the elitist conventions of the past by including cabbage among the plant varieties traditionally hailed as “pure,” like the plum or bamboo. For both Li and his teacher, the cabbage was an emblem announcing their vow not to forget their humble origins. For Li, the cabbage had many noble properties and positive associations, including its white color, its graceful shape, its nutritional value, and its origins in China’s northern heartland. However, some felt embarrassed that cabbage was still the mainstay of the Chinese people’s diet. For them, the cabbage seemed an unwelcome reminder that the nation was still poor and backward.70 For Li, however, the vegetable’s modest character was a badge of honor, a sign of respect for people of all social backgrounds. It symbolized the enlightened man’s commitment to frugality and his rejection of money and power. Li could not accept the idea that a diet of vegetables was to be disdained. In the context of the Cultural Revolution, Li’s choice to paint cabbage acquired a more pointed meaning. The vegetable’s association with purity made it useful shorthand for defending his innocence and asserting the importance of maintaining integrity despite persecution. In 1977, he reunited with a young artist friend with whom he had been incarcerated, Wan Qingli. Li commemorated their reunion by painting A Taste of Freshness, featuring a cabbage and a plum blossom branch, and giving it to Wan as a wedding gift (fig. 4.9).71 The painting’s inscription declared their dual commitment to integrity and celebrated their mutual success in withstanding degradation. In the same spirit as his paintings of white egrets or white eagles, this image of a Chinese cabbage celebrated the ethic of “whiteness”—that is, resistance to corruption. The senior painter intended the painting’s inscription as counsel to Wan Qingli and his new wife, Zhang Qingchun: “Eating vegetables and chewing plum blossoms fills the body with freshness and purity.” This inscription expressed his hope that the couple would continue along the difficult path of spiritual growth and avoid the lure of money and power. A plain diet of vegetables and flowers was his prescription for their future happiness and longevity. Wan remembers that before Li painted this for him, he had never even seen a plum flower that was not painted revolutionary red. He was careful not to show it to people until many years later.72

4.9 Li Kuchan, A Taste of Freshness (1977). This painting of a Chinese cabbage and a plum blossom branch was a wedding gift to a younger painter, a fellow prisoner in the cowshed of the Central Academy of Fine Arts. That the vegetable and flower are both white suggests moral purity, an aspiration the artist and the recipients shared. Ink painting dedicated to Wan Qingli and Zhang Qingchun. Courtesy of Wan Qingli and the Hong Kong Museum of Art.

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4.10 Li Kuchan, Midsummer (1981). Li completed this painting of lotus blossoms and herons, the largest bird-and-flower painting of his life, at the age of eighty-four, to express his joy that traditional Chinese culture was reviving in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution. Ink and color on paper, approx. 12 x 19 ft. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

Li Kuchan completed the cabbage and plum painting by imprinting on it the stamp of his teacher, Qi Baishi. By adding the seal of his teacher, one generation senior, and then dedicating the scroll to an artist one generation younger, Li suggested a pattern of asserting integrity across three generations. The gesture reaffirms the ties that bind young and old, in contrast to the Cultural Revolution’s incitement of youth to struggle against elders. For most of his career, the ambition of the “old eagle” to soar had been blocked by circumstance or misunderstanding. The birds in his paintings never became airborne.73 During the last few years of his life, however, Li met good fortune. From 1979 until 1983, before a sudden heart attack ended his life, his desire to paint found exuberant release. The intimate close-ups of birds and plants created during the late Cultural Revolution gave way to huge murals. Some birds stretched out their wings to fly. Li was by that time in his eighties, but he approached painting as if he were still at the peak of health, tackling huge expanses of paper with the vigor and speed of a much younger man. At eightyfour, he created his largest painting ever, Midsummer, in four panels, spanning roughly twelve feet in height and nineteen feet in length (fig. 4.10). He devised novel techniques of spreading ink using very large brushes that required two hands to control.74 Managing such a physically taxing process at his age testified to his extraordinary vitality. In 1980, Li traveled to Hong Kong with his son Li Yan to attend a joint exhibition of their painting and calligraphy and to give a lecture on painting at Hong Kong University. 92

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4.11 Li Kuchan’s son Li Yan, Beijing, 2016. Li Yan is a professor at the Academy of Art and Design, Tsinghua University, and member of the Chinese Artists Association. He is a distinguished painter, calligrapher, seal carver, and author of several books about his father. Photography by Jon Burris.

In the same year, Shanghai People’s Art Press published the first major catalog of his paintings since 1949.75 This newfound official recognition and freedom to travel represented an overdue endorsement, not just of him but also of the bird-and-flower specialty.76 The immense scale and celebratory subject matter of his final works reflect his jubilation that stigmas had been removed. In subsequent years, Li’s family sponsored a memorial museum in his honor in his native Shandong. When asked in a recent interview to describe his father’s finest accomplishment, Li Yan (fig. 4.11) answered that it was his life even more than his art. Every decade his father faced a new disaster, and yet adversity did not diminish his strength of character.77 Li aspired to a Daoist art of living, a philosophy that served him well in a life of many setbacks. He refused to feel devalued and managed to thrive despite disaster.78 Many of his secret paintings during the Cultural Revolution were signed “Lao Ren,” meaning a follower of Laozi, suggesting his admiration for Daoist philosophy. Unlike the typical Daoist, however, Li did not prefer obscurity. For decades, he had been poised to serve society as a professional artist, a status other artists considered rightfully his, but politics denied him. The frustration of those wasted years found expression in the gaze of his bird subjects. Their eyes—startled or asleep, fearful or angry, patient or philosophical—reveal the many moods of resistance.

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CHAPTER 5

Huang Yongyu’s Eye Talk

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uang Yongyu (b. 1924, fig. 5.1) is the youngest and the only painter still living among the artists profiled in this book.1 He is known for his fun-loving personality.2 During the Cultural Revolution, when many intellectuals were imprisoned together, he added humor to the solemn atmosphere. One fellow prisoner called him “the hero of the cowshed.” Without him present, “there would have been more cruelty and less affection, more low spirits and less humor, more fear and less courage, more slavishness and less self-respect.”3 Besides holding muffled conversations with Li Kuchan, Huang admits “conversing” with old friends, such as Hua Junwu, through “eye talk.”4 He developed a wordless language based on facial expressions that secretly directed humor at enemies and showed support for friends. The carved pipes that Huang made in spare moments and circulated among friends became emblems of his playful spirit. According to Feng Jicai’s fictionalized story “The Carved Pipe,” which was inspired by Huang, these pipes could “pass unnoticed” because militants saw them as “toys” rather than art.5 Carving them from deer horn or pig hoof helped Huang maintain his skills and alleviate boredom. He gave them to friends to show solidarity.6 When Red Guards harassed Li Keran for slicing bread too slowly, Huang made a special knife with a bamboo handle for him.7 He

5.1 Huang Yongyu holding one of his trademark pipes in front of his painting Dancing Ink Lotus (ca. 1993). Known for his playful spirit, Huang added humor to the solemn atmosphere of the Cultural Revolution. He carved pipes in spare moments and gave them as gifts to encourage friends. From Huang Yongyu (Old Tree Book Company, 1993), preface. Reproduced with permission of the artist, 2003.

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made an ear pick for Wu Zuoren “to relieve the itch from earwax.” He built a folding chair and a lightweight bamboo broom to ease chores for friends in frail health.8 Huang was able to create these inventions under heavily guarded conditions because of his skill in artifice. He diligently studied Mao’s Little Red Book whenever Red Guards were present. When he wanted to be left alone, he pretended to have a contagious disease. Despite the cloud of death hovering around them, Huang constantly reminded colleagues of the joy of daily living. Fellow prisoner Wan Qingli reports that only once did Huang look depressed: when a beautiful bird that had flown into their room died inexplicably. The bird’s arrival had stunned everyone, and the prospect of raising it in captivity had generated excitement and laughter. Its sudden demise and subsequent funeral diminished even Huang’s perennial optimism.9 Wan Qingli and others praise Huang’s courage in glowing terms, but he responds with self-deprecation. He jokes that if his method of not going along is considered “bold,” then the standard for assessment is much “too low.”10 His resistance on the sly is premised on a Daoist appreciation for surviving danger.11 He has a genius for finding creative opportunities in an environment of constraint.12 He recalls staging small gestures that registered with fellow intellectuals but eluded the political watchdogs. He admits telling “white lies” that deflected criticism from himself or from a friend. He jokes that “lying to liars” is probably “the rough equivalent of truth.”13 When Communist rule was established, Huang was working for a pro-Communist newspaper in British-controlled Hong Kong.14 In 1953, a letter from his uncle, the famous writer Shen Congwen, persuaded him to return to China. The letter assured him that he could expect a favorable reception. At that time, “returned intellectuals” with progressive credentials enjoyed special treatment in securing jobs and housing. The timing of Huang’s decision proved fortunate. He arrived in the midst of an upswing in official support for woodblock printing, his area of specialization.15 The art form had flourished under Communist patronage, but it languished during the first few years of Communist rule because the mood had shifted.16 Now that the Communist movement had triumphed, a new style of printmaking based on Chinese folk art was being piloted. Huang excelled in this new niche of printmaking.17 When he submitted his portfolio to the Central Academy of Fine Arts upon arriving in Beijing, then president Xu Beihong offered him what he hoped for—a position in the printmaking department of Beijing’s flagship art school.18 Although he was approaching thirty at the time he joined the faculty, Huang’s face retained a boyish quality that made him look younger. His imported shoes, camping equipment, and fondness for pets served as reminders of his years abroad and set him apart from older colleagues. Students flocked to him. In honor of his friend Li Keran’s memorial service in 1989, Huang wrote a remembrance of life in the faculty residence of the Central Academy, “We of Da Ya Bao.”19 This two-part essay published in the Hong Kong magazine The Nineties (Jiushi niandai)

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offers a rare behind-the-scenes view of Beijing life in the 1950s. It reveals in loving detail how artists and their family members interacted privately. The faculty residence to which Huang was assigned housed many of China’s most distinguished intellectuals and painters.20 His family lived in close proximity to the households of Li Keran, Zhang Ding, Li Kuchan, and Ye Qianyu, among others. Their children, wives, and parents mingled freely in the traditional-style courtyard shared by the dwellings. For Huang, living among colleagues of this caliber proved enormously stimulating. For example, he stopped in at Li Keran’s home on a regular basis, chatted informally, and saw the artist’s present work taking shape. One humorous story recounted in Huang’s essay concerns the renowned painting master Qi Baishi, then in his nineties. Since the 1940s, Li Keran and the elder Qi had developed a strong teacher-student bond. Huang describes the first time he accompanied Li on a visit to the venerable master.21 Prior to arriving, Li warned Huang not to eat the mooncake or the peanuts Qi would offer him. Qi was known to recycle the same food for years, and no guest thus far had dared to eat them. According to Huang, “After saying hello, I looked at the food about which I had heard so much. I found that the mooncake had little things moving inside, and there were spiderwebs on the peanuts. Such is the habit of an old man. A gesture of courtesy, rather than the true hope that the guest will eat. What year and month will some unsuspecting guest consume that mooncake?!”22 Upon Li’s suggestion, Huang brought a gift of several dozen crabs to Qi. He amusingly describes how Qi’s maid made a big show of counting the crabs in front of the guests prior to steaming them. She explained that if she did not inform her employer beforehand of the exact number, he would accuse her of eating one. Although he made light of the master’s miserly qualities, Huang portrays Qi favorably as a loving teacher with a strong commitment to his students. He speaks of the interest that Qi took in nurturing Li Keran’s development as a painter, and the generosity with which he shared fine paper and rare art supplies. Qi’s mentoring relationship with Li Kuchan was also strong. When Li Kuchan staged a special performance of Peking opera in the Central Academy’s auditorium, the ninety-year-old Qi made a rare public appearance. The venerable Qi sat on a specially placed sofa in the front row and shook with laughter when Li Kuchan misspoke several lines.23 Qi offered his young visitor important encouragement too. After Huang completed a portrait of Qi, the eccentric old master honored it with an inscription, an indication of his respect for the newcomer’s talent.24 The catalyst for Huang’s reminiscences was Li Keran’s passing, but the essay encompasses a broader scope than Li’s life and addresses an audience larger than Li’s family and colleagues at the Central Academy; it can also be read as a critique of the Cultural Revolution and other crackdowns. By using the “warm and wonderful” period of the 1950s as a foil, Huang highlights the devastating effect of political repression on his small community. He describes idyllic scenes of children riding a three-wheeled cart to

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kindergarten, laughing and calling him “uncle.” The same children are described fifteen years later performing hard labor in the hinterlands or awaiting the death penalty. One of the priorities of the 1950s was to produce books with a strong visual component, because the party’s two key constituencies—the rural masses and urban workers— had limited literacy. Huang’s colorful woodblock prints of minority people and exotic borderlands suited the new political temper.25 Ah Shi Ma, his series of images based on a folk song, drew praise for the artist’s graceful portrayal of women in minority dress.26 Huang himself was a member of a minority ethnic group, the Tujia people of Fenghuang, Hunan. This gave him a special sensitivity toward minority cultures and motivated him to thoroughly research their traditions. In the 1950s, he frequently traveled to border regions to collect New Year’s prints and other artifacts. He admired the bright colors and intricate patterns of minority dress and the simplicity of their lives. He empathized with their poverty. The distance separating these communities from urban centers meant that they lacked basic necessities. He published several articles about his experiences traveling to remote villages. One article published in People’s Daily on June 1, 1957, described the positive effect of party policies but hinted at insufficiencies. The children attended school, yet they had no teacher.27 Although his specialty was printmaking, Huang developed a close affinity with artists specializing in Chinese traditional painting. They were his neighbors, and he routinely attended the same political study group.28 He had been a painter prior to learning the art of wood carving. Increasingly, he came to regard himself as one of them. Indeed, the linear quality of his wood carvings had more in common with traditional Chinese painting than with Soviet-influenced socialist realism. Huang was one of the few in the Central Academy’s printmaking department who continued to teach traditional methods of outlining.29 Once traditional Chinese painting returned to favor after 1960, he began painting more. It was around this time that he created his first painting of an owl with one eye open and one eye shut, subject matter that would become notorious during his later political troubles.30 His evolution from printmaker to painter occurred at about the time that his political attitude was changing. The Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957 targeted some of his closest friends, including Huang Miaozi, Ding Cong, and Wu Zuguang, in addition to many students and colleagues that he respected. These friends were transferred to remote regions where they faced starvation. Huang himself escaped serious trouble, but his future was by no means assured. Colleagues in the print department scrutinized him closely.31 He remembers that by the early 1960s he spent as much time as possible working from home. In an interview, Huang described his increasing skepticism of political supervisors: I had some points to dispute with them. But as for truly criticizing them, I could not. I would not dare! Criticism is permitted today—then it was not. . . . Also, I did not understand Marxism in depth. I wondered, Why should we learn from peasants? They are not educated. I didn’t understand. Why has such 98

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a good philosophy left us poor and needy? I had a few friends, writers and artists, with whom I could talk freely like this. Only those I trusted like my own hands and feet—for example, my wife and Huang Miaozi. We could talk about such things, even at the worst time.32

In 1963, Huang was sent to the countryside to participate in the Four Clean-Ups (Si Qing), a campaign to reassert party influence in the countryside.33 As part of a village production team, he performed farmwork and attended political meetings. Although he presented a willing face to political authorities, he detached himself inwardly from efforts to reform his thought. At night or even in the midst of political meetings, he composed satirical and humorous aphorisms about animals. Upon returning to Beijing, he paired pictures with eighty or so captions (duanju, “short lines”).34 Although the original images were subsequently destroyed and some of the captions lost during the Cultural Revolution, he published a reconstructed version of this set titled Animal Crackers (Dongwu duanju, also translated as Bestiaries and Fables) after he relocated to Hong Kong in 1983.35 Friends helped him reassemble the earlier entries by copying quoted passages from the wall posters and propaganda used to denounce him during the Cultural Revolution. The Animal Crackers images are casually rendered like cartoons, but they are brushed with ink like Chinese painting. The aphorism and its related picture appear on tandem pages. The images are spare, without background or pigment. The inscriptions read like the animal is speaking to the reader. A parakeet says, “I may imitate people’s voices, but I don’t understand what the words mean.”36 The caption suggests the “parroting” of political slogans that intellectuals like Huang felt obliged to do. Two decades later, he painted another parakeet in bright blue and yellow to celebrate the rehabilitation of his friend Ding Cong, who had been unjustly punished as a Rightist. His caption exclaims, “This [maligned] parrot is really a beneficial bird!”37 Huang designed Animal Crackers as an amusing pastime and a joke with friends. By the 1960s, he directed much of his creative output toward a private audience of trusted acquaintances. He found the experience of creating high-profile art on government commission fraught with frustration. For example, a painting praising Soviet-Chinese friendship that he exhausted himself to produce was never displayed because the political situation changed during the short time between its commissioning and its completion.38 This experience determined him to paint according to his own aspirations rather than cater to bureaucratic demands. By the early 1960s, he had become skeptical about politics mainly because of what had happened to his friends.39 He embraced informality. His notorious “no-shirt parties” with students, during which he painted with his chest bare, suggested the premium he placed on openness and camaraderie as well as his capacity for bravado.40 Animal Crackers should be understood within this context as an off-the-record pastime conceived in a spirit of fun and showmanship. HuANG YONGYu’ S EYE TAL K

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Upon returning to Beijing, Huang circulated his aphorisms and animal pictures among friends. Mildly satirical cartoons were not expressly forbidden. Some had been published by party reformers in the early 1960s.41 But the political climate had become so sensitive by 1964 that Huang’s Animal Crackers evoked more fear than laughter. A former student at the Central Academy remembers that a senior faculty member warned him to stay away from Animal Crackers because the manuscript was “dangerous.”42 Huang underestimated the risk he was taking when he allowed it to be circulated. Once the Cultural Revolution started, it was common knowledge among students that Huang’s Animal Crackers contained content that could be used to incriminate him. During one of the initial struggle meetings, a Red Guard forced him to surrender the manuscript and taunted him with exaggerated claims about the “counterrevolutionary” meaning of various entries. In Huang’s words, the series became “the cross” that he was forced to bear for the next ten years.43 One decade later, the boldness of Huang Yongyu’s Animal Crackers impressed “Democracy Wall” activists. The editors of the journal Today published a selection of his aphorisms in their inaugural issue and heralded Animal Crackers as an important model for the Democracy Movement.44 Some of the lively caricatures in Huang’s Animal Crackers adopt the perspective of those who have run afoul of the establishment. Their humorous asides resonate with Huang’s predicament, such as the nocturnal owl who feels misunderstood or the clam who finds autonomy living “behind closed doors.”45 Some suggest a diffuse critique of Great Leap Forward policies, including a centipede who cries foul when his many pairs of feet don’t allow him to walk any faster and a donkey on a treadmill who complains of “walking a thousand miles each day” and getting nowhere.46 Huang poked fun at an upside-down world where opportunism was rewarded and kind, constructive acts punished or ignored. He made fun of the functionaries upholding the bureaucracy. Braying loudly, stinging slyly, and crawling rather than standing straight, these unsavory people lapsed into animal-like behavior. Nor did he exclude himself from derision. He admitted to being quick to “crawl on all fours” when the situation demanded it. His own hands were dirtied by “selling out” others.47 Chinese painting typically revered animals and birds, but Huang’s images and captions lampooned them. His jovial animal characters suggested, by analogy, the pretension of humans who think they are better and yet behave similarly. Huang used animals to satirize life under socialism in a manner roughly comparable to George Orwell’s Animal Farm. This set him up to be a target of criticism during the Cultural Revolution. After his release from the cowshed in 1967, Huang and his family were removed from the faculty residence and assigned to live on the outskirts of Beijing in a tiny room, which he named Jar Studio (Guanzhai). With its only window abutting a neighbor’s wall, his new home was so dark and the space so small that authorities presumed he could not paint in that environment. His handlers never anticipated the lengths to which he would go to continue painting. He used brightly colored pigments easily seen in a darkened space. He pinned huge expanses of paper on the wall and, upon completion, 100

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5.2 Huang Yongyu, Eternal Window (1967). After his release from the cowshed in 1967, Huang and his family were moved to a tiny hut on Beijing’s outskirts. Denied a window to the outdoors—the home’s only window abutted a neighbor’s wall—Huang painted this “eternal” window to elevate his mood. Oil painting, dimensions unknown. Inscription added in 1987. From Huang Yongyu, “Yongyuan de chuanghu,” 185; reproduced with permission of the artist, 2003.

stashed paintings under his bed.48 He deliberately created monumental works as a symbolic statement of his will to resist. During this time, Huang created an oil painting titled Eternal Window (Yongyuan de chuanghu, fig. 5.2) to compensate for his walled-in dwelling. Upon seeing the painting again in 1987, many years after giving it to a friend, Huang added an inscription: In 1967, I lived in the Jingxin district in a dilapidated house against my will. I had a window but no light. There was noise I wanted to make but couldn’t. Before I spoke, I had to look around. To walk, I tiptoed cautiously to protect myself. The room had a window but it was blocked by the neighbor’s wall. I lived there in the day as if it were night. Thus, I painted this painting to calm myself. I never dreamed that I would live in the luxury I do today. My very good friend was going south, so I gave him this painting as a parting gift. Huang Yongyu wrote this later in 1987.49

Commenting on this painting, Huang explained that the flower blossoms he represented were intended to “strengthen my resolve and increase the fun of living.”50 That he HuANG YONGYu’ S EYE TAL K

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painted them as seen through a window recalls the window-centered interiors of painters like Caspar David Friedrich. Such paintings contrast the confinement of indoors with the lure of a freer existence outside the house.51 Huang’s painted window lacks visible handles for opening the panes, and the seams resemble iron bars. Huang’s resourcefulness in defying constraints was fictionalized and celebrated in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution by Feng Jicai. The author constructed a character, Lao Shen, whom Central Academy colleagues described as the “hero of all underdogs.”52 Huang resembled the artist-hero of Chinese folk legend, a person who was clearly more humane, as well as more clever and imaginative, than the functionaries seeking to vilify him. He tricked those who would corral him and defended his friends, as if bound by an oath of brotherhood.53 He used the anonymity and low surveillance of nighttime to seek opportunities for spontaneous conversation. According to fellow painters Yang Yanping and Zeng Shanqing, Huang scaled the walls of their courtyard at night to visit without being detected.54 To thank the people who supported him when he was blacklisted, he mailed paintings to friends. He protected himself and the recipients from possible trouble by signing the paintings with pseudonyms and false dates.55 According to an account published in his solo exhibition catalog, when a would-be informant arrived one evening, Huang tossed an unfinished painting out the window and later left the painting unfinished as a memorial to the close call, so that he would always be reminded of the danger posed by painting during the Cultural Revolution.56 Huang invented shrewd methods for warning friends in adversity about political danger. Around 1974, he asked a young painter, Yang Mingyi (fig. 5.3), just released from labor camp, to take one of his hand-carved pipes and discreetly give it to his old friend Huang Zhou, who was then under close surveillance at his home in Beijing.57 Huang instructed his young protégé not to give it to Huang Zhou until the room was clear of other people. In the pipe, Huang had concealed a small note with a drawing of a sparrow (ma que) on it. Huang told Yang that the sparrow symbolized petty officials scheming to frame Huang Yongyu and Huang Zhou. The coded message cautioned his friend to be on alert. Yang Mingyi reports that Huang Zhou was visibly moved by Huang Yongyu’s concern. In gratitude, Huang Zhou created a painting of his trademark subject, the donkey, and gave it to the young messenger as a secret gift. This was a special honor. Earlier in the evening, another guest had asked Huang Zhou to paint, but he had refused, explaining that “the government does not like my painting.”58 During the waning years of the Cultural Revolution, when he was no longer incarcerated, circa 1974–76, Huang felt a “constant itch” to sketch en plein air. Faking illness so that he could be excused from political meetings, he took “sketching tours” via bicycle. First, he found a remote location where passersby would not spot him painting. Then he unrolled an enormous expanse of paper attached to two sticks that he planted in the ground like stakes. For fear of being seen, he sketched scenes at a considerable distance using binoculars.59 He also visited the botanical garden where he could study plant 102

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5.3 Huang Yongyu, Portrait of Yang Mingyi (2007). Huang became friends with this younger painter in the early 1970s, when both faced political danger. In 1974, Huang asked Yang, just released from labor camp, to discreetly give a hand-carved pipe to the painter Huang Zhou, then under close surveillance. In the pipe, Huang Yongyu concealed a drawing of a sparrow, warning his friend to be on guard. Now a renowned painter in his own right, Yang has recently completed a project to paint a hundred ancient bridges in southern China. Photographed with permission of Yang Mingyi. Photography by Jon Burris.

varieties indoors. A kindhearted gardener befriended him there and gave him encouragement by delivering flowers to his home. After the Cultural Revolution, Huang honored the gardener by inviting him to cut the ribbon to open his solo exhibition in 1979. In 1970–71, Premier Zhou Enlai’s offices in the Foreign Ministry sent emissaries to labor camps to invite famous painters to participate in hotel design projects. Zhou sought to enlist painters to tastefully furnish guesthouses for foreign dignitaries and to build momentum for Mao’s new policy of engagement with Western nations.60 Because HuANG YONGYu’ S EYE TAL K

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Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, saw Zhou’s initiatives as a threat to her power, she took aim at artists working under his auspices, including Huang. When she learned of his 1973 ink painting of an owl with one eye shut and one eye open, she accused the picture of “cursing at socialism.”61 The criticized artwork, which was not one of the paintings intended to decorate hotels, is now lost (fig. 5.4). Was the “eye talk” in Huang’s owl painting intended to send a political message? Certainly such an enigmatic expression would not be acceptable under the terms of socialist realism. Huang’s reputation for irreverence predisposed even fellow painters who admired Huang and hated Jiang Qing to suspect that the painting revealed his ironic outlook, even though the accusations were wildly exaggerated. As art historian Eugene Wang has argued, Huang’s loquaciousness compensated for the painting’s reticence by supplying informed viewers with suppositions that could not be extracted from the painting alone.62 Huang’s witty and flamboyant personality registered in the owl’s winking expression. Like the owl with its nocturnal habits, Huang delighted in the freedom afforded by nighttime to converse with friends and produce art. In traditional Chinese lore, the owl was seen as an inauspicious bird, and its service to humankind (for instance, killing mice) was unappreciated. Huang’s Animal Crackers series had lamented this. According to his caption on one owl image, “In daytime, humans curse me in venomous language; at night, I work for them.”63 Huang himself dismisses the notion that his winking owl was conceived as protest.64 He said he produced the painting in haste as a courtesy for an artist whom he did not know personally. When he first heard something about an owl painting being criticized, he was away from Beijing on a sketching tour. It did not even occur to him that the accused painting was his. If he had truly meant this work to function as protest, he says, he would not have painted it under such fleeting circumstances. To him, it was simply another rendition of a bird subject that he often painted for friends.65 The 1974 campaign against Huang’s painting was aimed at discrediting not only him but also his benefactors, Zhou Enlai and his associates, who had offered encouragement and resources to artist-victims of the Cultural Revolution. Huang said that during subsequent denunciation sessions, he was repeatedly asked, “Who told you to paint this bird?”66 Huang felt surprised and unjustly ensnared by Jiang Qing, because he did not consider this painting political.67 But the painting cannot be dismissed as completely apolitical in the context of 1974, because the owl’s irregular gaze defied the radical Maoists’ expectations for revolutionary art. The bird’s one-eye-open stare and shaggy eyebrows

5.4 Huang Yongyu, Winking Owl (1978, after a 1973 painting criticized in the 1974 Black Painting Exhibition, Beijing). In 1974, a painting like this one became infamous after Jiang Qing said that the owl’s wink showed disrespect for socialism, a claim that Huang denies. Ink and color on paper, dimensions unknown, inscribed “It’s a beneficial bird.” From Huang Yongyu (1988), n.p. Reproduced with permission of the artist, 2003.

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conveyed a touch of humor that Mao’s allies found unwelcome as they struggled to keep alive a sober ethic of military discipline. From their perspective, the owl’s closed eye leaves the image open to unwanted interpretations. It could mean a wink between friends, the intimation of a hidden secret, or a warning to be watchful. After 1970, Jiang Qing directed art policy through the auspices of the State Council. Wang Mantian, a relative of Mao’s English interpreter, served as her chief director on art matters.68 Huang became the main target of denunciations. He was forced to attend meeting after meeting pressuring him to admit that his owl painting cursed socialism. Then the criticism suddenly stopped when an unlikely ally intervened. Mao himself told the meetings’ organizers that owls really do look like this in nature when they hunt for mice. Mao complimented him, saying, “This artist has common sense.”69 According to another source, when his wife’s allies showed him the painting, Mao responded favorably and joked that he should learn from the owl how to let one eye rest while the other is in use, to preserve his eyesight.70 Mao’s amiable reaction put a quick stop to the controversy. The February–March 1974 staging of exhibitions in several cities to criticize Black Painting represented a setback for the trend toward moderation that began in 1971. Although hospitalized and receiving cancer treatment, Zhou is said to have used his clout to protect the artists from serious punishment. In the aftermath of the controversy, Huang continued to live in the Jar Studio on Beijing’s outskirts. His friends, Li Keran and Li Kuchan, also took refuge in the suburbs. It was during this dark period from 1974 to 1975, when the once-rehabilitated painters were again blacklisted, that a protégé of Zhou, Vice Premier Gu Mu, made private visits to artists to pay homage and pledge the party’s support. Some artists were approached as early as 1966, but most received visits in the aftermath of the Black Paintings Exhibitions from 1974 to 1979. During each meeting, Gu requested that the persecuted artist memorialize the occasion by a plum blossom painting. In time, the vice premier assembled the paintings into a collection titled Hundred Plum Pictures (Bai mei tu), later housed in the Yan-Huang Art Museum founded in Beijing by Huang Zhou.71 The collection’s theme was an obvious reference to the Hundred Schools of Thought (770–222 BCE), a period of creativity, and Mao’s more recent policy of “opening wide” intellectual and artistic expression, the Hundred Flowers liberalization of 1956–57. To commemorate the first decade of Communist rule, the revolutionary poet Guo Moruo had sponsored Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom catalogs (Bai hua qi fang tu ji) to showcase the party’s patronage of contemporary painters and printmakers.72 By assembling talent under this mantle in the midst of the Cultural Revolution, Gu sought to revive this open, inclusive policy. The plum is traditionally celebrated for its ability to withstand cold and bloom earlier than other flowers. Many of the inscriptions on the plum paintings Gu collected refer to springtime’s absence and express hope that warm weather will arrive. That the vice premier was prompting these plums to “blossom” suggests that he was

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commissioning these paintings to chase away “winter”—the Cultural Revolution—so that normalization could continue. In his postface to the Hundred Plum Pictures catalog, Huang Zhou explains: During the Cultural Revolution, Comrade Gu Mu invited painter friends to look at antiques, calligraphy, and painting, and drink tea and chat. At that time, quite a few of his guests were called “ox demons and snake spirits” or Black Painters. I was one of them. Because of Mr. Gu’s position as vice premier, the care and attention he devoted to Black Painters was risky. He named his living room the “room from which to resist the wind.” He inscribed the name on a green sea stone. Later, when painters heard about this, they respected Gu Mu even more. After Comrade Gu Mu visited the Black Painting Exhibition, he expressed worry to painters, saying, “History will consider this a ridiculous joke.” During the time when the “reverse tide” made the country go crazy, he supported the criticized painters, showed courage, and enabled many friends in painting circles to be comforted and sustain hope.73

Had they known about Gu’s project, Jiang Qing’s forces would have tried to disrupt it. The vice premier’s patronage honored the very artists that the Cultural Revolution had removed from power. Gu went to great lengths to seek out disgraced artists like Huang in obscure locations. He climbed five flights of stairs to visit Li Kuchan at a suburban hideout in 1975.74 The Hong Kong–based journalist and art collector Gundi Chan also visited Huang when he was blacklisted.75 In September 1976, Chan came to Beijing on assignment to report on Mao’s memorial services. On a free evening, Chan slipped out from his hotel unaccompanied and paid a visit to Huang in his Jar Studio. Had he reported then on what transpired, Chan would have endangered the artist. Only after the dramatic political reversal following the Gang of Four’s arrest one month later could he publish a detailed account of their meeting without betraying Huang. To an overseas Chinese-language readership, Chan’s article offered a glimpse of secret resistance in an otherwise closed China. What Huang was producing within his Jar Studio would have enraged Jiang Qing’s allies had they been informed. At a time when all of China was obliged to mourn the Chairman’s death, Huang proudly showed Chan a woodcut portrait he had made secretly to memorialize Premier Zhou (fig. 5.5). Among many who suffered during the Cultural Revolution, Mao’s death in September 1976 was greeted with relief, despite the obligation to feign sadness publicly. In contrast, Zhou’s passing nine months earlier had caused genuine sorrow. Further mourning was outlawed because respect for Zhou at that time was perceived as diminishing Mao’s prestige.76 After Jiang Qing was removed from power later in the year, many artists honored the late premier with a

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5.5 Huang Yongyu, Memorial Portrait of Zhou Enlai (1976). When all of China was obliged to mourn Chairman Mao’s death, Huang proudly showed a Hong Kong friend this woodcut memorializing Premier Zhou. For many intellectuals, Mao’s death did not evoke as much sorrow as had Zhou’s passing nine months earlier. Print from engraving, 14.4 x 10.8 in. From Chen Lusheng, Zhongguo jinxiandai (1999), 31. Reproduced with permission of the artist, 2003.

commemorative artwork. However, few were as bold as Huang to memorialize Zhou in the throes of the chairman’s mourning period. According to a postface prepared for the woodcut after the Cultural Revolution, Huang had shown Chan the Zhou woodcut ten days before the Gang of Four was deposed. At that still-volatile moment in September 1976, Huang knew he was taking a risk: “I urged [Chan] not to let others know of this. My life was at stake.”77 According to the published account, Huang also showed Chan a lotus he had painted on the day of Zhou’s passing: January 8, 1976 (fig. 5.6). This painting became widely publicized after the Cultural Revolution when it was given a place of honor in Huang’s solo exhibition.78 The final brushstroke of the painting was the lotus stem. Huang reports that he asked for divine guidance before attempting to paint a perfectly straight line to symbolize the late premier’s virtue.79 Huang’s painting testifies to the sensibility

5.6 Huang Yongyu, Red Lotus Honoring Zhou Enlai (painted on the day of Zhou’s passing, January 8, 1976). Huang painted the lotus stem with a perfectly straight line to show respect for Zhou, who had tried to shield artists. Like many intellectuals at the time, Huang believed that Zhou was taking China in a more positive direction than Mao had. Ink and color on paper, dimensions unknown. From Huang Yongyu (1988), n.p. Reproduced with permission of the artist, 2003.

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5.7 Huang Yongyu, Eternal Paragon of Virtue and Learning. With its ironic title suggesting the esteemed status of scholars in ancient China, this sculpture invites reflection on the demeaning fate of intellectuals during the Cultural Revolution. Sculpture, dimensions unknown. From Huang Yongyu (1993), 184; reproduced with permission of the artist, 2003.

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common among many intellectuals that Zhou was taking China in a more positive direction than Mao.80 Huang reports that he developed the lotus as his trademark subject matter because he loved the expressive possibilities presented by the varied poses of its blossoms and stems. The special character of the lotus plant, which rises out of muddy soil, inspired him.81 Many survivors of the Cultural Revolution, including his colleague Li Kuchan, painted the lotus theme in homage to persecuted artists as way of declaring that hardship did not thwart their vitality. Huang painted red lotuses secretly many times during the Cultural Revolution to withstand the destructive force of “the great wind.”82 An additional, more personal meaning for Huang’s interest in lotuses can be gleaned from his recollections of boyhood in a small country village. When his rambunctious behavior landed him in trouble, Huang frequently hid “among the lotuses” at a pond near his grandmother’s house.83 Lotuses meant refuge for him. After the Cultural Revolution, Huang won a competition to design a landscape tapestry for the Mao Mausoleum in the center of Tiananmen Square.84 That a conspicuous victim of the Cultural Revolution like Huang was chosen to memorialize the Chairman confirmed the change in political direction. Possibly, Mao’s positive reaction to Huang’s owl painting had some impact on the surprising decision to select a nonparty member. Huang, however, felt uneasy about this weighty assignment.85 It required weekly consultations with party officials. The end product still forms the backdrop for Mao’s marble statue in the North Hall, the room before the Hall of Last Respects where the Chairman’s corpse lies in a crystal coffin. The tapestry’s design—featuring a vast expanse of mountains and water—expresses respect for the Chairman’s place in history but does not lionize him in the superlative terms customary when Mao was alive. Despite having lived in China for most of his life, Huang continued to be perceived as more urbane and open than the typical Chinese intellectual of his generation. He was less conditioned to “keep quiet” than his slightly older and more politically cautious colleagues, such as Li Keran.86 Following the Cultural Revolution, Huang was seen as tyranny’s boldest resister, praised in one painting catalog as one who repeatedly “stood up” no matter how many times he was “knocked down.”87 After the screenwriter Bai Hua selected Huang as the inspiration for his movie Bitter Love and the movie subsequently fell afoul of hard-liners in 1983, Huang felt the heat. Bai Hua’s screenplay lionized a Black Painter who continued to be an ardent patriot and a committed artist even though his country did not love him in return.88 The question mark carved in the snow by the movie’s protagonist was interpreted as Huang’s questioning of China’s political future. In anticipation of more serious aftershocks, Huang joined the exodus from China in the mid-1980s, establishing residences in Hong Kong and Tuscany, Italy.89 From British-administered Hong Kong, Huang distinguished himself as an honest and probing commentator of the Cultural Revolution experience. His sculpture of the head of a persecuted intellectual bent in submission depicts the demeaning fate of intellectuals during the Cultural Revolution (fig. 5.7).90 In June 1989, Huang publicly HuANG YONGYu’ S EYE TAL K

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5.8 Art historian and painter Wan Qingli, Florida, April 2016. At age twenty-one, Wan was accused of political crimes and confined in the cowshed of the Central Academy of Fine Arts. This punishment proved to be a blessing in disguise, because it put him in the same room with famous painters Huang Yongyu, Li Kuchan, and Li Keran. Photography by Jon Burris.

criticized the crackdown on student activists at Tiananmen Square and painted several works on this theme.91 His portrait of a grieving Qu Yuan (the ancient poet celebrated for his loyal protest) was originally conceived as a memorial for the former party general secretary Hu Yaobang, who was ousted because of his sympathy for demonstrators, but several months later Huang rededicated it to protest the loss of life at Tiananmen Square. The inscription on a portrait of Zhong Kui created at this time declared that “ghosts” had become so ominous that that the demon queller had to set aside his knife because now the evil thing was chasing him.92 Besides painting prolifically since the 1990s, Huang has fostered many younger artists’ careers.93 The painter who acted as his emissary during the Cultural Revolution, bringing messages in pipes, is now a renowned painter. In 2010, Yang Mingyi completed an ambitious project to paint and write essays about ancient stone bridges in the south of China, calling it Hundred Bridges Pictures (Bai qiao tu), a variation on the Hundred Flowers theme. In the preface for Yang’s catalog, Huang praises his friend’s achievement as “the epitome of a lifelong pursuit of beauty by a spiritual person.”94 Huang has also devoted himself to historical preservation, sponsoring the building of a traditional-style courtyard house, the Hall of Ten Thousand Lotuses (Wan He Tang) 112

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5.9 Huang Yongyu, Owl Metaphor (1993). For his friend Wan Qingli, Huang created this painting reviving the winking owl theme. Concerned that academic work was exhausting Wan, Huang painted this scroll to convince him to vary his attitude toward life, as the five positions of the owl demonstrate here. Horizontal scroll, ink on paper, 13.1 x 52.8 in. Courtesy of Wan Qingli and Hong Kong Museum of Art.

on the outskirts of Beijing, and restoring a temple and guildhall in his hometown of Fenghuang in western Hunan.95 For another friend from his Cultural Revolution days, Wan Qingli (fig. 5.8), Huang created a painting reviving the infamous winking owl theme. Huang had advised his “apprentice” Wan, now a distinguished art historian and painter, on the importance of not exhausting himself with academic work. To illustrate his point, Huang painted for him a handscroll with five owls, each assuming a different posture: eyes open, one eye shut, both eyes shut, body turned backward, and lying down (fig. 5.9). Huang wanted to convince his friend to try out some different attitudes toward life. Wan was thrilled to receive the painting but doubted whether he could perform such mental gymnastics.96 Now in his nineties, Huang lives primarily in Beijing since resettling there in 1997. He relishes his privacy and devotes his energy to family, friends, and art. He is uncomfortable with the notion that he was a hero of resistance during the Cultural Revolution. He is the first to admit that his political misfortunes were mild compared to victims of the Anti-Rightist Campaign like his friend Ding Cong, who suffered starvation and several decades of separation from family. Huang’s candid assessments of the important issues of his day make him one of the most compelling voices of his generation.

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CHAPTER 6

Pan Tianshou’s Nocturne for a Plum Tree

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s professor and president of the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, Pan Tianshou (1897–1971, fig. 6.1) developed the first systematic program for teaching traditional Chinese painting and calligraphy as distinct fields of study in a modern art academy. He began his tenure as president in 1944 in the midst of World War II, when faculty and students moved to Chongqing to escape the Japanese invasion. Upon the academy’s return to Hangzhou in 1945, he remained president until 1947.1 Under Communist rule, he served as president a second time, from 1959 to 1966. Pan’s predecessor, French-trained Lin Fengmian, the first president of the China Academy of Art, had emphasized a Westernizing approach to art education. Traditional Chinese methods were scarcely taught.2 Pan reversed this trend through his vigorous promotion of Chinese painting, calligraphy, and seal engraving during his long association with the school. As a painter, Pan was both a traditionalist and an innovator.3 Born to an intellectual family in rural Zhejiang, Pan attended the prestigious Zhejiang First Normal College in Hangzhou to train as a teacher. He was a classmate of Feng Zikai and a fellow student of Li Shutong, the charismatic art educator who later became a Buddhist monk. Li strongly encouraged Pan to forge a fresh path for art. He dedicated a poem to Pan, cautioning him not to follow the style of previous masters too closely: “When you are too similar to the ancients, where can you find yourself?”4

6.1 Pan Tianshou (1965). Pan vigorously promoted Chinese painting, calligraphy, and seal carving during his long association with the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, both as a faculty member and as president. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

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6.2 Pan Tianshou, Timid Spotted Cat (1962). Pan is known for his strong designs, leading the eye from subject matter to inscriptions to name seals, to heighten visual impact. Ink and color on paper, finger painting, 66.1 x 19 in. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

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Pan developed an encyclopedic understanding of techniques and styles of Chinese painting. In 1926, he published the first full-length textbook on the history of Chinese painting in China.5 As a painter, Pan is known for his strong designs, leading the eye from subject matter to inscriptions to name seals, so as to heighten the visual impact. In a 1962 painting, a fearful cat pushes back in self-defense. Its mouth and chin, and alert ears, form triangles (fig. 6.2). The vertical slits in its eyes offset three long horizontal whiskers on each side, also triangular. The cat’s hunched back and mottled fur resemble a moss-covered rock, another subject Pan liked to paint. The tail, tucked under its body and pointing back to its head, completes the cat’s circular shape and gives it the look of a large Chinese character. A long, vertical blank space above the cat accentuates its small size. Only Pan’s inscription at the very top of the scroll and three bright red seals of various sizes break the emptiness. In another painting, a pair of birds sleep peacefully on a tilted ledge (fig. 6.3). Their beaks point in different directions to form a right angle. By tipping their perch and positioning them off-center, Pan avoids depicting them in a straight-up-and-down manner. His signature, “Shou from Leipotou Peak” (Leipotou Feng Shouzhe), on the opposite side of the picture, and the blades of grass framing it stabilize the composition.6 The last two characters swerve to the right to make way for his name seal. That distortion suits his design: the inscription and the ledge’s diagonal line, when joined, form an inverted triangle open to the sky. Pan’s attention to building structure may remind some of modernists like Cézanne, Mondrian, or Miró. His geometrical arrangement in these two pictures suggests why he has been called “the most creative traditional painter after Wu Changshuo, Qi Baishi, and Huang Binhong.”7 He is praised for adding “forcefulness and virility” to Chinese scholar painting without abandoning its “individuality and learnedness.”8 On the eve of the Communist victory, Pan was already a person of stature and influence, even if his best painting lay in the future. The respect he had earned as president of the China Academy of Art during the war years provided him some immunity from the turmoil accompanying Communist rule. He fared better than Li Kuchan, for

6.3 Pan Tianshou, Sleeping Birds (ca. 1963). A pair of birds sleep peacefully on a tilted ledge. Pan compensates for the downward slant of the rock with other pictorial elements, including blades of grass and his own signature and name seal, which lift the eye upward and stabilize the composition. Water and ink on paper, 24.2 x 22 in. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

example, retaining his prior salary level even after he was removed from his administrative and teaching posts and reassigned to a research position at the academy’s library.9 After vice minister of culture Zhou Yang, a Marxist theorist presumed to speak for Mao, announced a stronger commitment to preserving the national heritage in September 1953, Pan benefited from this shift.10 An award of recognition by the Soviet art community in 1958, a rare honor for a contemporary Chinese painter, added to his stature and contributed to his reinstatement as president of the China Academy of Art PAN T IANSHOu’ S NOCTuRNE FOR A PLuM TREE

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at Hangzhou in 1959.11 In the early 1960s, he was afforded a one-man show that traveled to Hong Kong, a privilege reserved for painters of the highest rank. Even when he fell out of step with political requirements, colleagues assumed that Pan’s prestige was so high that he would not be reprimanded.12 During the early 1950s, Pan made a sincere effort to adapt to the political requirements of the Communist era. He emerged from thought reform campaigns expressing remorse that he had previously “cut himself off ” from political struggles.13 He admitted that during his earlier tenure as president he had kept students focused on art rather than activism.14 Pan recognized in communism echoes of the progressive ideals taught by his mentor Li Shutong. In a move that impressed party officials, Pan voluntarily donated property in his home village acquired after the war to the provincial government.15 During the Land Reform Movement, when a brigade from the China Academy of Art was sent to Anhui, he distinguished himself as one of the few faculty members who related well to the indigent farmers. He was familiar with farming methods from growing up in a small village, and he felt troubled by the severe poverty he witnessed. Although his family had been prosperous, Pan was fortunate to escape landlord status after 1949 because his family’s fortunes had declined significantly during the war years.16 When Communist rule began in 1949, Pan was in his early fifties. Had Confucian patterns remained in place, he could have expected to enjoy increasing power and respect with age. But the decision of Jiang Feng, the art world’s most powerful administrator, to eliminate the teaching of bird-and-flower painting placed Pan in the demeaning position of becoming a pupil again. In 1951, he was told that he must stop painting birds, flowers, and rocks and switch to painting figures. He must realistically depict ordinary people’s lives using simple color and line techniques adopted from Soviet art and Chinese folk paintings. This news came as a shock. For decades, Pan had pitted himself against the pervasive belief that Western-style draftsmanship should supplant traditional Chinese practices.17 Now if he wanted to remain affiliated with the China Academy of Art, he had to surrender to an agenda that he considered deeply flawed. Pan attempted to change styles, but learning the rudiments of Western drawing was difficult psychologically for an intellectual with a record of accomplishment like his. Even as a young man, he had tremendous confidence in his ability to make a significant contribution to Chinese painting. He once implied in a painting inscription that he was the only one of his generation who could “compete with the ancients.”18 What frustration he must have felt when forced to learn the very draftsmanship skills that he had eschewed as an art student back in the 1920s. Even then, Pan recognized that he had no special interest in, nor talent for, sketching human figures from plaster casts.19 In a confession written during the Cultural Revolution, Pan admitted that the requirement to switch to figure painting so late in his career troubled him deeply: “I tried to study figures. I did it for about three years and created some works, such as Bumper Harvest, Paying Tax in Grain, Planting Melons against Possible Crop Failure, etc., but I could not 118

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do it well because I was not well trained in figures, and the techniques failed me. I was like a man starting to learn carpentry at age sixty-six. I felt it was extremely difficult.”20 Pan’s humble tone implies that his own inadequacies made learning the techniques difficult. But remarks during the less constrained political atmosphere of the Hundred Flowers Movement in 1957 suggest that privately Pan felt some rancor about the disruption to his career. In a boldly worded article published in Fine Arts Research (Meishu yanjiu), he recounted a meeting convened by Communist officials in 1950. Pan described the humiliation that he and other traditional Chinese painters, including the venerable Huang Binhong, experienced during this meeting: My impression remains vivid, as if it had occurred in the last few days instead of six or seven years ago. At that time, the attitude of Jiang Feng’s speech was very angry. Mr. Huang Binhong and others in attendance were hushed like a daughter-in-law under the dominion of a mistress, and they did not dare raise a contrary opinion. Since it had not been long since Liberation, many old painters did not yet understand the party’s policies toward art and literature, and they felt constrained to listen in silence. As I listened to Jiang Feng’s speech, I realized that what all of us old masters in attendance really thought about the policies seemed to be of no importance to the party, and traditional Chinese painting was being left to die out. It was just like a death sentence, and I felt like a convicted criminal. During that confusing time, I wondered, Would all the fruits of several thousand years of history and countless generations of ancestors, all the knowledge from the highest attainments of Eastern tradition and traditional painting, effectively “die out” under the government established by the Communist Party? That was my question, and it was not an easy one to solve.21

The remainder of Pan’s article is dedicated to presenting a counterargument to each of the three points raised in Jiang Feng’s speech denigrating traditional Chinese painting. According to Pan, the claim that traditional Chinese painting would soon die out was based on assumptions that traditional Chinese painting cannot reflect reality, cannot be monumental, and is insular rather than worldly. In subsequent years, Pan devoted himself to creating huge works based on actual geographical locations in direct response to Jiang Feng’s challenges. Inspired by the powerful visual effect of large-scale oil paintings, he vowed to create a similar sense of potency and grandeur using brush and ink.22 He ended the article with a rebuttal of Jiang Feng’s final point: that Chinese painting must merge with world trends. Pan charged that the single-minded pursuit of cosmopolitanism is tantamount to “losing one’s own face” and robbing the Chinese people of their ancestry.23 Pan’s spirited comments reveal that he had not abandoned his beliefs, even if he had been silenced for a few years. His indignant tone suggests bewilderment and frustration. During the relatively tolerant interlude for artistic creation that preceded the PAN T IANSHOu’ S NOCTuRNE FOR A PLuM TREE

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Cultural Revolution, his career resumed the momentum that one might have forecast for him prior to 1949. During the 1960s, he distinguished himself as an outspoken advocate of reversing decades of neglect and establishing a rigorous curriculum for training traditional Chinese painters. He argued publicly for the formation of the firstever Department of Calligraphy in China’s academy system.24 Sympathetic memoirs portray Pan as open to the challenges presented by China’s transition to Communism yet resistant to attempts to remold (gaizao) his art. According to Gao Tianmin, Pan “disapproved of turning art into political slogans.”25 He disagreed with the emphasis on Soviet art methods in the curriculum, which encouraged young painters to study anatomy, perspective, and shading without obtaining a foundation in calligraphy or ink painting.26 The speed with which Pan abandoned painting figures after a brief period of experimentation suggests that he was impatient to return to his own approach. In 1953, he tested the waters by creating new paintings in his previous style.27 The only political accommodation evident in Frog on a Rock was its inscription, which instructed viewers that the frog was “singing for the abundant harvest.” When authorities at the China Academy of Art responded with harsh criticism, Pan switched to alternative projects, such as buying ancient paintings at bargain prices for the academy’s study collection, and cowriting a series of scholarly books on ancient painters.28 Pan reached a watershed in his determination to walk his own road after a visit to Huang Binhong, whose home was a spiritual refuge for him during the early 1950s. The ninety-year-old Huang (who was also Li Keran’s teacher) had moved from Beijing to Hangzhou in 1948 and was allowed to paint at home out of respect for his stature and advanced age. During one of Pan’s frequent visits to watch him paint, Huang asked Pan if he was still painting despite difficulties. When Pan confessed with embarrassment, “No, every time I paint, I am criticized,” Huang urged him to continue no matter what.29 His encouragement steeled Pan’s resolve to paint in his own style from then on. Pan’s return to bird-and-flower painting around 1954 began with a sustained exploration of Bada Shanren, the same heterodox painter whose work inspired Li Kuchan and Shi Lu, among others.30 He was interested in Bada Shanren’s asymmetrical compositions of strange birds, cats, and fish. Pan drew on his knowledge of brushwork conventions, calligraphy styles, and paper types, honed over years of teaching, to experiment with novel effects. From another heterodox painter of the Qing era, Gao Qipei (1660–1734), Pan borrowed the technique of finger painting. Spreading ink with his finger or fingernail rather than a brush gave his paintings an eccentric character and an intimate feeling. Using his fingernail allowed him to create very fine lines. He eventually used this

6.4 Pan Tianshou, Powerful Gaze (early 1960s). This painting’s unusual composition delighted connoisseurs but did not satisfy the political requirement that art must send an unambiguous message of support for revolutionary policies. Pan painted high-flying birds like these because he admired their toughness and vision, but Red Guards claimed that he painted vultures because he was corrupt and vicious. Ink and color on paper, finger painting, 11.4 x 4.7 ft. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

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technique on sized paper (a treatment that made ink absorb more slowly), a virtuoso feat that even Gao Qipei had not attempted.31 Chinese art historians use the adjective xian, “dangerous,” to describe the fearless character of Pan’s art.32 Pan liked to paint high-altitude vultures (tujiu) living in places like Tibet, because they are tough and larger than eagles.33 One very interesting painting with this subject matter, Powerful Gaze (Xiongshi) from the early 1960s, illustrates why connoisseurs call Pan’s painting “dangerous” (fig. 6.4). In this eleven-foot-high scroll painting, a tall rock shaped like an inverted triangle teeters on a narrow tip. The tip curves around and vanishes into a ravine. On the top of the rock sit two large vultures. The nearest one looks straight down into the ravine, stretching its ostrichlike neck and leaning forward. The curve of its back and the direction of its beak lead our eyes to an adjacent waterfall, dropping steeply into a mysterious void. If we imagine looking through the vulture’s eyes from that leaning position and that height, the effect is dizzying. Yet a dark clump of bamboo and several flowers on the ground and more bamboo at the top stabilize the “tippy” rock, as does the other vulture, by throwing its weight the opposite way and pointing its beak slightly upward. This interplay of design elements builds a sense of danger, then resolves it. It achieves an “unbalanced balance” delightful to connoisseurs.34 However, this painting does not project a clear message of revolutionary optimism. It was one of the first to be condemned and seized by Red Guards in 1966.35 Pan chose furry or feathery creatures as subject matter mostly for formal reasons.36 He did not emphasize their eyes as much as their fur or feathers. On a vulture’s wing or hairy neck, he created a world of variation: blacks, grays, empty patches,

6.5 Pan Tianshou, Summer Pond Water Buffalo (early 1960s). Pan painted furry or feathery creatures mostly because he enjoyed their texture, shape, and dark color. Representing a buffalo’s wet snout, shoulder hump, scruffy hide, or triangular-shaped horns challenged him to vary his brushstrokes. Yet Pan also had a fierce devotion to moral integrity. When he painted, on some occasions his true feelings about political matters informed his subject matter. Ink and color on paper, finger painting, 4.7 x 12 ft. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

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lines, dots, or splashes. He enjoyed painting a buffalo’s wet snout, its mountainous shoulder hump, scruffy hide, and triangular-shaped horns, for these attributes gave him the opportunity to vary brushstrokes and represent texture, shape, and color (fig. 6.5).37 Pan was highly attentive to the structure of his compositions, the color scheme, and the placement of seals and inscriptions.38 Yet Pan also had a fierce devotion to moral integrity. On some occasions his true feelings about political matters influenced his choices when he painted. He may not even have been conscious of it.39 Certain themes, if read politically, suggest foreboding: a cat’s fright, birds asleep on a slanted rock, a vulture’s gaze into the abyss, or a half-submerged buffalo with a rope entangled on one horn. Like his friend Li Kuchan, Pan’s frustration with ill-conceived policies seem to be reflected in some of the subjects he painted. During the Cultural Revolution, Pan was pronounced a “die-hard element” and condemned for his refusal to change.40 Pan was indeed stubborn, although not in the conservative way that militants conceived. Encouraged to express his personality forcefully in art, Pan began his career rebelling against conventional views of Chinese painting.41 Some worried that he pushed too far. The master of the Shanghai school of painting, Wu Changshuo, himself a pioneering innovator, warned Pan to temper his brashness. He addressed the young artist in an inscription on a painting: [I] fear that [you] walk too fast among brambles, Be careful not to fall into the deep abyss. Oh, Shou, oh, Shou, I worry that you are alone.42

According to art historian Siliang Yang, Pan was angered by Wu’s elegantly posed suggestion that he was “walk[ing] too fast.” Pan’s inscription on a painting dated 1928 may be a reply to Wu’s warning delayed out of deference until after the master’s death: I do not understand painting, so I dare to paint as I wish.

If you say this is painting, I accept it. If you say this is not painting, I accept it. I refrain from commenting—not wishing to be ridiculed.43 In 1957, Pan said revealingly: I have liked Chinese painting since I was young. I always believed that I had genius and would go where my unrestrained character and taste led me. I was like a wild horse without reins. . . . Master [Wu] Changshuo discerned my inadequacy and pointed it out in his long poem. He was deeply worried about my heterodox way of doing paintings and sincerely advised me [to give it up].44

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Pan showed rebelliousness in his personal and professional life as well. In 1928, he divorced the wife his father had chosen for him and married a wife of his choosing. His father took the side of the ex-wife. Pan severed ties with his father until just before his father’s death.45 During the Great Leap Forward of 1958–60, Pan took a daring stance opposing the party’s proposal to involve the art academy in making iron and steel. He stated defiantly at a meeting, “A school is a school, not a factory.” His refusal to implement the policy was relayed to the Ministry of Culture in Beijing, where authorities reacted angrily. Pan did not yield to their pressure; instead, he posted a placard in the front offices of the academy announcing his wish to resign and the reasons for it. Out of respect for Pan’s stature, local authorities backed down.46 After 1958, Pan entered his most creative period as a painter. Taking issue with the notion that strong political influences always suffocate great art, Siliang Yang argues that, in Pan’s case, it was in response to politics that Pan moved his painting in a radically new direction. The building projects of the late 1950s were primarily decorated with Chinese-style paintings. This emphasis suggests that government planners had an eye toward establishing an identity separate from the Soviet Union. The interior and exterior of these buildings were intended to project a majestic past associated with Chinese culture and the promise of a new nation. These state-sponsored commissions inspired Pan to make dramatic changes in his art. He began adding more color and enlarging and reshaping his compositions so that they could appear in Western-style frames and be seen from a distance. Pan experimented with synthesizing the near view of bird-and-flower painting with the distance and grandeur of landscape painting.47 The specific challenges associated with creating Chinese paintings on a massive scale presented Pan with complex technical difficulties.48 He was obliged to place large sheets of paper on the floor rather than on a table. Unlike a canvas, the paper was too fragile to be moved until it was completely dry. To view the effect of his composition from a distance, he had to mount a ladder on top of a table and look down on it. For techniques demanding close proximity to the paper, such as finger painting, he was obliged to lay his entire body on the paper. In view of these logistical challenges, Siliang Yang’s conjecture that Pan might never have undertaken such large-scale works without the catalyst of the public commissions is convincing. Almost all of Pan’s major works after 1958 were produced on this grand scale.49 Standing in front of one such painting, his wife remarked that she felt as though the “wind” from the painting was so strong that it could “blow her over.”50 Pan’s rise to national visibility in the early 1960s was largely engineered by an unlikely supporter, Kang Sheng (1903–1975). Kang was an antique merchant in Shanghai before he became the infamous head of Mao’s secret police. Prior to the Cultural Revolution, Kang was well respected in art circles for his connoisseurship of traditional painting and his mastery of calligraphy. He was astonished when he first saw Pan’s new birdand-flower painting exhibited in the Rongbaozhai Gallery in 1960.51 He believed he had

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discovered the only contemporary painter comparable to Bada Shanren, the iconoclastic seventeenth-century master whose paintings Kang avidly collected. After the gallery told him that Pan was visiting Beijing at that very moment as an attendee at the People’s Consultative Conference, Kang contacted him by phone during a break in the meeting. Pan had no idea who the caller was. Friends admonished him to be polite, so he accepted Kang’s invitation to meet and, after some prodding, agreed to send him a painting. Kang was so excited by Pan’s gift that he asked the Rongbaozhai Gallery to print multiple reproductions of it and announced that he wanted to sponsor a one-man show of Pan’s paintings in Beijing. When the show opened in 1962, Kang prepared a couplet in his own calligraphy and arranged for it to appear at the head of an article in the Guangming Daily (Guangming ribao). Kang’s calligraphy praised Pan as “leading teacher of the painting field, master of the art world.”52 Pan soon grew impatient with the public spotlight thrust upon him.53 Not only did Kang request a painting on every visit, but more significantly, he urged Pan to move to Beijing and assume leadership of the art world. When Pan made it clear that he had no intention of moving, their relations soured. Kang stopped contacting Pan and spoke coldly about him from then on. In retrospect, this strange encounter between a politician and an artist was very significant. During the Cultural Revolution, Pan suffered extreme persecution and medical neglect at the behest of Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing. He was one of the few painters she mentioned by name, and she sent instructions to persecute him severely.54 Pan’s connection to Kang embroiled him in a turf battle. Toppling Pan from his post as president of the China Academy of Art may have been Jiang Qing’s way of asserting her authority over the art world.55 Once Pan’s troubles began, Kang did nothing to help.56 While no one could have foreseen the cataclysm that lay ahead, Pan was aware of dangerous trends affecting the art world by the early spring of 1966. He had heard rumors of an impending crackdown on bird-and-flower and landscape painting, a ban so severely enforced that traditional Chinese painters at the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing had stopped painting altogether.57 Pan knew that these measures would soon spread to Hangzhou. He responded defiantly by producing a painting six feet tall, Plum Tree and Moon, picturing a dark phantom of a tree overrun with ink (fig. 6.6).58 According to his wife and a student who witnessed the painting’s creation, Pan’s mood at that time was uncharacteristic. He seemed lost in thought, and his treatment of the plum and moon was mysterious. The tree’s root was entirely exposed and the trunk bent horizontally. He infused the tree with strong human characteristics: a branch that resembles an arm, roots shaped like a knee and a shin, and a gnarled trunk mirroring the stooped posture and weathered complexion of an old man. He used his fingernail to create a dark cloud partially covering the moon, itself reminiscent of a person’s face. The degree to which he continued to darken elements in the painting with ink, including the motif ’s only red component—the blossoming plum flowers—surprised and troubled

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6.6 Pan Tianshou, Plum Tree and Moon (spring 1966). In the spring of 1966, Pan was aware of an impending crackdown on traditional Chinese painting. In protest, he painted a plum tree in winter, giving it strong human characteristics: a branch that resembles an arm, roots shaped like a knee and a shin, and a gnarled trunk mirroring the stooped posture and weathered complexion of an old man. He used his fingernail to create a dark cloud partially covering the moon, itself reminiscent of a person’s face. Ink and color on paper, finger painting, 6 x 5 feet. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

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the student.59 The poem inscribed in the painting’s upper-right corner suggests that the plum tree represents strength in adversity, a meaning consistent with literary and artistic convention and relevant to that uncertain time. The poem emphasizes the plum’s singular ability to blossom in winter despite the silencing of all other flowers: The snow of ancient dynasties forged its spirit, Nature produced its body of iron and stone. When other flowers remain quiet, A solitary beauty raises a single branch toward spring.60

Mao’s poem “The Winter Plum” (December 1961), the presumed model for any painting on the plum theme at that time, emphasized the inevitable arrival of a socialist spring and the plum’s willingness to “join the others smiling.”61 In contrast, Pan’s battered plum strains alone to initiate a change of season. It holds up its heavy branch under the darkness of night, with even the moon’s luster dimmed by cloud cover. Battling nature’s vicissitudes, Pan’s plum blossoms are neither smiling nor abundant. The few that have nudged their way out of the snow seem to gasp for air. Pan’s painting seems to restate a warning he made in a 1961 speech that the party’s beleaguered Hundred Flowers policy might end up producing “a single flower” if constraints on painters were not removed.62 The “solitary beauty” in this painting, taxed to its very limit, suggests his distress at the even stricter regulations now stifling Chinese painting. On one level, the ink in this painting can be read as the oppressor, a weight on the plum tree’s branches. The blackened plum serves as a metaphor for Pan’s complaint of intellectual suffocation. But an alternative reading of the ink as heroic is also implied. Ink was the staple of Chinese painting and calligraphy, the most distinctive element separating native painting from foreign art forms. It was the lifeblood of the tradition that Pan had spent his life defending. In Pan’s Plum Tree and Moon, ink is not limited to conveying blackness. The wet areas connote snow or snow-covered blossoms cast in shadow. What appears to be black in fact would be white, red, even green or yellow, if the moonlight were distributed differently. Pan uses the whiteness of unpainted paper counterintuitively to suggest the darkness of night. In the Chinese tradition, painters relied upon ink alone to suggest a broad spectrum of colors.63 Repeatedly in this painting, he demonstrates that ink can conjure an array of colors through contrast and suggestion. Pan’s masterpiece offers rich possibilities for interpretation. But to Red Guards hardened to the task of persecution, the meaning of the black plum boiled down to this: its eccentric appearance and splattered ink conveyed sinister intentions. According to one tabloid, one need only glance at this unusually dark painting to discern the painter’s “counterrevolutionary mouth and face.” In “inscribing his own black poem,”

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as opposed to transcribing Mao’s, the artist showed “dog-faced courage” so excessive that “it covered the sky.”64 On a psychological level, this form of analysis carried more weight than one might at first suppose. Chinese connoisseurship asserted that the artist’s personality was discernible in the traces left by brushwork. A painting, like a poem, was thought to harbor and transmit “the extended stuff ” of the person who created it. A vital connectivity was presumed to flow between the artist and the brushstroke, as if the artist’s own body were “exteriorized” on paper.65 The radicals made use of this inherited disposition toward imagining the painting as coextensive with the artist’s body when they claimed that Pan’s black plum proved his guilt. The dark, wet properties of ink appeared to substantiate the accusation that the painting bore the residue of an evil person. Red Guards pressured Pan’s colleagues and students to report his “black remarks.” According to tabloids circulated at the time, Pan is alleged to have said, “Chairman Mao’s poems have good content, but technically speaking, most museum staff members over sixty years of age can match him.” “I do have Chairman Mao’s Selected Works, but I put them on the bottom of my bookcase. I’d rather spend my time on ancient books. I went to political studies not because I wanted to go, but because I was forced to go.”66 A March 1967 tabloid claimed that Pan was actually a villain “deserving of the death penalty” (fig. 6.7). To criticize his black paintings was to expose “unarmed enemies” still scheming to reconstitute the old society.67 Tabloids featured reproductions of his paintings defaced with Xs and text explaining how the images illuminated the artist’s reactionary “innate character” (benzhi). Pan was likened to the vultures he often painted: “They live on high mountains and hide in deep forests. They have a savage personality and eat the meat of dead people. They have no hair on their heads and look so ugly. They are the most sinister member of the bird family.”68 Jiang Qing and other Cultural Revolution leaders characterized the vultures that Pan painted as “the very embodiment [huashen] of a spy” (fig. 6.8).69 In his 1957 article, Pan complained of “the death sentence” assigned bird-and-flower painting and venerable painting masters, who were treated like “convicted criminals.” Now those descriptions seemed a harbinger of what he himself would suffer. Roughly one-third of the faculty at the China Academy of Art were confined at one time or another in the cowshed, but most stayed only a short time. Pan was jailed there for more than three years.70 The lead Red Guard organizer at the China Academy of Art, Zhang Yongsheng, was notoriously vicious toward Pan.71 Completed several months before the official outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, Plum Tree and Moon was the last large painting that Pan produced. Since previous campaigns had lasted two years at the longest, Pan thought the Cultural Revolution would exhaust itself quickly. He hoped to be exonerated and afterward devote his remaining years of good health to the full development of a national aesthetic for bird-and-flower 128

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6.7 Cultural Revolution–era criticism of Pan Tianshou likening him to the vultures he painted (Hangzhou, 1967). According to this article produced by Red Guards, Pan liked to paint vultures because he had a “savage” personality. Absurd caricatures like this encouraged an atmosphere of ridicule. Jiang Qing gave allies at Pan’s art school special instructions to persecute him severely. From “Yan yan” (Hangzhou, 1967), 12. Collection of author.

6.8 Cultural Revolution–era criticism of Pan Tianshou calling him a Nationalist spy (Hangzhou, 1967). The campaign against Pan escalated dramatically in 1968 after Jiang Qing endorsed the false charge that Pan was a spy. In January of 1969, he was transported by train to his native village and subjected to a forced march in the snow wearing a sign reading, “I am a secret agent.” The seventytwo-year-old’s health had been robust prior to the Cultural Revolution, but this humiliation on top of two years of confinement and abuse completely drained him. From “Guomindang de yingquan,” 13. Collection of author.

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6.9 Pan Tianshou painting, early 1960s. The Cultural Revolution ended Pan’s career at the peak of his abilities. Without the disaster, Pan might have painted for several more decades. Some admire Pan for his impassioned defense of Chinese tradition, while others consider him a Cezanne-type figure, building the foundation for a new stage of modernism. He died in obscurity on September 5, 1971. No memorial service, funeral, or official acknowledgment marked his passing. Today, the Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum, on the campus of the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, honors his memory. Courtesy of Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum.

painting, an accomplishment he regarded as not yet achieved (fig. 6.9). Upon hearing rumors that his home was to be searched, Pan took no action to conceal or destroy anything, telling friends that “he had nothing to hide.”72 Once taken into custody, he remained convinced that his case would soon be rectified. He steadied himself by writing appeals to political authorities. For Pan, the maintenance of decorum even in this extreme situation remained vital. The way to subvert the claim that he was a disloyal traitor was to conspicuously march in step. Honorable conduct and truthful speech could refute the lawlessness and deceit of the Red Guard campaign. No doubt the man who had resisted one earlier

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attempt to turn the national art school into a factory was horrified at the prospect of it now becoming a jail imprisoning its own faculty, but he imagined that these injustices could be resolved through reason and by following the rules. He struggled to present a brave face even though his health was deteriorating rapidly.73 He petitioned for release and responded earnestly to the interrogator’s barking questions during struggle sessions, even though he was mercilessly beaten for his disarmingly honest replies.74 When the Red Guards assigned him the job of campus trash collector, he performed this function with dignity and seriousness.75 The political establishment had ruthlessly cast him aside and squandered his talents. As trash collector, he refused to perpetuate this careless behavior. Before disposing of campus waste, he carefully sifted through the garbage to salvage material that could still be of use. A confession housed in the archives of the China Academy of Art preserves a written record of Pan’s response to Red Guard accusations.76 In it, he rebuffed the claim that he had used his position to pursue fame and wealth. Insisting that he did not partake in “vulgar attitudes,” he characterized his career as informed by a single-minded focus on teaching. He made it clear that Kang Sheng had initiated contact with him, not the other way around. He made note of the fact that the impetus for the traveling exhibition was also Kang Sheng’s: “[He] noticed that I had a foundation in traditional techniques, so he encouraged me to have a personal exhibition and to strive to create new paintings. I thought him sincere, so I accepted.”77 Elsewhere in the confession, Pan defended himself against accusations that he took advantage of the traveling exhibition to arrange pleasure trips for himself. Pan explained that he restricted the venues to three cities though more stops were planned. He declined the invitation to attend all of the openings except one in Guangzhou. He denied that he had schemed to line his own pockets by arranging for his works to be sold in Hong Kong. The Hong Kong venue had come about because art circles there contacted the Ministry of Culture after hearing news of Pan’s opening in Guangzhou. Pan agreed to offer thirty paintings for sale only at the request of Beijing authorities. The income from the sale was meager, and he had attempted to donate the entire sum of ¥1,000 to the school, but the party secretary did not know the procedure for doing so. They devised a temporary solution of depositing the money in the bank. Pan said he intended to donate the unsold paintings to the school’s museum. Throughout his confession, Pan tried to make the truth known without causing offense. He was careful about how he portrayed Kang Sheng, referring to him politely as respected elder Kang (Kang Lao). But Pan broached sensitive territory when he explained that while Kang was now a “veteran revolutionary,” he had once been “an old-style intellectual.” Still legible, this phrase has been erased, possibly because Pan realized the sensitivity of describing Kang that way. In a diary that primarily documented his deteriorating medical condition, Pan wrote more freely about the predicament of “old-age, old-style intellectuals” (lao er jiu

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zhishifenzi). Compared to his confession, the daily notations in his diary are spontaneous, although certain pat phrases suggest that he still felt the need to sanitize the text in case authorities confiscated it. On the question of whether to comply with the “rules governing life in the cowshed,” Pan mused that old-style intellectuals “rarely concern themselves with following rules [guilu].” He added, “Me neither, but now I am getting better.” He reminisced about how confident he felt when, as a young man, he first started teaching primary school: “[Back then] I was so cautious, diligent, and anxious to teach well. . . . After Liberation, everything changed. Too much, too fast. The spirit of my method of teaching was contrary to the new political way. I made mistakes without meaning to. Let the people criticize my mistakes.”78 In his confession, Pan acknowledged that old-style intellectuals “use old thought to measure everything.” But he defended their good intentions, in contrast to “ordinary landlords and despots.” He defined old-style intellectuals as those who “understand reason and feel that truth must be obeyed.” The majority “possess a sense of justice and patriotism” and are “honestly willing” to study Marxist/Leninist thought. Pan declared it impossible to expect old-style intellectuals to emulate Lei Feng, the selfless young martyr whom Mao hailed as a model hero.79 Lei Feng personified total subservience to revolutionary ideology. Pan viewed that standard as extreme and impractical, although he humbly added that his outlook might need adjusting. In the less guarded thought process revealed in his diary, however, Pan’s exasperation at the onerous expectations imposed on senior intellectuals found expression.80 In an ironic twist on Mao’s often-repeated phrase “Live until old age, study until old age [Huo dao lao, xue dao lao],” Pan added a rejoinder: “Just can’t study anymore [Xuebuliao].” Through this ironic aside, he allowed his true opinion of the Cultural Revolution’s debased concept of study to slip into his diary writing. The campaign against Pan escalated dramatically in 1968 after Jiang Qing and her ally, literary critic Yao Wenyuan, met with the Zhejiang Provincial Revolutionary Committee and encouraged them to advance “struggle.” In September, the Zhejiang Daily published a high-profile denunciation of Pan to launch the campaign. Pan was driven around Hangzhou on the back of a truck, facedown, with his hair shaved. During the same month, a Black Painting Exhibition showcased his condemned paintings. Among those orchestrating the campaign, the participation of a former student to whom Pan had devoted considerable attention, even promoted to be a teacher in the Chinese Painting Department, offended him deeply.81 This person arrived at the cowshed on a frigid January morning in 1969 and barked orders at him to “receive criticism from the local revolutionary masses.” The student announced that a “traveling struggle session” was to take place later the same day in Pan’s native village of Guanzhuang, Ninghai prefecture, on the grounds of his former middle school. After arriving by train in this country town, Pan was subjected to an exhausting regimen, a forced march in the snow and mud. The seventy-two-year-old’s health had been

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robust and his appearance youthful prior to the Cultural Revolution, but more than two years of confinement and abuse had turned his hair white and his body frail. He lumbered past jeering crowds bearing a heavy placard reading “I am a secret agent.” The same landmarks that might have marked a nostalgic trip home—the road he walked as a youth, his former schoolyard and boyhood home—were woven into an itinerary designed to shame him.82 This ravaging of a former bigwig resonated with the “terror in the countryside” that Mao celebrated in his 1926 “Report on the Hunan Peasant Movement”: “At the slightest provocation [the peasants] make arrests, crown the arrested with tall paper hats, and parade them through the villages, saying, ‘You dirty landlords, now you know who we are!’ Doing whatever they like and turning everything upside down, they have even created a kind of terror in the countryside.”83 As a young activist, Mao reasoned that the justice exacted by peasants was “perfectly discerning.” Now, forty years later, Mao accorded youth the privilege of rekindling and unleashing revolutionary energy. To kick a reactionary academic authority with military boots was to rid China of an intransigent Confucian past. To destroy the will of an influential elder was to strike a blow at “foot-dragging” intellectuals who failed to answer the party’s directives with full compliance.84 Colleagues sympathetic to Pan remember the episode as the forced march that killed him. In 1981, fellow painter Lu Yanshao, himself a victim of the Cultural Revolution, memorialized his friend in a work of calligraphy donated to the Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum: In remembrance of Mr. Pan Tianshou’s Traveling Struggle during the winter of 1969. At that time, the road leading to his hometown of Ninghai was almost impassable. He had to drag his shoes through snow and mud just to walk along the road. The atmosphere was vicious and intense, but he did not compromise himself. His heart could face the sky. . . . Today the evil thing has been killed. Right and wrong have been clarified. His mistreatment can now be acknowledged. Unfortunately the philosopher is no longer here. I feel so much pain. (Qingming Festival, 1981)85

How Pan himself reacted to the day’s events can be inferred from the rapid decline in his health and morale after this experience. That his own student took part in arranging the cruel affair inflicted a severe blow on his psyche. He felt so violated by this breach of ethical standards that he never recovered.86 To him, deference to elders and teachers was a sacred article of Chinese culture. Within Confucian political theory, the mistreatment of elders constituted a telltale sign of misrule. The Book of Mencius warned that if people with white hair are seen carrying heavy loads along village roads, then the ruler who allowed this to happen cannot be a true king.87

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During the train ride back from Ninghai, Pan picked up a discarded cigarette wrapper from the floor. Using a pencil stub, he wrote the following three poems in his elegant calligraphy and then submitted the inscribed wrapper to authorities: Myriad Mountains, one after another, Each peak is distinctly beautiful Separated for forty years

A mutual glance reveals that the person is already old. How I regret entering this world with so little worry Pain comes from not avoiding fame. Deep within the ten thousand mountains, A person can make a profession of drinking spring water. This cage does not feel narrow to me. My mind is as wide as Heaven and Earth. False verdicts based on fabricated charges Gross injustice has existed since ancient times.

In choosing poetry as his expressive vehicle, Pan placed himself in a long tradition of scholars who made their last statements in poetry before being persecuted to death.88 Pan must have remembered the persecution endured by his childhood hero, another native of Ninghai, Fang Xiaoru (1357–1402).89 The Ming dynasty scholar-official had been one of the most acclaimed talents of his day when he was publicly executed for his refusal to serve a usurping emperor. Fang was cursed at the time of his execution, but later generations canonized what remained of his scattered writings.90 Confucian historical literature described the imperial court’s extreme backlash against scholars as “inquisitions” (wenziyu, “culture-writing-prison”).91 This terminology is suggestive of the weight attributed to cultural expression as the trigger setting off a despot’s rage. Paintings occasionally played a key role in such controversies.92 Because the imperial court presumed such broad authority to prosecute cases and the punishments were so far-reaching, we typically remember inquisitions for their arbitrariness and brutality, as well as their inhibiting effect on cultural endeavor. The complex dynamics leading to such conflicts are seldom explored. Pan’s third poem, in particular, compares his predicament to an inquisition: “False verdicts based on fabricated charges. Gross injustice has existed since ancient times.”93 He asserts that he is able to transcend these constricting circumstances. His thinking remains expansive: “This cage does not feel narrow to me. My mind is as wide as Heaven and Earth.” In Chinese painting theory, a master painter who has reached the highest developmental stage can create paintings entirely from memory.94

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That he composed poetry under the unlikely circumstances of the train ride back to the cowshed and crafted it on paper so unworthy to receive his distinctive calligraphy attest to his ability to resist degradation. In submitting the inscribed wrapper to his political supervisor, Pan exposed the pretense of party-administered rectification practice. He justified his disclosure, explaining that “these were his true feelings, and he did not wish to hide them.” Chinese folk wisdom warns people to fear fame as a pig fears getting fat.95 Pan believed that fame had ushered in his demise.96 He must have regretted accepting the overtures of Kang Sheng, whose patronage entangled him in divisive political conflicts. What sustained him amid sadness was the knowledge that others had also suffered on account of their poetry and painting, yet their contributions to Chinese culture were later acknowledged. Even if death arrived before he was exonerated, his paintings, as longer-lived extensions of himself, would outlast the turmoil and persuade future generations to reverse spurious judgments. Several months later, Pan was released from the cowshed. When friends asked if he planned to paint again, he declared that his sole ambition was to help his wife cook meals. In the aftermath of struggle, the reclusive conduct of Liezi, the ancient Daoist adept who “replaced his wife at the stove,” held appeal for him.97 Pan aspired to “return to plainness,” to retreat within the household to psychological safety. During this quiet year at home, he politely refused a young painter who asked to be his student, recommending that the aspiring artist seek out fellow bird-and-flower painter Li Kuchan instead. Pan died in obscurity on September 5, 1971. No memorial service, funeral, or official acknowledgment marked his passing. In a 1995 interview with the author, Pan’s colleague at the China Academy of Art, Zhu Yingren, described his feelings about Pan’s persecution. Zhu said that most people understood at the time that Pan had made a great contribution to the school and that the attacks on his character were baseless. Radical Maoists trumped up charges against Pan because they wanted to discredit his authority and shake up the ideological structure. Once Zhu had been asked to fill out a report condemning Pan as a spy. He refused to write anything and was demoted for it. Zhu had originally trained to be an oil painter. Early in his career, Pan asked him to help teach bird-and flower painting, and gradually Zhu came to specialize in it. In 1974, Zhu was asked to start producing bird-and-flower paintings again. The request came from the very top: Premier Zhou Enlai wanted to export bird-and-flower paintings to earn foreign exchange as part of a new direction in foreign policy. Zhu created some paintings but soon faced criticism again. Later, he learned that the problem stemmed from one of his seals, “Flowers-and-Grass Spirit” (Huacao Jingshen). Apparently, Jiang Qing’s allies saw “Flower-and-Grass Spirit” as antithetical to Mao’s instructions to emulate the spirit of Lei Feng, the revolutionary martyr.98 After the Cultural Revolution ended, China’s art circles reclaimed Pan as the father of modern Chinese painting. In a stunning 1985 portrait by his student Huang Fabang,

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6.10 Pan Tianshou’s son, Pan Gongkai, director emeritus, Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing, 2016, with the author. Pan’s son is a distinguished painter and leading educator in the art field like his father. He mainly trained in Western drawing and never studied under his father. Pan Gongkai urges today’s art students to learn deeply from both traditional Chinese culture and world art trends. Photography by Jon Burris.

Pan stands in front of his personal seal. The portrait monumentalizes Pan’s strength of personality and the dignity of his bearing.99 The establishment of the Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum on the grounds of the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou ensures that the artist will not be forgotten. Pan’s wife used the financial recompense she received from the government to purchase his surviving paintings and donate them to the museum’s collection. His son, Pan Gongkai (fig. 6.10), became president of the same academy in 1996, and then served as president of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing from 2001 to 2014. Pan Gongkai mainly learned Western drawing and never studied painting under his father. However, he holds great respect for ancient Chinese art. During his tenure as academy president, Pan urged art students to learn deeply from both the ancient and modern. The rapid globalization of recent decades makes some think Chinese culture is vanishing, but Pan sees it as resilient. He explores this theme in his recent artwork, a fifty-foot-long ink painting titled Withered Lotus Cast in Iron.100 When asked if the flower subject had some relation to his father’s last painting, the plum tree made of “iron and stone,” Pan said that the lotus in his painting symbolized Chinese culture, not a person. “The lotus’s leaves wither in the autumn season, but its branches are still very tough.”101

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3

Communist Idealist Shi Lu

CHAPTER 7

Inside the Secret Notebook

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he artist Shi Lu (1919–1982, fig. 7.1) kept a secret notebook after his release from the cowshed during the final years of the Cultural Revolution. From 1973 to 1975, he worked on it after midnight, when his activities could escape notice. Besides pen-and-ink drawings, the notebook includes poems and miscellaneous writings.1 One drawing features a small statue of himself seated on a pedestal in a dreamlike setting (fig. 7.2). Shi Lu’s daughter, who lived with him at the time, asked him what the drawing depicted. He told her that it was his tomb (mu).2 The tomb’s irregular shape derives from the characters for his pen name, embedded in the heart of the structure. Born Feng Yaheng, the artist created a new name for himself when he joined the Communist base camp in 1940. Taking the name Shi Lu represented an affirmation of his goals as an artist-revolutionary. Shi paid homage to Shitao (1642–ca. 1707), an inventive painter of the early Qing dynasty, and lu referred to the modern author Lu Xun. In adopting this blended name, Shi Lu associated himself with two bold innovators he wished to emulate. They were the cornerstones of his identity as a creative artist. The tomb image occupies a full page in his notebook. Were it smaller, it might be mistaken for a name seal on one of Shi Lu’s paintings. After 1970, the artist painted

7.1 Shi Lu at age sixty-one, Shaanxi Provincial Hospital, 1980. Upon joining the Communist movement in 1940, Shi Lu invented his pen name based on the two bold innovators he wished to emulate: Shitao, a painter of the early Qing dynasty, and Lu Xun, the twentieth-century author. Photograph by Ye Jian. From Feng Shiguo, “Shi Lu zhuanlüe,” 33. Reproduced with permission of the artist’s family.

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seals rather than stamping them on paper with a carved stone chop. He is possibly the first Chinese painter to use this expressive technique. Before the Cultural Revolution, he followed the standard practice, but that was before Red Guards ransacked his residence and confiscated his seals. Robbing him of these amounted to identity theft; the militants meant to leave him without the means to imprint his name and authenticate his paintings. He never used those seals again, even after a few were returned to him in 1970. His new method of painting seals directly on the paper gave him more freedom to tailor each one to match subject matter or composition.3 He could turn them into small pictures: a crescent moon or a dragonfly. They looked more whimsical and personal than the customary seal because the squares or circles he painted around the characters were imperfectly shaped.4 In response to the Cultural Revolution, Shi Lu underwent a dramatic psychological transformation. He refused to continue his art as though nothing had happened; he allowed trauma to be evident in his paintings. In one rebellious act, he mounted six wooden frames, emptied of art, on the walls of his home.5 The empty frames testified to his unwillingness to serve illegitimate patrons and challenged critics to look for something to condemn in utter blankness. On the cover of his secret notebook, Shi Lu pasted a photograph of a painting that Jiang Qing’s allies had confiscated and destroyed.6 The painting, created in 1972, depicted plum branches pointing downward. During the Black Painting Exhibition in Xi’an in 1974, his detractors crudely claimed that the plum revealed Shi Lu’s self-pity and proved his spiritual defeat.7 By pasting a facsimile of this painting on the cover later the same year, the artist signaled that this notebook refuted those accusations. The plum flower held special meaning for Shi Lu, but not at all what his accusers claimed.8 In 1975, he explained to a student that the red blossoms of the wild plum symbolize broad-minded thinkers who flourish despite a frigid winter.9 The beauty of the flower is still evident, he said, even in the midst of a thicket practically stifling it. He gave his student a painting of such a flower and instructed him to think of it as encouragement. He told him to emulate the wild plum and resolutely preserve his individuality and stay committed to truth. From 1971 to 1975, Shi Lu painted hundreds of flowers, a topic he rarely painted prior to the Cultural Revolution. They came to embody his personality and express his innermost feelings. One particularly dramatic painting features a magnolia lily dangling upside down. Its stem is on the verge of detaching from a branch, yet it clings to life (fig. 7.3). On the drawing of his tomb in the same notebook, another wildflower appears. Its blossom stands erect on its stem, rising from spiky leaves near the wall, perhaps the Great Wall. It may be a dandelion, a hearty survivor in barren soil. The tomb also contains two turtles: a large one at the bottom of the structure and a tiny one crawling outside it. The large one looks unusually square and flat. It seems stationary, as if stakes have nailed it to the ground. In Chinese tradition, turtles symbolize longevity and survivability. They appear on tombs, supporting the weight of the stone tablet on their 140

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7.2 Shi Lu, Tomb (ca. 1974). During the final years of the Cultural Revolution, after he was allowed to return home, Shi Lu worked on drawings after midnight, when his activities could escape notice. This one features a small statue of himself, a dandelion, and several turtles. The artist told his daughter that it was his tomb. Its irregular shape derives from the characters for his pen name, shi 石 and lu 鲁, embedded in the heart of the structure. Pen and ink drawing from his secret poetry notebook. Author’s photograph of manuscript in private collection. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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7.3 Shi Lu, Magnolia Lily (1971). Shi Lu seldom painted flowers prior to 1971, but he painted hundreds from 1971 to 1975 to protest the Cultural Revolution. His personality infuses his flower subjects. Though physically injured, they are spiritually buoyant, even acrobatic. Something has knocked this lily to the ground, but its dangling stem, twisted and upside down, is not defeated. Ink and color on paper, 53.1 x 27.2 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

back. The turtle’s ability to retreat inside its shell gives it a level of protection unmatched by other species. Shi Lu considered the turtle his personal emblem during the Cultural Revolution.10 He identified with the turtle (gui), long admired by Daoists for its humble, earthy existence. He delighted in thinking of the character lu 鲁 of his own pen name as looking like a hanging turtle. When signing his name, he often gave lu a squiggly, turtle-like tail. Over his bed he hung a painting of a turtle squaring off with a snake. In 1974, Shi Lu was living at home and still facing political danger. He could not circulate his notebook without fear of incarceration or even death.11 He created drawings and poems not just for himself but also for future generations, as a kind of archive so that his experience of the Cultural Revolution would not be lost.12 For the previous ten years, he had been persecuted as a counterrevolutionary. Radical youth had beaten him 142

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nearly to death. He was imprisoned in the Xi’an Art Academy, a school where he had served as vice director of the Chinese Artists Association of Shaanxi. Many intellectuals in his predicament committed suicide, but Shi Lu stubbornly lived on, though in an emotionally and physically battered state. Even before the Cultural Revolution started, attacks on his painting had so traumatized him that his family institutionalized him for mental illness. Once the Cultural Revolution began, Shi Lu was snatched from the asylum and denounced publicly. He endured the worst of it heavily medicated. On his imagined tomb, Shi Lu drew a statue of himself holding a walking staff or possibly a sword. He seems tranquil, although the labyrinth behind him is frenetic. Its crowded lines—rounded like pebbles or squared off like ramparts—reveal a restless thought process. On the lower end of his tomb, above the splayed turtle, some English words can be discerned: russia, USA, and MAO. Behind Shi Lu’s statue, there appears a vertically written English word: OPEN. The seated figure faces outward as if to declare mastery over the turbulence behind him. Or perhaps he looks out as a thinker guarding his independence from outside threats. The statue of someone thinking invites comparison to Rodin’s famous sculpture The Thinker. Shi Lu’s image is by no means an exact imitation: his thinker sits upright with arms resting at his side, while Rodin’s is crouched with back arched and fist pressed to mouth.13 Shi Lu’s statue is robed; Rodin’s, famously, is not. Nevertheless, Shi Lu’s enigmatic positioning of a pensive figure in profile, jutting out from the rest of the structure, calls to mind Rodin’s iconic monument. As a great admirer, Shi Lu would have known that Rodin’s famous sculpture had initially been conceived as the poet Dante composing The Divine Comedy from the gates of the inferno.14 Before it became recognized as an independent statue, the silhouette of an inwardly focused man formed the centerpiece of Rodin’s architectural masterpiece The Gates of Hell.15 From a high perch on the massive gate, Dante, as Rodin represented him, sat calmly in the midst of disorder, thinking about his long poem. Shi Lu possibly had Rodin’s Gates of Hell in mind as he considered how to represent himself, still inwardly creative, in the midst of China’s inferno. He had been to the abyss and back. The cobwebs at the top of his tomb and the splayed turtle in the lower portion suggest the hell he had been through. In the poems in his notebook (see Appendix), Shi Lu defends the ideals of the early Communist movement (“A Song to Praise Yan’an”). Although he shows respect to the traditional painter Bada Shanren by dedicating a poem to him (“In Praise of the Painter Bada Shanren”), Shi Lu does not approve of his predecessor’s worldview. He is careful to differentiate his own Communist-inspired philosophy from the elitist outlook of Chinese painters prior to the twentieth century. In the same poem, he exposes his sharp disagreement with “Emperor Shun,” apparently a reference to Chairman Mao. He makes a startling claim: “Disobeying Emperor Shun, I chose the unsullied path,” adding, “How I wished to soar like a heavenly horse, but I stood my ground to defend talent.” By the time he created his secret notebook, Shi Lu no longer considered himself an admirer of Mao. This represented a dramatic shift, since Mao had once been his idol. INSIDE THE SECRET NOTEBOOK

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Passersby sometimes thought Shi Lu was Mao, because the younger man looked so much like Mao in the eyes and in the sweep of his hair.16 According to his son, Shi Lu originally saw Mao as a kindred spirit who did not want to be “conquered by traditional culture.” Young Shi Lu saw Mao as the spokesman for a free life and an egalitarian society.17 According to his own account in confession materials, Shi Lu’s disapproval of Mao’s policies began prior to the Cultural Revolution, but only in the pages of his secret notebook of the mid-1970s is his full rejection of the aging Mao made clear. Anticipating developments that would take shape during the Deng Xiaoping era, Shi Lu placed the blame squarely on Mao for leading the nation into an abyss. Shi Lu spent his childhood in a luxurious garden setting. He was the second son of an illustrious landlord family that owned extensive property in Sichuan. For centuries, the Feng family had produced Confucian scholar-officials. The family’s book holdings rivaled the collection of the provincial library.18 A magnificent garden on the premises recalled the famous Grand View Garden from the Qing dynasty novel Dream of the Red Chamber.19 As a boy, Shi Lu ran along its paths and watched fish in its ponds. One of Shi Lu’s fondest childhood memories was playing in the garden with a household servant. The old man-servant saved Shi Lu’s life when a branch broke on the tree he was climbing. Without the intervention of his grandfatherly companion, Shi Lu might have drowned.20 During the worst moments of the Cultural Revolution, when his anguish became overwhelming and his mental clarity waned, Shi Lu fondly remembered this household servant as a kind of holy person in his dreams. Shi Lu’s escape from confinement to the wilderness of Sichuan during the Cultural Revolution was motivated in part by the unrealistic hope that he could reunite with this lost hero. He remembered this man as a gentle companion who played games with him and kept him safe. In fact, he was more attached to this servant from humble circumstances than he was to his own parents, who were aloof. His surrogate father bred in him a desire to become proletarian himself, a commitment that grew deeper as he learned more about communism and eventually joined the movement in 1940 at the age of twenty-one. Chinese tradition exalted the scholar’s garden as a place apart from the dusty world of politics. In a garden, scholars could lose themselves in aesthetic experience and after-hours pursuits: painting, calligraphy, poetry, and seal carving. As a child, Shi Lu excelled at these scholarly pastimes. However, as a young adult, he recognized that the leisure enjoyed by his family relied on an economic structure that exploited most of China’s population. Upon joining the Communist movement at age twenty, Shi Lu rejected the notion of the scholar’s garden—a pristine sanctuary apart from the world’s cares—as a paradise unjustly reserved for the wealthy few. The Cultural Revolution attempted to eliminate the old Confucian prerogative of having a garden. Those private spaces devoted to beauty were seen as elite strongholds; they must be made to serve proletarian politics. Radical Maoists made gardens the site of revolutionary struggle meetings against revisionist elements; potted flowers were “dragged out” and replaced by foodstuffs.21 According to Mao, gardens must 144

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serve useful purposes like producing vegetables rather than growing flowers.22 In his young adulthood, Shi Lu might have agreed. But after experiencing the brutality of the Cultural Revolution, he saw things differently. His secret art affirmed flowers and gardens. He now knew what life was like when revolution devoured everything. Shi Lu was born in the epic year 1919, a watershed of independence for modern Chinese intellectuals, and the fact that his birth coincided with it now seems a portent of Shi Lu’s ardent patriotism and his vigorously thoughtful life.23 What flowed out of the events of 1919 was a profound blow to the inherited assumptions of China’s Confucian elite. From national humiliation grew a relentless drive to catch up with the West culturally as well as materially. Changing the cultural meant delving down to the nub of what it meant to be Chinese. After 1911, China’s political structure changed dramatically from monarchy to republic, yet the culture underneath changed hardly at all. Those who embraced the iconoclastic temper of the times proclaimed that only a cultural revolution could transform China into a modern nation. The impulse behind Mao’s destructive Cultural Revolution started then. The intellectual historian Joseph Levenson imaginatively framed the decisive break between New China and its Confucian past when he described May 4, 1919, as “the day Confucius died.”24 On this seminal date, the Versailles peace conference’s decision to transfer defeated Germany’s concessions in Shandong to Japan rather than give control back to China, and the Chinese delegation’s acceptance of it, triggered outrage. Even though China had sent workers to contribute to the Allied victory, in World War I’s aftermath China was denied what Wilson’s idealistic rhetoric had promised: respect for the nation’s integrity. This bruising slight spurred demonstrations and strikes in China’s major cities. Anger was directed not so much outward as inward toward traditional Chinese culture. From the vantage point of a century later, we now recognize that Confucianism was not the fossil that many activists claimed.25 Chinese civilization’s clash with the West was profoundly consequential, much more decentering than the previous conquests of China by Buddhism and the Mongols.26 Buddhism, which entered China along the caravan routes of Central Asia and became pervasive by 400 CE, profoundly challenged China’s family practices, but its absorption was comparatively gradual and occurred during a period of political disarray. In the thirteenth century, the Mongols conquered China’s territory all at once and with brutal force, but nomadic rule did not pose an existential threat to China’s cultural identity because the Chinese had no interest in imitating the Mongol way of life. In contrast, the West’s penetration into China in the mid-nineteenth century, which introduced modern science and naval warfare, administered a shock so shattering that it amounted to “the Buddhist conquest and the Mongol invasion . . . combined and compressed into one generation.”27 Shi Lu’s hero, Lu Xun, the chief architect of the concept of a cultural revolution in China, thought the Confucian way of life encouraged behavior that was too timid and conforming. He likened artwork and essays that brought pleasure and relaxation INSIDE THE SECRET NOTEBOOK

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to opiates.28 Drawing on Romanticism, Lu Xun sketched out a new personality type based on mavericks of Western civilization—for example, Dante, Shelley, and Byron— describing their social impact as one of “demonic force.” They had shocked their contemporaries and pointed the way to the future. Lu Xun feared that conservativism in China was so tenacious that fierce activism—associated in Lu Xun’s mind with the Buddhist deity Mara, whose name meant “disruptor”—was necessary to alert the Chinese people to urgent challenges.29 The young Shi Lu embraced these calls for sweeping change. From firsthand experience, he recognized the problems of the dying Confucian world. His father was a connoisseur of rare birds and exotic flowers who was largely absent from his upbringing. His mother, a strict disciplinarian, managed all household details. She leaned on her rebellious second son, Shi Lu, to absorb a Confucian education and submit to an arranged marriage. But Shi Lu, whose nickname was “naughty monkey,” liked to draw pictures rather than memorize the classics. The frustrated household tutor beat his hands with a ruler and made him kneel on bricks for failing to complete his lessons. On one occasion, young Shi Lu filled the tutor’s teakettle with urine as an act of revenge.30 His relationship with his mother (who treated him sternly and for whom he had little affection) was tense. She proposed a bride for Shi Lu and refused to pay his school tuition until he submitted. He consented to the marriage to receive the money, then left home before consecrating the union. Shi Lu left the family estate at fifteen to study at a progressive art school founded by his brother in the provincial capital, Chengdu, from 1934 to 1936.31 His brother, Feng Jianwu, had been one of the early pupils of Wu Changshuo, the leading luminary of the Shanghai school of painting and mentor to Pan Tianshou. Wu was renowned for his seal carving, poetry, calligraphy, and expressive brushwork. After two years of training at Wu’s school in Shanghai, Feng Jianwu founded his own art school in Chengdu, called the Oriental Art College. As the new school’s youngest student, Shi Lu received a comprehensive training in both traditional Chinese painting methods and Western drawing. He studied watercolor, calligraphy, seal carving, and poetry, but also received training in Western painting, especially pencil drawing. As part of the traditional method of teaching, Shi Lu copied paintings by Shitao and Bada Shanren, whose heterodox styles inspired him to develop an intensely personal style.32 In 1936, Shi Lu returned home to become an art teacher at an elementary school. When the Japanese invaded China and World War II began in Asia, he became restless to return to city life. This time, he chose not to study art. He enrolled in a program in sociology and modern history at the West China Union University in Chengdu. The school’s experimental curriculum encouraged debate and introduced students to various perspectives on China’s national dilemma. He soaked up the latest thinking on politics and philosophy and read a biography of Mao Zedong, the Communist leader who had by this time established himself as head of the Communist movement. Shi Lu was persuaded to join.33 146

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7.4 Shi Lu, Chairman Mao at a People’s Heroes Assembly (1946). Note that the head of the farmer with whom Mao is conversing is above Mao’s. The old man seems to have climbed up on his chair to relate a story to Mao, who listens with rapt attention. This woodcut provides a concrete picture of Mao’s promise to afford farmers the highest esteem, reversing the Confucian notion of officials above, farmers below. Revolutionary woodcut, 7.9 x 12.3 in. From Shi Dan, Shi Lu (2003), 63. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

At the age of twenty, in 1939, he left Chengdu to make the trek to Yan’an in the remote mountains of northern Shaanxi, where the Chinese Communist Party had arrived four years earlier. Six thousand had survived the Long March with Chiang Kai-shek’s military in pursuit. Yan’an became a magnet for youth eager to join fresh currents of social change. Conditions there were primitive; even Mao lived in a house carved out of an earth cliff. Shi Lu made the journey secretly, without telling relatives or friends. He started off on bicycle, then boarded a bus for Xi’an, the largest city near Yan’an. Chiang Kai-shek’s military had set up checkpoints to prevent youth from joining the Communists, so Shi Lu hid in Xi’an for several months. He set out for Yan’an one night with friends, traversing the terrain on foot and arriving ten days later with blistered feet.34 Shi Lu never conversed directly with his idol, although he saw Mao in person on several occasions. He was the first artist in Yan’an to depict Mao in a revolutionary woodcut (fig. 7.4).35 At that time, in 1946, the woodcut was a novel technique for Shi Lu. Art supplies were scarce because of China’s war with Japan and the blockade on the Communists imposed by Chiang Kai-shek’s army. The artists based at Yan’an were INSIDE THE SECRET NOTEBOOK

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limited to tools they could produce themselves. Shi Lu made his own carving knife and the carpentry tools necessary to carve wood. He rapidly learned how to wield the knife and soon distinguished himself as one of the most admired woodcut artists. Although he returned to brush painting after the war, he continued to draw on his experience with woodcuts as a resource for developing approaches to painting.36 Shi Lu became a sincere proponent of Mao’s program for mass democracy. The stifling atmosphere of his landlord family led him to side with the farmers in the struggle for land. He became convinced that land reform—confiscation of land from the wealthy and redistribution to deprived members of society—was a prerequisite for establishing a new society at the grassroots. In 1947, Yan’an was disrupted and dispersed by an invasion led by General Hu Zongnan of Chiang Kai-shek’s army. The turmoil deepened Shi Lu’s knowledge of actual conditions in the countryside. In 1947, he participated on a land reform work team. At one struggle meeting, angry peasants beat local landlords to death with bricks. Shi Lu wrote an article condemning the behavior and warned that unless it stopped, the legitimacy of land reform would be threatened. He created several woodcuts—Reasoned Discussion and Democratic Criticism Meeting—designed to model how peaceful struggle against landlords could be conducted.37 After criticizing the violence in 1947, Shi Lu was accused of acting in solidarity with landlords because of his family upbringing. Critical to his eventual success in overcoming his “bad class background” was his marriage to Min Lisheng two years after his arrival at Yan’an, circa 1942.38 Shi Lu was a long shot to win her favor because she was not only beautiful and a good dancer but, more importantly for Shi Lu’s future, a party member trusted by officials. At Yan’an, men outnumbered women eight to one; competition for a prize such as Min Lisheng was fierce. Everyone was surprised when she chose Shi Lu among her suitors because he had been the subject of so much gossip. Upon arriving at Yan’an, he had reestablished contact with his family by writing them a letter revealing his whereabouts. His mother wrote urging him to come home to take over his inherited portion of land and sent cash. Her son had no desire to return and spent the money quickly on outings with friends. Those sumptuous gatherings funded by Shi Lu were not looked upon favorably. Min’s supervisor tried to break up the romance several times, telling Min that Shi Lu was a scoundrel. Min proved courageous in sticking with her instincts about Shi Lu. She could see that he possessed special qualities. His zest for life, his sensitive and compassionate character, and his abundant talent endeared him to her. At that time he was the leader of a propaganda group staging theater for the local farmers, in which he was responsible for stage design.39 He developed imaginative costumes and makeup for the performers and wrote a book sharing his procedures with other propaganda teams.40 His talent for developing popular art forms for the Communist cause eventually won over the authorities. By 1946, he was invited to become a Communist Party member. According to Shi Lu’s son, these two victories—first in love, then in politics—provided emotional compensation for the lack of love from his mother, who never played with him when he was little.41 He found 148

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his spiritual home at Yan’an. Thus it was fitting that he christen himself with a new name, signaling a totally new life. That self-invented name stuck; even his children adopted the surname Shi rather than using the original family name, Feng. Years later, a fable in his secret notebook revealed Shi Lu’s changed perspective on Mao.42 The anger he felt toward his former idol, only hinted at in his painting and poetry, is conspicuous in this story of an encounter between Confucius, China’s most important philosopher, and Qin Shi Huang, China’s first emperor. The two historical figures lived in different centuries, so their meeting is apocryphal. Qin Shi Huang clearly represents Mao; since 1958, Mao had explicitly identified with the first emperor. Although Qin Shi Huang had traditionally been viewed negatively for his brutalizing treatment of scholars and Confucian learning, Mao approved of the first emperor’s actions in “burning the books and burying the scholars.” In 1958, Mao told party members, “What does Qin Shi Huang amount to? He buried only four hundred and sixty scholars alive; we have buried forty-six thousand scholars alive. Haven’t we killed counterrevolutionary intellectuals? In my debates with some members of the minor democratic parties, I told them, ‘You revile us for being Qin Shi Huangs, for being dictators. We have always admitted this. It’s a pity you didn’t go far enough, and we have frequently had to augment what you have said’ (roaring laughter).”43 Mao’s decision to launch the Cultural Revolution was consistent with his affirmation of “revolutionary violence” as a means to destroy class enemies. According to Mao, a modern-day “burning the books and burying the scholars” was required to ensure a proletarian revolution. Shi Lu felt repulsed by Mao’s thinking on Qin Shi Huang. To exterminate all the smart people and bury their knowledge, Shi Lu protested, was extremely shortsighted. In his fable, Shi Lu blended a critique of Mao’s frenetic steel-making campaign during the Great Leap Forward with a discussion of the Qin state’s proliferation of iron technology. His fable interweaves Qin Shi Huang’s and Mao’s personalities to signal the reader that to talk of one is to imply the other. As narrator of the fable, Shi Lu asserts that Qin Shi Huang pursued iron production with such relentless ambition that his face turned to iron, robbing him of the humility and humaneness necessary for governing. Qin Shi Huang made a very big beginning, but he did not know how to foster it to the end. . . . Later he gave a big speech about wanting to control the country. It did not matter that it would cost blood. He became iron faced, showing no sympathy. This earned him the ridicule of later generations. In a rage he threw Li Si [his adviser] into a big pot. Once he destroyed all the knowledge, Qin devoted everything to ironwork. He became a slave in his heart despite his hatred for slavery. He became iron hearted. Obsessed with the thought of living a life without rust, even in death Qin wanted to be buried in iron ore.44

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7.5 Shi Lu, Qin Shi Huang, China’s First Emperor (1973–75). In this drawing, Shi Lu depicts the tyrannical Qin Shi Huang (whom Mao viewed favorably) with the broad, flat face and rotund body of the aging Mao. In images like this and writings in his notebook, Shi Lu revealed his loss of confidence in Mao and his utter rejection of destructive policies like the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution. Pen and ink drawing from Shi Lu’s secret poetry notebook. Author’s photograph from private collection. Reproduced with permission of the artist’s family.

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century!”45 Shi Lu’s sketch of Qin Shi Huang in the secret notebook makes clear his renunciation of Mao (fig. 7.5). Qin’s broad, flat face resembles the aging Mao. It is not a complimentary portrait. According to the portrait’s inscription, the emperor’s clothes are “tattered.” His mouth is “drooling” and “his nose running.” He is dreaming of an ambitious iron-making campaign. Shi Lu outlined Qin’s robe and face in black, without a trace of revolutionary redness. In contrast, his portrait of Confucius from the same notebook looks calm and dignified.46 He wears a robe made of cotton and outlined in bright red. The inscription on the portrait describes the sage as strongly identified with the common people. Confucius’s slender appearance in Shi Lu’s image does not resemble conventional depictions of the ancient philosopher; it is likely a self-portrait. Shi Lu had been pejoratively called Confucius during the Criticize Lin Biao and Confucius Campaign of 1973–74. He accepted the role. He let his beard grow and dressed in the simple white robe of a Confucian scholar in mourning. In Shi Lu’s fable, Confucius tries unsuccessfully to persuade Qin Shi Huang to use “the mild, humane way to govern.”47 The emperor is an earthy man of limited vision who foolishly relates every problem to iron production. He is the “Golden Mouth” for all of society: “Everything he says, all have to follow.”48 He wants to “shake the nerves” of society, but he fails to plan sufficiently. If he had been willing “to explore his own shortcomings” and develop a deeper understanding of the country’s challenges, Shi Lu explains, Qin Shi Huang would not have done so much damage, and history’s evaluation of him would have been positive. Shi Lu still extends him sympathy: “Who truly understands the sadness of Qin Shi Huang? . . . He tried to do the right thing but it turned out wrong.”49 In another drawing in his secret notebook of the 1970s, Shi Lu designed his own tombstone (mubei). We may think of it as his final statement, although his death from stomach cancer at sixty-three would not come for another eight years. Here is what Shi Lu’s son says about it: “This illustration was made with red and black paint. It represents a stone tablet. [My father’s] self-portrait is elegant and proud, extraordinary like his spirit. The crane symbolizes his lofty idealism, the turtle his persistence.”50 Shi Lu drew himself on the tombstone, this time at close range with his face clearly visible (fig. 7.6). He depicts himself with a beard and moustache and wearing an archaic costume. The last character inscribed on his robe is the qu of Qu Yuan, the banished official of the ancient kingdom of Chu and author of the poetry collection Songs of the South (Chu ci), who drowned himself in the Miluo River. In a poem included in his secret notebook, “Chanting by Lakes, Repairing the Sky Poems,” Shi Lu adopts Qu Yuan’s persona and his ancient style of verse to protest his own mistreatment during the Cultural Revolution and to assert his continued loyalty to Communist ideals.51

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On the upper red portion of the stone are two large white characters, shici 诗词 (poetry). At the bottom right, Shi Lu stands erect, making an offering before an altar. With shoes removed, he watches his name rise, light as air. On this tombstone, he portrays himself making a sacrifice to poetry, affording it the kind of reverence typically owed ancestors or a portrait of Mao. His posture projects fierce independence, even as the English letter U, inscribed over and over, bears down on his head.

7.6 Shi Lu, Tombstone Honoring Poetry (1973–75). Shi Lu drew this tombstone in the midst of the Cultural Revolution to declare his devotion to poetry, a cause for which he was prepared to die. On the bottom right, he pictures himself as the ancient poet Qu Yuan, a paragon of loyalty and virtue, making an offering to the arts. Author’s photograph from private collection. Pen and ink drawing with red pigment, from Shi Lu’s secret poetry notebook. Reproduced with permission of the artist’s family.

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CHAPTER 8

At Cliff ’s Edge

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t forty, Shi Lu (fig. 8.1) painted his masterpiece, Fighting in Northern Shaanxi (Zhuan zhan Shaanbei), a portrait of Chairman Mao looking out from the top of a cliff (fig. 8.2). His face is barely seen; his arms are clasped in back, and his body leans forward. Produced during the summer of 1959, this painting marked the beginning of Shi Lu’s transformation of landscape and figure painting.1 Two years later, Shi Lu emerged as the leader of what became known as the Xi’an school of landscape painting. The Xi’an Art Academy—under Shi Lu’s exclusive leadership after Zhao Wangyun was ousted in 1957—exhibited paintings in Beijing and ignited a heated discussion.2 In the same spirit as Fighting in Northern Shaanxi, the paintings in the show featured romantic depictions of China’s arid Northwest, the region closely identified with the party’s rise to power. The paintings were characterized by heavy ink and thickly applied red and brown pigments. The brushwork was more abstract and expressive than had been the custom since 1949. Anticipating that their work might encounter resistance, the organizers called their paintings “practice studies” (xi zuo). The situation became inflamed when an unusually frank letter to the editor appeared in the April 1962 issue of Fine Arts. A painter using the pen name Meng Lanting complained that Shi Lu’s paintings should not be hailed as a model because they showed

8.1 Shi Lu, self-portrait at age thirty-six (1955). Before the Cultural Revolution, Shi Lu was a dashing figure, admired by younger artists for his confident bearing and innovative artwork. Many thought he bore a resemblance to Mao, a figure Shi Lu greatly admired in his youth but later rejected. Ink painting, 14.2 x 10.6 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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8.2 Shi Lu, Fighting in Northern Shaanxi (1959). In 1964, a military official ordered Shi Lu to revise this portrait of Mao in a landscape, but the artist refused. The fallout led to his mental illness. Monumental ink painting with red pigment on paper commissioned for the celebration of the tenth anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China, 6.8 x 6.8 ft. Collection of National Museum of China, Tiananmen Square, Beijing; courtesy of the artist’s family.

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“no skill,” “no brushwork,” and no “antique taste.”3 In the January issue, editors reported that they had received over fifty letters related to the controversy, mostly praising Shi Lu for his exploratory spirit.4 However, an article published in April 1963 by art historian Yan Liquan revived the controversy.5 Yan argued for a style that could be universally appreciated by workers, peasants, and soldiers. He used the epithet “wild, strange, chaotic, and black” (ye guai luan hei) as a foil for defining future standards, suggesting that Shi Lu’s work was the antithesis of what artists should produce. He said that socialist art “must be harmonious rather than wild, typical rather than strange, orderly rather than chaotic, and bright rather than black.”6 In 1963, Shi Lu responded to detractors in a private poem that was discovered when his home was searched during the Cultural Revolution.7 People scold me as “wild”; I’ll be wilder. From ordinary things, I create wonders. People denounce me as “strange.” How am I strange? Unwilling to be slavish, I rely on myself. People define me as “chaotic.” What I do is not chaotic! The method of no-method is the most disciplined of all. People ridicule me as “black.” I’m not too black. Black startles the heart and stirs the soul. “Wild strange chaotic black”—is it worth discussing? You have a tongue. I have a heart. Life offers me ideas. I give spirit back to life.8

In 1964, a military official found fault with Fighting in Northern Shaanxi and ordered Shi Lu to revise the painting. The general may even have expressed Mao’s own opinion. In the earlier Xi’an school controversy, Shi Lu’s critics had been fellow artists, not high officials. This new challenge put in doubt Shi Lu’s political intentions. Having vested enormous ambition in this painting and confident that it deserved the praise it had initially received, Shi Lu refused to bow to superiors who wished him to modify the painting, even though revision was customary in the Soviet Union and among Chinese painters after 1949. In response to his defiance, Beijing authorities stopped production on a catalog that featured the disputed painting and ordered a recall of copies already distributed to bookstores.9 They asked him to substitute another image to replace the problematic one, but he refused, angrily returning the money he had received for the catalog. The stalemate ended with the removal of the painting from the Museum of the Chinese Revolution, a decision that plunged Shi Lu into a severe depression. Now, more than fifty years later, we may wonder: Was there a basis for claiming that Shi Lu’s painting showed ambivalence toward Mao? Besides the artist’s own words and the interpretations of family members and colleagues close to Shi Lu, the most AT CL IFF’ S EDGE

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compelling source of insight into the controversy is the painting itself and our reactions to it. The author first had an opportunity to see it when it traveled to New York as part of a Guggenheim retrospective on contemporary Chinese art in 1998.10 Now the painting is displayed at the National Museum of China on Tiananmen Square and a facsimile of it at the Revolutionary History Museum in Yan’an. To see it in person confirms that it is a magnificent painting, which reproductions do not adequately convey. Shi Lu was never a typical party functionary. He was a freer thinker than most of the Communists who served at Yan’an. Whether his approval of Mao had eroded by the summer of 1959 is not known, or at least not talked about. At that time, he was still a provincial-level cadre obliged to be prudent, but this painting holds clues. A sustained reading suggests that it has a double-sided character, projecting both a positive and a negative message for the viewer to puzzle over. The censoring general who flagged something awry in it was possibly half-right: there was reason to discern a mixed reaction toward Mao in the painting. It is not a typical hero portrait in the socialist realist tradition. Shi Lu may have intended it to function as both a paean to Mao’s leadership in the past and an admonition to Mao in the present (1959). On one hand, the painting depicts Mao as a leader of great consequence looking out from the summit. On the other hand, Mao stands there alone with his back to the viewer. His feet seem close to the edge. Shi Lu’s painting portrays a specific historical subject assigned to him by the planners of the ten-year anniversary of the nation’s founding.11 He was asked to depict Mao leading Communist troops (“thousands of men and horses”) to victory against Nationalist forces in 1947 in northwestern Shaanxi.12 The commissioned painting was to be displayed in the newly constructed Museum of the Chinese Revolution at Tiananmen Square. Shi Lu had himself participated in the 1947 battle, so he could draw on personal memories. Back then, he had witnessed the warm reception accorded Mao when the Communist leader arrived in the mountains. Mao and his bodyguards climbed to the summit to encourage soldiers to persevere against better-equipped enemy battalions. The painting freezes that moment to highlight Mao’s pivotal role in leading the Communist Revolution to triumph. Mao’s figure leans out to express his profound sympathy with the troops below. Shi Lu began making preliminary sketches for the painting during the spring of 1959 in Beijing. He was obliged to finish the painting in time for the October 1 celebration of the anniversary. Beijing cultural officials Cai Ruohong, Hua Junwu, and Wang Zhaowen, among others, reviewed his preparatory sketches and gave approval for the painting, but there was controversy about Shi Lu’s approach even then. According to Yang Xiaoyan, an artist who lived with Shi Lu at the time, Wang Zhaowen, the party theorist, pressed Shi Lu upon seeing his draft to give additional thought to political questions. He urged Shi Lu to consider, “Where has Mao been and where is he going?” The two men quarreled, with Shi Lu insisting that more political emphasis would

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detract from the painting’s aesthetic properties. According to Yang Xiaoyan, Shi Lu sought to retain Chinese characteristics in the painting.13 Prestigious publications like Chinese Cultural Relics (Wenwu) reviewed Shi Lu’s painting positively at first.14 However, as the political climate became more radical over the next few years, his choice to portray Mao in a three-quarter, back-facing stance near the cliff ’s edge fell under scrutiny. The unnamed general criticized the small scale of Mao’s figure and the fact that only a small retinue of bodyguards accompanied him. Mao’s horse seems to buck and show its back to Mao, as does the peasant tending the horse. According to the official complaint sent to Shi Lu in 1964, the painting made the Chairman appear “isolated and at the end of the road.” That it was produced during the summer of 1959 contributed to the fear of Mao’s protectors that it was a platform for showing solidarity with the former minister of defense, Peng Dehuai, who famously criticized the Great Leap Forward in July–August of 1959 at the Lushan conference.15 Whether Shi Lu knew about the high-level criticism of Mao’s policies at the time is unclear. Accusations against Shi Lu’s painting in the following years should be seen as a consequence of the military’s increased role as guardian of Mao’s prestige under Lin Biao, the general whom Mao chose to succeed the ousted Peng Dehuai. By 1964, the military had begun a more rigorous inspection of official displays of art in connection with an escalating cult of Mao. Any portrait of China’s supreme leader now had to measure up to exaggerated conventions of deference. Shi Lu’s portrait was, at least on the face of it, out of tune with soaring expectations for how Mao should be represented. His depiction of Shaanxi’s mountain peaks, the end point of the famed Long March (1935–36) and a spiritual place for Chinese Communism, was not the target of criticism. Indeed, the play of sunlight on the mountains, bathed in the symbolic color red (here a light rose), gives the landscape an aura of heroism. The issue was the scale of the human figure relative to the mountains. The great man of Chinese Communism looked uncomfortably tiny. Typically, the viewer looked up to Mao in paintings; Shi Lu’s painting did not adhere to that convention.16 Even a fellow artist, a sculptor sharing living quarters with Shi Lu at the time, wondered why Shi Lu depicted Mao so small.17 The highest of the red peaks in the foreground and the mountain range in the upper left occupy a plane higher than Mao. Not only does Mao stand virtually alone on the precipice, but his face is partially hidden. The people in the painting, including Mao, are situated on a descending slope at cliff ’s edge. Mao’s horse, whose neck is arched and front leg raised, seems unsettled. Are these eccentric features of Shi Lu’s painting solely a function of his wish to merge a historical battle scene with a Chinese landscape painting? Possibly. Perhaps he merely wanted to make a socialist realist painting with Chinese characteristics, and the experiment landed him in trouble. On the other hand, the visual structure of Fighting in Northern Shaanxi suggests a broader and deeper malaise. Do we detect in it a loss of faith in the aging Mao, an attitude Shi Lu himself may not have been aware of as he painted?

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The phrase used by the military official to criticize Shi Lu’s portrait of Mao was xuan ya le ma, “rein in at the brink of the precipice.”18 This phrase means literally to rein in one’s horse at the edge of a cliff or to stop riding into disaster. Mao famously used this phrase to send a fierce warning through diplomatic channels to General MacArthur in September 1950. Had General MacArthur heeded the message not to approach the Chinese border with Korea, the Chinese might not have intervened in the Korean War.19 That Mao’s horse looks restless and is positioned at cliff ’s edge in Shi Lu’s painting could make knowledgeable insiders think of this phrase and interpret the painting as warning to stop the disastrous Great Leap Forward. When we compare Shi Lu’s 1959 representation of Mao in the Shaanxi landscape to his portrayal of Mao in his 1947 woodcut (fig. 7.4), we find significant points of contrast. When the woodcut was produced, Shi Lu was living in Yan’an and was known to idolize Mao. The twenty-year-old saw Mao as a passionate idealist like himself. He especially admired Mao’s commitment to establishing an egalitarian society.20 In the woodcut, Shi Lu depicted Mao seated in the middle of a meeting honoring laborers who had earned the status of “model heroes” during a productivity drive led by the Communists.21 Mao’s importance is signaled by his centrality in the picture. His dark clothing sets him off from the white robe of the laborer with whom he is chatting. What is fascinating here is Shi Lu’s emphasis on Mao’s deference to these men of the fields. The head of the farmer with whom the Chairman is conversing is higher than Mao’s head.22 The old man seems to have climbed up on his chair to relate a story to Mao, who listens with rapt attention, his face tilted to one side. Shi Lu’s woodcut seems intended to show that Mao is a new kind of leader who works in close communion with the farmers. The image reverses the Confucian ranking of officials first and farmers below. In Shi Lu’s portrayal, Mao appears unusually respectful of their point of view. The woodcut provides a concrete picture of the Communist promise that farmers will be afforded the highest dignity in the new society. In Shi Lu’s 1959 Shaanxi landscape, however, the opposite is true. Mao towers over his attendants. He stands virtually alone at the edge. Representing Mao alone was not typical in leader portraits. Shi Lu’s friend Li Jiantong remembers wondering why Shi Lu chose to depict Mao “without soldiers, horses or stretcher-teams on the foot of the hill where Mao was standing.”23 Is Mao’s aloneness meant to suggest that he had grown distant from ordinary people? Or is it a function of the artist’s respect for Mao’s unique place in China’s revolutionary history? Both interpretations are reasonable. Shi Lu might have intended this configuration to suggest a veiled remonstration, or maybe his repressed anger at the destruction caused by Mao’s policies registered unintentionally. Shi Lu’s disapproval of the Great Leap Forward is clear in his private writings during the Cultural Revolution.24 He disagreed with Mao’s relentless push for steel production, imbalanced policies that officials in 1959 already recognized as having contributed to the outbreak of a famine that eventually claimed an estimated 36 million lives and

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produced a shortfall of 40 million births.25 After the Cultural Revolution, Shi Lu bluntly criticized the cult of Mao and those who championed it, particularly Jiang Qing.26 Shi Lu spent 1957–58 touring remote, impoverished regions of Shaanxi to “sketch and instruct on art popularization,” a major thrust of art policies at the time.27 Traveling in rural Shaanxi at that time exposed him to the ill effects of Mao’s policies. Li Jiantong, who accompanied Shi Lu on one such outing in 1958, remembers him saying that Great Leap policies degraded the people’s living conditions.28 As a participant in the original revolutionary community headquartered at Yan’an during the 1940s, Shi Lu’s conscience would be troubled by the party’s failure to improve the people’s lives. A spirited idealist, he may have felt obliged to remind Mao, in the tradition of a Confucian censor, to live up to his promise to “serve the people.” To prepare for the high honor of painting on behalf of Shaanxi, Shi Lu exhaustively sketched the Yellow River region’s silty terrain. Although he admired the socialist realist tradition developed in the Soviet Union, he believed that it would dishonor the national heritage to rely on Soviet prototypes for this museum commission. He developed an entirely new format for socialist realism using brush and ink and a Chinese sense of perspective. At that time, Mao himself encouraged moving away from Soviet models to develop native forms. Earlier Chinese landscape painters, such as Shen Zhou (1427–1509), had pictured figures in profile or with back turned gazing from a cliff into the far distance. The boundless landscape dwarfing humans in its midst suggested a poetic sensibility and a respect for the grandeur of nature. Perhaps Shi Lu’s desire to employ native precedents distracted him from appreciating the political risk of representing Mao in such a manner. Shi Lu’s son suggests that part of the controversy surrounding this painting stems from uncertainty about whether it should be categorized as a landscape or a figure painting, because Shi Lu deliberately blended the two genres.29 The masterful portrayal of the mountains argues for considering it a landscape painting. However, the presence of such a revered icon within the landscape made it incumbent on Shi Lu to invest Mao’s figure with larger-than-life heroism.30 During China’s imperial era, emperors were typically pictured frontally and larger than all other figures.31 Many artistic traditions—for example, Egyptian and Byzantine art—drastically enlarge figures based on status and holiness, a convention called hierarchy of scale. In Augustus’s reign, the Roman emperor was always depicted in the prime of youth as a gesture of respect, but here Shi Lu rendered Mao portly and middle-aged. If the painting was intended solely to record an event during China’s civil war, why was Mao’s figure not slim, as he would have been at the time of the Shaanxi battle? Shi Lu’s conception for the painting can be inferred from published accounts by colleagues in close contact with him. According to the 1985 reminiscence of Ma Gaihu, the sculptor who worked alongside him during the project, Shi Lu made a key decision while working on sketches for the painting to symbolically represent the throngs of soldiers

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loyal to Mao as features of the mountain.32 While the painting was still in the planning stage, he showed colleagues multiple sketches of soldiers in various poses, but none seemed to satisfy him. He eventually decided that he could render a grander conception if he suggested their presence symbolically as peaks in the landscape, rather than literally drawing each soldier. In early drafts, he surrounded Mao with other Communist leaders, but ultimately he portrayed Mao alone at the summit (save a small retinue slightly below). The artist’s motive for doing so can be read doubly: portraying Mao alone signaled his importance, but it also prompted some to think of his arbitrariness and tyranny. In the final version, Mao’s profile shares the mountaintop with a groom attending the Chairman’s horse and an old peasant gazing respectfully up at him. This triangular arrangement suggests both Mao’s supreme importance (as the triangle’s tallest point) and his indissoluble connection to ordinary people. This interpretation of Shi Lu’s painting as a paean to Mao does not negate the more dangerous meanings proposed earlier. The artist’s common practice was to invite the prospective viewer to discover a range of meanings. Friends and family members stress that he aspired to “leave space for the imagination.”33 Shi Lu postponed painting Mao’s figure until he had completed everything else. Throughout the drafting stage, he scrutinized and copied several sculptural versions of Mao. None completely satisfied him. Finally, he asked his friend Ma Gaihu to make a sculpture of Mao’s full body with two hands clasped in back. He copied the sculpture over and over until he internalized it to such a degree that he could execute it without any visual aid. Only after shutting himself in his studio for several nights and becoming confident that he could make the figure perfectly did he paint Mao’s figure.34 The final outcome was a virtuoso freehand rendition of Mao’s profile, daringly executed in the “boneless” style of brushwork associated with ink painting. A clue found in Shi Lu’s son’s comments on the painting adds another dimension to our understanding. Shi Guo reports that his father had a specific conception in mind, an idea to represent Mao’s stature within the Communist movement as analogous to a pagoda.35 A companion piece to this painting commissioned at the same time for the Great Hall of the People, Let the Horses Drink at the Yan River, features a cliffside pagoda of roughly the same scale and shape as Mao’s figure in the Shaanxi painting. The actual pagoda tips out from the hill just like Mao’s figure at cliff ’s edge. By associating Mao symbolically with a pagoda (particularly the famous Treasure Pagoda overlooking Yan’an), Shi Lu reinforced a positive message: that Mao’s leadership was the beacon unifying the Communist fighters and giving them the will to prevail. At the same time, the second painting hints at an admonition. It represents the moment when the revolution’s workhorses are allowed to rest. As the horses drink their fill, a peasant gazes at the Yan’an pagoda in the distance. The tranquil scene suggests a message at odds with the concurrent Great Leap Forward campaign exhorting the masses to work nonstop to make steel.36

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8.3 Shi Lu, preparatory sketch for Fighting in Northern Shaanxi (1959). In this early draft, Shi Lu portrayed Mao leaning back on a walking staff. In the final version, Shi Lu removed the walking staff and moved Mao’s figure closer to the cliff’s edge. Ink on paper, 14.6 x 11.8 in. After Yu and Liu, Shi Lu huaji, 75. Reproduced with permission from the artist’s family.

Shi Guo’s comment that Mao’s figure in the Shaanxi painting evokes the silhouette of the Treasure Pagoda, the emblem of Chinese Communism, affirms a positive interpretation and a safe political message. Undeniably, Shi Lu felt special reverence for the Yan’an pagoda as a symbol for his ideals. In published remarks, he described his joy upon seeing the pagoda for the first time when he joined the Communist movement as a young man.37 However, if the artist intended to convey only a positive meaning, why did he place Mao’s figure so close to the edge? In an early draft, he portrayed Mao in a more anchored posture, leaning back on a walking staff, with ample space between his feet and the drop-off (fig. 8.3).38 Reportedly, he altered Mao’s position after an official said that “the line of the knotted stick looked as though Mao were bound in chains.”39 In the final version, Mao’s figure is no longer supported by a walking staff. His body tips out toward the beyond. Another 1959 painting by Shi Lu features a pagoda. This startling painting, titled In the Yan River, the Pagoda’s Reflection may signal Shi Lu’s true feelings about the Great Leap Forward (fig. 8.4). The image does not appear to be a high-profile, officially commissioned work and may not have been seen by many colleagues at the time. It depicts two children gathering water at the Yan River at Yan’an. An upside-down reflection of the

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8.4 Shi Lu, In the Yan River, the Pagoda’s Reflection (1959). This work, painted in the same year as Fighting in Northern Shaanxi, may reveal Shi Lu’s thinking about Great Leap Forward policies. Here he depicted the famous Yan’an pagoda, a symbol of Chinese Communism, reflected upside down in the river. Painting the pagoda in this way makes it appear toppled, as though something has damaged it. This painting suggests that Shi Lu, then a provinciallevel art official, disapproved of the Great Leap Forward in 1959. Ink and color on paper, 31.1 x 20.9 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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pagoda appears in the water near the children. At first glance, the painting seems nothing more than a pastoral scene of daily life. However, the huge scale of the pagoda’s reflection stresses its importance and makes us think of it as more than a backdrop for the children in the upper corner. The surprising choice to represent the pagoda upside down—in a sense, toppled—suggests that something has injured Communism. By late 1958, the Great Leap Forward had caused grave food shortages, and yet the misguided policies continued largely unaltered.40 As acting chairman of the Xi’an branch of the Chinese Artists Association in one of the affected provinces, Shi Lu knew something of this burgeoning disaster, which would become one of the worst man-made disasters in history. A viewer cognizant of what was transpiring when the painting was created can draw a connection retrospectively between the huge overturned pagoda visible in the reflecting pool and the deepening famine threatening the people’s livelihood. On first glance the scene may seem idyllic, but prolonged inspection leads to a jarring feeling. The overturning of the pagoda signals anger. The water seems roiled by it. Shi Lu repeated this theme in a painting a few years later (fig. 8.5). The “toppled” nature of the pagoda in the second example is more subtle and the river scene more tranquil. Shi Lu’s eccentric representation of the pagoda at Yan’an, the very emblem of China’s Revolution, suggests something amiss. To invert such a politically charged symbol is, at the very least, a violation of the precepts of socialist realism, which required art to project optimism about China’s present situation under socialism.41 Although the children in both paintings seem unaffected, the pagoda, especially in the 1959 version, where bats or crows fly around it, prophesies gloom. Extrapolating what can be learned from these paintings from roughly the same era, we can argue with greater confidence that at least a hint of disapproval shaped the portrayal of Mao in Fighting in Northern Shaanxi. The paradigm Shi Lu chose for his Shaanxi painting—the poet surveying the landscape—had a basis in Mao’s biography. The Shaanxi painting was conceived only two years after Mao submitted a collection of his recent poems for publication in the nation’s premier poetry journal, Shi kan.42 Mao was not only a distinguished poet but a superb calligrapher. In Chinese tradition, cultural accomplishment was considered a strong indicator of a statesman; cultural talent and political ability were presumed to coincide in a great leader.43 Thus representing Mao in the stance of a poet admiring a mountain vista did not lessen his authority from the perspective of the Chinese cultural tradition. However, it was a heterodox way to represent a twentieth-century revolutionary leader in the context of socialist realism. We know from retrospective accounts that Mao was sensitive about how his image was presented within the pantheon of great socialist leaders; for example, he is known to have complained about appearing shorter in stature when he was pictured next to Lenin and Stalin in Communist art.44 It was important to radical Maoist propaganda to rectify this perceived indignity by elevating Mao above his Soviet counterparts, situating him in the top tier of international leaders within the socialist bloc, especially after AT CL IFF’ S EDGE

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8.5 Shi Lu, Yan Riverbank (1961). This landscape features another “toppled” pagoda in the water’s reflection, but the setting is more tranquil and poetic. It is a beautiful example of Shi Lu’s style and technique prior to the Cultural Revolution. Ink and color on paper, 38.6 x 39.4 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

Stalin’s death. Another aim was to repair his reputation after Mao’s Great Leap Forward ended in famine. After Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, became influential in the years just before and during the Cultural Revolution, she imposed an extremely deferential standard for representing Mao in painting. In 1969, she endorsed an oil painting portraying Mao in the prime of youth with his face toward the viewer (fig. 8.6). Mao’s “mountain-like” figure towers above the landscape.45 This painting, Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan, by a twentythree-year-old painter named Liu Chunhua, was considered a great success and printed 166

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8.6 Liu Chunhua, Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan (1967). After Jiang Qing expressed her approval, Liu’s painting became a model for how Mao should be represented: facing front, large relative to the landscape, and youthful. This amounted to a total disavowal of how Shi Lu depicted Mao in Fighting in Northern Shaanxi. Oil on canvas, 86.6 x 70.9 in. From Wang and Yan, Xin Zhongguo meishu tushi, 55.

everywhere.46 Liu’s style of representing Mao amounted to a total disavowal of what Shi Lu had produced. Indeed, the earlier controversy had clarified how not to represent Mao: from the back, in the distance, small relative to the landscape, and middle-aged. Shi Lu’s depiction risked making Mao seem humbled by the forces of nature or insignificant against the backdrop of history. For a partisan like Jiang Qing, who sought to bring Mao back to his full glory, amplifying Mao’s image in art was a top priority. Even after becoming a party member, Shi Lu showed uncommon boldness in speaking out against the excesses of political campaigns. His older brother, Feng Jianwu, the talented painter who had sponsored Shi Lu’s art education, was mercilessly attacked in the early 1950s on account of his landlord background. Because Shi Lu had renounced his family as a youth, joining the revolution and even changing his name to announce his new identity, he escaped these penalties, but his brother was not so lucky. Shi Lu moved his brother to Xi’an to protect him but could not stem his brother’s mistreatment. Finally, his brother was sent back to his home village for further struggle.47 Sensitized by his brother’s suffering, Shi Lu took a public stand against using violence to punish landlords.48 Shi Lu’s courage in the context of land reform suggests that he would feel similar outrage at the excesses of Mao’s Great Leap Forward. The risk of expressing disagreement openly, however, would be clear to Shi Lu, since he had watched his close colleague AT CL IFF’S EDGE

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Zhao Wangyun fall victim to the Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957. To be asked to create a heroic tribute to Mao when national policies were in crisis must have left Shi Lu feeling conflicted. His emotional reaction was bound to register. He could solve this quandary by creating a conception of Mao capable of being interpreted in two or more ways. Perhaps he had in mind an extremely subtle admonition, a cluster of meanings proposed so obscurely and diffusely that few would discern the criticism. Shi Lu may have even harbored the hope that Mao himself would see the painting and be moved to rethink his policies. This would not have been impossible, since Premier Zhou Enlai was known to inspect paintings commissioned for the Great Hall of the People and the Museum of the Chinese Revolution,49 and there was a precedent in imperial history for an emperor being moved to repeal policies based on what he learned from a painting. A concerned official had created a painting and sent it to Emperor Shenzong of the Song dynasty (960–1279) as a kind of memorial pleading him to roll back some controversial measures. The painting offered a visual account of the distress occurring in the provinces. At first, the emperor heeded the warning and reversed the policies, but later the opposing side prevailed on the emperor to punish the painter for raising objections.50 In 1963, Shi Lu studied the famous theoretical work Records on Painting (Hua yu lu) by Shitao, the seventeenth-century painter whom he honored in his pen name. He wrote a sequel, Records on Studying Painting (Xue hua lu).51 In this important work, subsequently confiscated and reassembled from a student’s notes, Shi Lu articulated his heroic conception of the modern Chinese painter.52 He stated that “beauty cannot exist without truth” (mei bu li zhen).53 He equated the notion that artists must portray happy images under socialism to the old superstition of counting only the auspicious days on the calendar. According to Shi Lu, the true artist must strive to tell the complete story.54 In a speech a few months after completing Fighting in Northern Shaanxi, Shi Lu cautioned against creating posters depicting cotton on every tree, because such exaggeration is not credible and will lead the people to lose trust in what the government says.55 Given the ardent commitment to truth in art evident in these writings, how could Shi Lu depict Mao in entirely glowing terms during the summer of 1959? Perhaps he set out to create a heroic tribute, but his inner conflict seeped into the project. A solitary figure turned away from the viewer does not always imply indifference. Shi Lu’s admired predecessor, Shitao, famously painted a scholar observing a waterfall.56 Indeed, there seems to be a hint of a waterfall in the center of Shi Lu’s painting, where the sun illuminates the peak in a thin strip, even if no waterfall exists at the actual site. Possibly, Shi Lu meant it as a figurative waterfall to honor the inspiration he found in both traditional Chinese landscape painting and the spirit of communism. In both Chinese painting and European and American nineteenth-century landscape painting, a Ruckenfigur—a German term for the halted traveler looking out from

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8.7 Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above a Sea of Fog (ca. 1817). Both Friedrich’s wanderer and Shi Lu’s Mao stand close to the edge of a cliff with backs turned looking out on a vast panorama. Mao looks smaller than Friedrich’s wanderer in his respective landscape; Mao leans out from the cliff, while Friedrich’s wanderer does not. Why did Shi Lu represent Mao this way? The debate continues. Oil on canvas, 37.3 x 29.4 in. BPK, Berlin/Hamburger Kunsthalle/Photo by Elke Walford/Art Resource, NY.

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a summit—signals poetic sensibility and a romantic attachment to nature. The similarity between the beholding subjects in Shi Lu’s painting and Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above a Sea of Fog is so striking that it is likely Shi Lu considered Friedrich’s famous composition when conceptualizing his own variation on the theme (fig. 8.7).57 Comparing Fighting in Northern Shaanxi to Friedrich’s Wanderer allows us another way to investigate the symbolic structure of Shi Lu’s painting. The similarities between Friedrich’s wanderer and Shi Lu’s Mao are remarkable: both stand on a mountain ledge with their backs turned, hatless and wearing dark clothing. The light-filled, people-less landscape “out there” looks beckoning; we are moved to imagine ourselves in the place of the figure. In both paintings, the immensity of the surroundings dwarfs the figure. A contrast between small and large, dark and light is implied. The miniature size of the silhouetted figures with respect to the surroundings enhances the vista’s monumentality. As a commentator said of Friedrich’s painting, “You can’t help noticing how small you are in relation to the landscape that lies before you. . . . We dethrone ourselves—at least most of us do—from our original position at the center of the universe.”58 Actually, Friedrich’s structural arrangement registers a tension between feeling masterful and feeling diminished. The figure’s pose makes him look like a king. He stands at the center of the picture looking down at nature from an elevated peak. He has paused in his travels to contemplate the past and dream of the future. He communes with a deeper side of himself. We are reminded philosophically of the respect for nature associated with Chinese thinkers like Laozi or Li Bai, and Western thinkers like Rousseau, Wordsworth, Thoreau, and Emerson: the conviction that humanity’s better self or a piece of the transcendent can be renewed in an outdoor setting.59 If we compare Shi Lu’s painting of Mao to Friedrich’s Wanderer, we discover that Shi Lu made some salient choices regarding the way Mao’s figure is viewed. In Friedrich’s painting, the wanderer completely dominates our field of vision. As one authority described it, “It is from his eye and heart, not ours, that the painting seems to emanate.”60 Compared to Mao, Friedrich’s wanderer asserts a commanding presence. He is large relative to the landscape and central to all that is depicted. The wanderer has been described as “standing as a source for everything we see.”61 We identify so closely with the wanderer’s gaze that he becomes the incarnation of our own seeing. Shi Lu’s portrayal of Mao does not achieve a comparable effect. There is a gulf between what he sees and our line of vision. Our eyes see straight ahead, but Mao looks off at an angle. In comparing the footing of the two figures, we notice another difference. Both stand close to the edge, but the location of the wanderer’s foot is precisely rendered. There is no mystery about where the wanderer stands relative to the edge. True, there is not a large margin for error, but the rocks rise in a way that nestle the climber safely. In contrast, the position of Mao’s feet is unclear. Shi Lu’s initial draft left Mao more space

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before the drop-off, but the final version moved him closer to the edge.62 This gesture could not have been undertaken lightly. Mao’s placement in the final version introduces doubt as to whether Mao is on stable ground. One recent interpretation argues that Shi Lu’s painting honors Mao as a “spiritual father” by symbolically equating him with the surrounding mountains.63 This majestic landscape painting certainly does accord Mao great dignity. However, Shi Lu’s painting seems more complex than simply praising Mao. In his artwork and writings, Shi Lu consistently argued that respect for ordinary people is a paramount belief for communism. If the mountains symbolize the people, then it is reasonable to say that the mountains do not merely accentuate Mao’s stature; they rise above it. Questions surrounding Shi Lu’s portrait of Mao do not diminish the painting’s stature as art; rather, they enhance its aura of mystery. The painting leaves us the space to see both a positive and a negative evaluation of Mao in it. The multiple meanings this painting creates can be likened to the shifting perspective of traditional Chinese landscape paintings or the double images of symbolist or surrealist painters. Such images cause viewers to react one way first, then suddenly double back and see the composition anew from a different perspective.64 On one hand, Mao’s eccentric, leaning position can be explained as a function of the figure’s symbolic character. If we imagine Mao as architecture—the Yan’an pagoda described by his son—it seems natural that he stands at an angle. The actual pagoda at Yan’an rests on the hill in such a configuration. On the other hand, picturing Mao in such an enigmatic pose creates doubts about whether the artist still revered Mao to the degree he did earlier. Recognizing that the painting is not totally adoring does not mean that it is unsuited for display in the China National Museum; in fact, it argues for it. Shi Lu was an avid believer in the communist dream and felt compelled to protect it. His painting presents Mao’s contributions realistically, honoring the significance of China’s founding father while hinting at his excesses, an evaluation that Mao’s successor Deng Xiaoping shared. In 1979, Shi Lu spoke publicly about the controversy. He revealed that the restless state of Mao’s horse at the cliff ’s edge—particularly its arched neck and lifted hoof—was the main source of the official’s complaint. His painting was perceived as admonishing Mao to “rein in at the precipice.” Shi Lu explained to the audience that he never acknowledged that this complaint was true despite numerous beatings. Then he elaborated: “What one general said could kill the life of art. This is totally a situation in which the powerful show no restraint” (wu fa wu tian, “without law, without heaven”).65 Here Shi Lu echoed a phrase that Mao used to boast to the American journalist Edgar Snow that there were no limits to his power. Mao spoke of himself as “a monk with an umbrella, subject to neither law nor heaven.” At the time, Snow wrongly interpreted Mao’s self-description as a benign reference. Actually, in calling himself “a monk with an umbrella,” Mao likened himself to the infamous tyrant Ming Taizu (r. 1368–98), who had been a monk before he became emperor.66 Historians before the twentieth century reviled

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8.8 Shi Lu, preparatory sketch for Eastern Crossing (1964). In this painting, rejected by Beijing officials as soon as it was displayed, Mao appears taller and straighter than all others, captaining Communism’s ship to the future. But the straining rowers and the agitated water do not forecast easy passage. Monumental ink painting, now lost, commemorating the fifteenth anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China, 27.2 x 18.5 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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the Ming emperor for his unjust persecution of officials, but Mao admired his despotic style. Shi Lu’s painting challenges Mao’s claim that his power is unlimited: it humbles Mao before the mountains and sky. After his masterpiece, Fighting in Northern Shaanxi, was criticized in 1964, Shi Lu’s physical health and mental stability declined. In 1964, he devoted himself obsessively to the creation of another immense portrait of Mao, Eastern Crossing (fig. 8.8).67 He worked on it nonstop despite suffering from liver disease and sketched it nearly a dozen times, shutting himself in his studio for days without eating. Eastern Crossing (Dongdu) is one of the most interesting and least studied paintings of Shi Lu’s career. In it, he captures gestures and movement using short, crisp lines that recall his woodcuts. Some have called it Shi Lu’s “best figure painting.”68 The artist himself considered it a major work, the sister piece of Fighting in Northern Shaanxi. He prepared it for the National Military Exhibition and exhibited it publicly at the Xi’an Art Gallery on the occasion of the fifteenth anniversary of the nation’s founding in 1964. Controversies prevented the painting from ever being shown in Beijing. Only a draft of it remains; the actual painting was destroyed or lost. The original work was inscribed with calligraphy. In 1971, Shi Lu made a new handscroll re-creating the lost painting’s inscription.69 The original work was massive in scale: 9'10" × 16'5". It immediately provoked strong reactions. Beijing officials, even those friendly to Shi Lu, found it disturbing. Cai Ruohong said that “it looked like Shi Lu had skinned all the people he painted” and used “rotten wood” to construct the boat.70 The painting was accused of “making Chairman Mao look ugly.” The bodies of the oarsmen “looked like they were bleeding.” The wood on the boat looked “as if it had burned or was in flames.”71 Eastern Crossing features a standing Mao and a secondary official, possibly Zhu De or Zhou Enlai, captaining a ship in stormy waters. Its theme of crossing the Yellow River suggests a scene from China’s civil war, circa 1947–48, when Mao and fellow Communists survived an assault on their headquarters by Chiang Kai-shek’s numerically superior forces. According to a fellow artist who accompanied Shi Lu to the Yellow River in 1964, Shi Lu modeled the painting after a team of rowers who took them out on the waves. Despite the shakiness of the ride, Shi Lu announced that he wanted to take photographs looking down at the boatmen from above while they were rowing. He sat on a fellow artist’s shoulders to snap the pictures.72 The theme of crossings is common in revolutionary history paintings of the Maoist era.73 Crossing a river symbolizes moving from past to future.74 In a typical socialist realist painting, prospects for reaching the other shore appear promising.75 Shi Lu’s iconography may be seen in this light as conforming to prescribed parameters for socialist realist paintings. The ship of state is embarking on its heroic voyage toward revolutionary transformation. Mao occupies the central place in the ship, standing at the bow. His posture is confident and solid like a pillar. His figure seems rooted like a tree. His jet-black hair draws the viewer’s gaze. His body anchors the scene like the stem of a red flower, with the oarsmen bowed like petals. AT CL IFF’ S EDGE

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Mao’s unswervingly straight posture, with bent elbow and hand on hip, precisely follows the archetype for statues of Lenin. Shi Lu accords Mao special status by presenting him as the equivalent of Lenin, the founding father of communism in Russia. He is New China’s helmsman, taller and straighter than all others, captaining Communism’s ship to the future. The painting can, however, be seen from another perspective. Planted in the middle of straining oarsmen rowing for their lives, the “statue” of Mao looks stiff and depersonalized. The agitated water does not forecast an easy passage. The whirling lines seem to correlate with Shi Lu’s own mental instability, as in a Van Gogh painting. What’s going on in the boat does not look reassuring either. Our eyes are drawn to the intense bloodred color suffusing the muscular oarsmen who power the ship. Their brightness overshadows Mao’s black clothing, suggesting that the oarsmen’s contribution to the struggle considerably outweighs the contribution of the Communist officials. Compared to the oarsmen’s extreme exertion, the officials attired in gray seem passive and sedentary. One wonders why they don’t join in the hard work. Most of the oarsmen are too engaged in labor to notice, but at least one “red” muscleman seems to have a larger sense of what is occurring. This bearded man sits below and to the left of Mao and gestures triangularly with one arm in an echo of Mao’s leadership pose. The manner in which this bearded oarsman raises his head to gaze into the distance invites comparison to the one awakened figure in Ilya Repin’s famous masterpiece Barge Haulers on the Volga.76 In this iconic work of nineteenth-century Russian realism, so influential that every socialist realist painter in China was familiar with it, one of the toilers is pictured awakening to revolutionary consciousness.77 While the other laborers grimace from the burden of pulling the boat through shallow waters, he frees himself from the harness, stands erect, and directs his gaze toward the future. Repin painted this consequential figure luminous white. In depicting the Shaanxi oarsmen similarly as barge haulers for China’s revolution, Shi Lu injected a reminder of the excesses of the Great Leap Forward, which had ended in catastrophe only a few years before. China’s peasants had been pressed into a grueling work schedule for the sake of industrializing China as rapidly as possible. Now, in this symbolic reenactment, the straining rowers bear the brunt of propelling the ship on its journey. Their skin seems scorched by the sun and bloodied. The cadres appear superfluous to what is going on. Shi Lu had spoken out on behalf of ordinary people many times before. In an article from 1951 honoring Lu Xun, Shi Lu suggested that even after the establishment of New China in 1949, there were still those who lived a life detached from the masses “as though they are floating on top.”78 During his travels to India in 1955, he was troubled by the sight of rural Indian women carrying huge containers of water on their heads and sketched Indian women gracefully bearing this terrific burden.79 In a 1956 article, “Holding-up-the-Sky Indian Women,” he expressed respect for their “iron-like arms” carrying such a weight but suggested that inflicting such a burden on pencil-thin girls

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stunted their life potential. He described observing a very young Indian girl in training, carrying ten bricks on her head. He sadly compared her to a “sprout” crushed under the weight of a huge wall.80 Shi Lu’s strong antipathy toward exploitative practices bearing down on ordinary people can be inferred from these examples. Ten years later, in the fable he wrote in his secret notebook, Shi Lu warned officials “who kill ordinary people like grass” that they will “leave a stink for ten thousand years.” He cursed them: “You only think of how to worship someone above you in rank and behave very rudely and violently to those below. You’re eating the food of exploitation.”81 In Emmanuel Leutze’s famous painting Washington Crossing the Delaware, America’s founding father heroically pilots a boat across a river. Shi Lu certainly knew of this iconic painting and probably considered it when he conceptualized Eastern Crossing. Leutze’s painting was meant to encourage revolution in Europe through the example of America’s success during the War for Independence.82 The massive painting (twelve feet high, twenty feet wide) depicts the secret crossing of the Delaware River by Washington’s troops on Christmas night of 1776. Washington’s stalwart stance at the head of the boat symbolizes his leadership of America’s revolution.83 His commanding pose, perched like the ship’s masthead, projects certainty.84 The boat’s ruler-straight course across our line of vision gives us the feeling that the boat will not capsize and Washington’s troops will accomplish their purpose. Light shines through a cloud, and the other shore is becoming visible. The storm-tossed boat in Shi Lu’s painting does not inspire the same level of confidence.85 The boat is not level in the water but rather pitches upward, bucked by wind and waves. The oarsmen strain to pull the boat forward, gripping their long setting poles as leverage against the strong current. Unlike Leutze’s portrayal of the crossing of the Delaware, the shore of the Yellow River is not yet visible. Why did Shi Lu paint the oarsmen so intensely red and emphasize their muscles so emphatically? He wanted to represent them as a mighty collective force. Their skin is red, the color of revolutionary purity. The doubling over of their bodies dramatizes their exertion. Their shoulders look mountainous as they lean into rowing. However, the psychological distance separating the oarsmen, Mao, and the cadres seems huge, even though all are in the same boat, so to speak. At the top, Mao’s jet-black, staunchly straight figure towers over the others. Next, there are the seated cadres in gray. At the bottom are the bright-red laborers with bent backs. The painting clearly demarcates three tiers of power by representing each in a different color and situating them at a particular height in relation to each other. Only the chairman stands completely straight. That Mao stands alone while all others sit or bow contradicts his triumphant declaration in 1949 that “the Chinese people have stood up!”86 According to revolutionary songs of the era, Mao was the Great Helmsman steering the revolution across the water. Does Shi Lu’s picture affirm this? Mao is clearly

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represented as the paramount leader holding the power to set the direction of the boat. He is the transcendent fixed point, the steadying force in the midst of turbulence. But Mao does not look where the boat is heading; he looks off sideways while the turbaned man at the rudder steers the boat straight ahead. In Eastern Crossing’s inscription, published as a separate calligraphy scroll after the Cultural Revolution, Shi Lu expresses “anger” (nu) and the desire to “shout out” (hou). The inscription asks: “Great upheavals—how much tender care does that bring to the world?” The poem continues: “With blood and tears awaiting the turn of your head [hui shou] to clear up the color of the Yellow River.”87 This plea seems to be addressed to Mao himself. Shi Lu compared the intuitive powers of a painter to a skilled boatman who appreciates how to make full use of the river current to steer a vessel.88 His observations of boatmen using oars to advance in water made him think of a painter’s handling of the paintbrush. In discussing painting, Shi Lu emphasized the importance of giving way to the “flow” (liu), the energy derived from a profound connection to tradition. His admiration for the boatmen’s knack for steering the boat was informed by Daoist philosophy, especially the respect for skilled craftsmen found in the Book of Zhuangzi.89 Shi Lu’s deep interest in traditional Chinese painting and Daoist philosophy was unusual for a painter with his Communist credentials. His tour abroad to India and Egypt in 1955–56 had rekindled his passion for native art forms. Leaving the country for the first time revived his appreciation for China’s own aesthetic traditions, priming him, when he returned, to immerse himself in the systematic study of Chinese painting techniques and principles.90 As controversy over his eccentric ways grew during the early 1960s, he found relief in Chinese medicine and martial arts exercises. Although he remained loyal to his Communist ideals, he began to study old books and retreat into private life. For Shi Lu, the landscape of the Yellow River Plateau and the ordinary people who lived and worked there symbolized the true spirit of Chinese Communism.91 Some of his best works prior to Eastern Crossing feature boatmen steering through canyon gorges. The rushing water circulating through paintings like Red Cliffs Reflect the Emerald Flow of 1961 visually captures Shi Lu’s idea of “flow.”92 At the time, Shi Lu constantly traveled the back roads of Shaanxi sketching the distinctive landscape and making portraits of the local people. His relentless pushing of himself taxed his health. He was relieved of his administrative duties and sent on leave in 1963. This circumstance freed him from customary obligations and imbued him with a sense of urgency to press on with his aspiration to develop a communist aesthetic with Chinese characteristics. In his 1963 theoretical work, Records on Studying Painting, Shi Lu defined the true artist as one who makes the flow of inheritance and life experience come alive in an expressive brushstroke. The seventeenth-century painter Shitao, who originated the term one-stroke (yi hua), conceived it as a freeing impulse emboldening a painter to 176

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stretch tradition in novel ways. The one-stroke animates a painter’s brush, connecting the artist to ancient practices without constricting self-expression.93 Shi Lu combined Shitao’s legacy with the fruits of his exposure to Western art. He merged a scrupulous respect for studying the actual appearance of things with a passion for expressive brushstrokes.94 He recast ancient culture as a resource for innovation rather than a burden holding China back. Addressing his father in a memorial letter, Shi Guo said, “Some dismissed tradition as an old dying thing, but you made it fresh again. You positioned yourself as ‘the river in between’ traditional culture and modern life.”95

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CHAPTER 9

From Trauma to Recovery

I

n 1997, a painter named Li Shinan published a memoir about Shi Lu (fig. 9.1).1 Li’s vivid descriptions, combined with accounts from Shi Lu’s family and close colleagues, offer snapshots of Shi Lu’s life during his persecution and recovery.2 Li idolized Shi Lu from afar during the early 1960s, only to watch in horror as his hero suffered political troubles and developed schizophrenia. Beginning in 1971, after conditions eased, Li studied painting privately with Shi Lu. The elder artist had only recently been released from incarceration. In good spirits despite his poor health, he welcomed the young painter’s visits. At the time, Shi Lu lived in a dilapidated storeroom near his family’s apartment inside the Xi’an Art Academy complex. Although still under surveillance, he was mostly left alone. Coincidentally, Li had been present on the grounds of the Xi’an Art Academy on the very day in 1965 when Shi Lu experienced his first nervous breakdown. At the time, the twenty-five-year-old Li was a factory worker learning Chinese painting in his spare time from Shi Lu’s colleague at the Xi’an Art Academy, He Haixia. Li had a second job drawing cartoons for Shaanxi Daily (Shaanxi ribao), and he was attending

9.1 Shi Lu after the Cultural Revolution (1981). On the back of this photograph, Shi Lu inscribed: “Heaven’s anger looks like madness; actually, the old man just lacks teeth!” Shi Lu suffered several mental breakdowns, but he mostly recovered after 1970 and entered a creative period for his art. He continued to look odd, partly because he wished to appear mad so that the authorities would leave him alone. In his final years, his body was frail, and he looked far older than his age. In this photograph he is sixty-two. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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a staff meeting when someone beckoned him to the window. There was a commotion in the courtyard. To everyone’s surprise, the scantily clothed person rolling in the snow was the famous painter Shi Lu. Li had never seen his idol close up before. For years, he had clipped images of Shi Lu’s paintings published in magazines and copied them assiduously as models for his own work. He particularly liked the sharp lines of Shi Lu’s travel sketches from Egypt and India. To the young artist, Shi Lu’s physical appearance was captivating. He had a wide forehead with eyes that shone with confidence. He held his head and neck erect. He wore his thick black hair swept back in a wind-blown manner. But that heroic person Li knew from pictures was not the Shi Lu he saw before him. According to the recollections of his family, Shi Lu had been behaving strangely for some time, sleeping and eating little, obsessively practicing qigong breathing exercises, and complaining of a mysterious virus. On that January day in 1965 when Shi Lu tried to cool himself by lying in the snow, family and colleagues finally determined that he needed to be institutionalized. A driver employed by the Art Association was familiar with the symptoms of schizophrenia. He persuaded Shi Lu’s wife that Shi was suffering from mental illness rather than a virus. According to Li, a dramatic scene unfolded: The Shi Lu I saw before me was a man in his forties. . . . His face was pale and his hair disheveled. He looked up at the sky with no spirit in his eyes. . . . He looked traumatized and frightfully thin. He raised his two hands as if he were grabbing something. He shook his head hopelessly, looking at the sky, as if to question why this should be happening to his homeland. His gesture made me think of the ancient poet Qu Yuan composing “Heavenly Questions” just before he committed suicide. The “madman” opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Two people grabbed him and supported his shaky walk.3

Following the incident in the snow, Shi Lu recuperated in a mental hospital for ten months. As was common practice, doctors administered heavy injections of insulin to induce a coma, a treatment that today is considered too dangerous and no longer practiced.4 But the treatment worked in Shi Lu’s case, and his condition stabilized under heavy sedation.5 When the Cultural Revolution began in the early summer of 1966, the Xi’an Art Academy fell under the control of Red Guards organized to attack the old “revisionist” leadership. Shi Lu was number one on their list of targets. The controversy over his Mao portrait had cast a shadow over his reputation, and his prominence as the vice chairman of the Xi’an Art Association put him squarely in the line of fire. Rumors circulated that Shi Lu was faking mental illness to avoid struggle. Anger at him mounted, until one day in October, Red Guards stormed the mental institution and seized Shi Lu at gunpoint despite the protests of doctors. They hung a poster around his neck denouncing him as a counterrevolutionary and took him into custody. They imprisoned him 180

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in his former workplace, the Xi’an Art Academy, for the next four years, in solitary confinement for a good portion of it. Shi Lu found himself at the mercy of competing splinter groups. Militant youth, many of whom were art students in the high school affiliated with the academy, demonstrated their revolutionary character by physically beating and mentally torturing “revisionist academic authorities” like Shi Lu. Still in a dreamy haze, Shi Lu endured harrowing abuse. He continued to take sedatives supplied by the hospital. Of those first two years of struggle (1966–67), he later said, “During that time, I only wanted to sleep. They forced me to write confessions, but I could not remember much.”6 As one of the highest-profile targets, he was frequently rounded up to participate in traveling struggle sessions in Xi’an. On such occasions, the “ox demons and snake spirits” (the Cultural Revolution name for “stinking intellectuals”) were crammed into the back of army trucks with their hands tied behind them. Armed with guns, Red Guards lorded over their captives, bullying them into making confessions before crowds in the public square. Li Shinan, the aspiring painter who idolized Shi Lu, described seeing the artist right after he had been seized from the mental hospital late in 1966. He wore a paper dunce hat, the kind that had been used to denounce landlords during the Land Reform Campaigns of the 1940s and early 1950s. Around his neck hung a heavy placard suspended with wire piercing the skin. The sign read in black ink: “Counterrevolutionary revisionist intellectual—Shi Lu.” A big X in red ink was painted over Shi Lu’s name. According to Li’s recollection, Shi Lu’s face looked swollen and his expression numb. His body was shaking. He tried to steady himself as he was jostled around. The poignant sight of his former idol subjected to such crass behavior reminded Li of “a sheep about to be slaughtered.”7 The army trucks deposited Shi Lu in front of the Xi’an city post office. He was made to stand on a high chair with his back bent at a ninety-degree angle. A cartoon lampooning his appearance and restating his crimes was posted beside him. His hair largely hid his face from view. The lead rebel grabbed the crowd’s attention by using a club to beat Shi Lu repeatedly. Fellow victims—“ox demons”—were made to clap their hands in unison to indicate their approval. Each time the club hit Shi Lu, the rebel yelled, “Dadao!” (Strike him down!). “We will put your body down forever and irreversibly! We will nail you down and stomp on you with our one million feet!” Some Red Guards wore huge army boots for kicking and a wide metal belt for whipping. Li remembers observing the crowd watching this cruel spectacle. Some were shocked, but many seemed uninterested, having witnessed so many struggles already. As the Red Guards became more destructive and violent, Shi Lu faced beatings practically every day. According to his family, he often had a bruise on his face. Militants required little pretense for beating him. The fact that Shi Lu was still heavily sedated and incapable of properly standing up for himself encouraged them even more. He was regarded as a “special target” whose crimes were so blatant that he could be beaten without restriction. They beat him if his confession was not good enough, the bathroom not clean enough, or his memory for Mao’s sayings not precise enough.8 FROM T RAuMA TO RECOVERY

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In 1968, the political situation shifted, and a workers’ group established a Revolutionary Committee to supervise the Xi’an Art Association as part of a nationwide effort to restore order. The incoming authorities behaved more reasonably toward imprisoned intellectuals. However, Shi Lu’s behavior was changing. He stopped taking his medicine on time and eventually discarded the sedatives altogether. While medicated, Shi Lu tolerated the beatings quietly and confessed to everything “like a piece of wood showing no feeling.”9 When the medicine wore off, Shi Lu became restless and stubborn. He argued constantly, denying the validity of accusations. He caused particular offense when asked to comment on Jiang Qing’s art policies. He poked fun at the widely circulated portrait she had endorsed, Liu Chunhua’s Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan (fig. 8.6). He pointed out that Mao’s shoes in Liu’s portrait were the kind worn by urban intellectuals in imperial times. He said, “Chairman Mao is the symbol of workers and farmers. . . . How can you regard this as a model painting?” In a confession submitted to authorities, he spoke bluntly of his opposition to Jiang Qing.10 Now Shi Lu’s thought crimes were more serious. He was not just a “historical enemy” of the revolution but apparently “a recent counterrevolutionary” obstructing present policies. He became a “special case” for the Prosecutorial Bureau at the provincial level. He was moved to a new prison for more serious offenders. His nervous condition returned. He looked and acted crazy, but political authorities denied him medical treatment, convinced that he was faking madness.11 The rules for incarcerated intellectuals had become more lenient by the summer of 1969. Shi Lu was allowed to go home for overnight visits once a week. On two visits, he took advantage of the freer conditions to flee to the countryside. On his first escape, he remained local and was captured after a week. On his second attempt, he boarded a train for Sichuan, where he had spent his childhood, and eluded capture for several months. According to what he told his family later, he found food mostly in farmers’ fields and slept outdoors.12 At first he stayed at a small inn in a mountain village, but later he wandered into the mountains. He disguised himself as either a doctor or a fortune-teller and offered his services in exchange for food. At one point, he became so starved that he ate a bloody pig’s ear without cooking it first, after happening upon a pig being slaughtered. On a remote road, he found an abandoned car and spent the night in the driver’s seat. Wild animals surrounded the car, and he feared for his life. When the weather grew colder, he made his way back to the village inn, where he hoped to retrieve his winter coat. However, the locals noticed the stranger and had him arrested as a Russian spy. Fearing that the villagers might execute him, Shi Lu disclosed his identity. Upon his return to Xi’an, the Revolutionary Committee staged an event to denounce Shi Lu. The abuse was so brutal that he could not pull himself off the ground between beatings. When his wife visited him the next day, she asked why he kept trying to escape. He told her that he wanted to become a farmer. Then she revealed that she had lost her salary on account of his actions. The Revolutionary Committee found among Shi Lu’s belongings a drawing of a man’s head resembling Chairman Mao’s.13 When questioned by officials, he criticized 182

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Mao for entrusting power to the “new aristocracy,” the group later known as the Gang of Four: Jiang Qing, Yao Wenyuan, Zhang Chunqiao, and Wang Hongwen. Now the Provincial Prosecutorial Bureau had the evidence necessary to officially designate Shi Lu a “recent counterrevolutionary,” a charge so serious that Shi Lu would be moved to a jail cell to await a possible death penalty. The Revolutionary Committee called a meeting of the Xi’an Art Association, obliging everyone to go on record as to whether they supported the decision. Only two members objected: the driver who had realized that Shi Lu was mentally ill in 1965 and a female artist. All the others, including Shi Lu’s old friends who had served beside him at Yan’an and with whom he had founded the Xi’an Art Academy in 1949, raised their hands to send Shi Lu to jail. Shi Lu’s son, Shi Guo, explains: “Within their concept of Revolution, traditional notions of friendship had no value. The matter in question boiled down to choosing between oneself and the enemy. Sacrificing one’s friends to save oneself was common practice at that time.”14 In 1969, Shi Lu’s fate appeared sealed. Without the interventions of his wife, Min Lisheng, his loyal friend Ye Jian, and the doctors who supported the claim that he was mentally ill, it is likely that Shi Lu would have been executed. Min led an exhausting battle with the bureaucracy to rescue her husband.15 At the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, when Shi Lu was first identified as a revisionist and counterrevolutionary, Min had not defended him. She had responded to the troubles by “drawing a clear line” between herself and her husband. This was common practice by family members who wished to protect themselves and their children from guilt by association. Min was a distinguished cadre in her own right, having preceded her husband in joining the Communist movement and becoming a party member. Their marital relations had suffered prior to the Cultural Revolution when a romance between Shi Lu and a student had severely tested their relationship.16 Min eventually forgave her husband, however, and energetically defended him despite the turmoil in their marriage. By late 1969, the worst phase of the Cultural Revolution was over. The legal claims against Shi Lu did not proceed due to the family’s interventions and the milder political atmosphere. His mental condition was deteriorating, strengthening his wife’s defense. He was set free to live at home for the first time in almost five years. He set up residence in a shabby storeroom adjacent to the family living room. He nicknamed this small room with broken windows and a broken door his thatched hut (luwu, “reed house”). His daily schedule was freed up for painting when the workers’ group shut down the Xi’an Art Academy. Most artists were sent out to the countryside to perform labor reform, but Shi Lu and his neighbor, Zhao Wangyun, were allowed to live in the academy’s courtyard. Since these two former colleagues had held the two highest offices in the Xi’an Art Association prior to the Cultural Revolution, the workers’ group preferred to keep them under close scrutiny. Shi Lu locked himself in his thatched hut and began painting. Scattered haphazardly around the storeroom were his art supplies and old travel sketches. When his wife quietly looked in on him from a window, she was shocked to observe Shi Lu chatting FROM T RAuMA TO RECOVERY

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and laughing as if he were with friends. Recognizing that his mental condition had worsened, she made an excuse to force her way in. She discovered that Shi Lu was adding new subject matter and inscriptions to some of his most famous artwork. The paintings he was “revising” were travel sketches from a Communist Party–sponsored tour of India and Egypt in 1955–56.17 In 1955, Shi Lu and his colleague Zhao Wangyun were offered the opportunity to go abroad to attend an artists’ conference in Cairo, Egypt, and then travel to India and Southeast Asia. During the trip, Shi Lu used brush and ink to make naturalistic portrayals of the people and landscapes of India and Egypt. He sketched individuals from all walks of life: men and women, young and old, the educated and the uneducated, and the homeless and the well-to-do (fig. 9.2). He approached his subjects from a humanistic perspective, portraying them as spirited individuals seated on rocks or standing by the sea, engaged in thinking or simply looking about their surroundings. The architecture and native dress reflected the national characteristics of Egypt and India, but each person’s bearing suggested the timeless, universal quality of a Greek statue. In that shabby storeroom, Shi Lu’s sketches of people from foreign lands underwent a stunning transformation (figs. 9.3 and 9.4). Adding new images and inscriptions to the old travel sketches made Shi Lu’s anger toward the Cultural Revolution visible on paper. It was as if the shift of consciousness caused by his persecution obliged him to make an analogous adjustment to his paintings, even if the sketches had been completed decades before. Once-rosy depictions became turbulent. Wrinkles and wounds marred the subjects’ skin. Shi Lu’s heroic figures seemed to inhabit a psychological landscape deep in the artist’s imagination (fig. 9.5). Upon seeing the reworked versions, the noted painter Wu Guanzhong exclaimed, “These subjects do not belong to India anymore!” Wu likened the change “to a play becoming an opera.”18 According to Shi Lu’s newly added inscriptions, an itinerant Indian monk is now a “spirit-king” (shen wang) who can “arrest tigers and trap dragons to defend the ocean of art.” An ordinary driver of carts became the Greek god “Apollo, guiding his chariot toward the sun.”19 These constituted his new pantheon of heroes. Despite the horror inflicted on them, they stoically resisted degradation. He identified so strongly with these “heavenly people” from Egypt and India that he signed one such revised painting with a new Hindi pen name, Shi Gu Lumanden. To add to the aura of a shrine, he surrounded his subjects with enigmatic inscriptions honoring foreign authors and scientists.20 For example, the names Tagore and Tolstoy appear just below the spirit-king’s sword in one revised image (fig. 9.6). By late 1969, Shi Lu was determined to “say goodbye to his past,” to draw a clear line between the way he was before the Cultural Revolution and after. Now when Shi Lu saw his old paintings, they no longer seemed finished. He added lines to the faces. The men and women of India were now encircled by danger. And yet, their largely unaltered facial expressions and calm poses project dignity despite the beasts and commotion. Some might dismiss Shi Lu’s alterations as a symptom of his mental illness. 184

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9.2 Shi Lu, Hindu Man (1955). From 1955 to 1956, Shi Lu and another Xi’an artist, Zhao Wangyun, had the rare opportunity to attend an artists’ conference in Cairo, Egypt, then tour India and Southeast Asia. At that time figure painting was considered the most valuable form of painting for affirming socialism. The two artists set out to prove that brush and ink could be effective tools for portraying real people in the contemporary world. Ink and color on paper, travel sketch on-site in India, approx. 19.7 x 14.6 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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9.3 Shi Lu, Horse-Cart Driver (1956). Trained in traditional Chinese painting as well as charcoal pencil drawing, Shi Lu blended Eastern and Western approaches in his life drawing. His dignified portrayal of this humble cart driver from Egypt shows his sympathy for people at the grassroots. After his release from confinement in late 1969, Shi Lu took this sketch and “revised” it to portray a hero of his imagination, an ally in resisting the Cultural Revolution. (For its transformation, see figure 9.4). Ink and color on paper, travel sketch on-site in Egypt, 15.7 x 12.2 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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9.4 Shi Lu, Apollo Driving His Chariot (1970 revision of the 1956 travel sketch Horse-Cart Driver). Working in a dreamlike trance symptomatic of mental illness, Shi Lu added wrinkles to the driver’s robe, bloodied his skin, and framed him in capital letters. The cart now resembles a royal chariot, and the Egyptian driver a spiritual figure whom the artist’s daughter describes as the Greek god Apollo guiding his chariot across the sky. Ink and color on paper, 19.7 x 14.6 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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9.5 Shi Lu, Red Dust (1970 revision of 1955 travel sketch). Shi Lu told his family that following his ordeal, his old travel sketches no longer seemed “finished.” He filled up the background of this one with stampeding deer and poisonous snakes to express the horror he had experienced. Ink and color on paper, 15.7 x 12.2 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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9.6 Shi Lu, Indian Spirit-King (1970 revision of 1955 travel sketch, not shown). Inscriptions and other details Shi Lu added in 1970 altered this impoverished wanderer into an “Indian spirit-king who captures tigers and traps dragons.” The large Chinese characters at the tip of the king’s staff (or sword) refer to the Russian author Leo Tolstoy and the Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore. Ink and color on paper, 18.1 x 14.2 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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Undoubtedly, mental illness informed his remaking of these images, but we need not think less of the paintings because of it. In fact, our appreciation of them grows because they reveal his inner turmoil. Shi Lu’s revised travel sketches manifest trauma on a scale rarely, if ever, seen in Chinese painting. The rage he felt toward those who had orchestrated the Cultural Revolution burst forth. Behind his subjects arose a disturbing bas-relief of ill-omened beasts and venomous snakes. Mournful birds crowd the sky at dusk. Frightened deer stampede. Spiders ensnare victims in their webs. This is a torment so intense and theatrical that it could only be likened to Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, Dante’s Inferno, or possibly The Hell of Poisonous Snakes, found in Buddhist cave art.21 The cacophony of forms flying this way and that recalls the “spatial havoc” of Picasso’s Guernica.22 To create this powerful effect, Shi Lu filled every inch with color and inscription. He splattered his subjects’ clothing. The catastrophe of the Cultural Revolution stood baldly exposed. To vent anger so openly and forcefully was not typical in traditional Chinese culture. In the Confucian tradition, an upright gentleman was dispassionate in public, unfailingly mindful of the need to model conduct for others. He behaved with decorum, suppressing tears rather than letting them surge out.23 The same restrictions applied to a Confucian scholar-gentleman’s art. A painting was seen as a record of the artist’s inner life.24 It could not be false since it was considered “an organic outgrowth” of the poet’s inner state.25 Inauspicious symbols like attacking snakes or deserted ruins were rarely depicted in visual art for fear that they might stir up bad luck.26 Degree holders in the imperial period—whether painting in their spare time or selling art for a living—aspired to project a quiet aesthetic of aloofness, plainness, gravity, and composure in their painting.27 The so-called scholar aesthetic developed as a means to justify painting as an “upper-class pursuit.”28 A beneficiary of the Confucian examination system felt obliged to demonstrate that he deserved privileged status. His painting needed to project disinterestedness to highlight the difference between his scholarly practice of painting and the more vivid and colorful style associated with artisans or professional painters.29 Above all, the degree holder wanted to avoid the appearance of pandering to the vulgar tastes of the marketplace. He wished to present himself in an elevated way that did not diminish his cultural authority. Thus there was little scope for innovation within the scholarly aesthetic.30 To paint according to the subdued aesthetic of one’s predecessors affirmed the moral legitimacy of Chinese civilization. Breaking out of these conventions to represent the full force of horror challenged the legitimacy of the social order and one’s place in it. The Daoist sensibility offered more scope for rebelliousness and spontaneity. Innovation in Chinese painting often came during periods of disorder, when sons of wealthy landowners who would normally be Confucian officials became outcasts and hermits. Denied the possibility of joining the establishment, they focused on aesthetic pursuits and cultivated individualistic approaches. One such hermit was Shi Lu’s idol, Shitao.

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His landscape painting of 1685, Ten Thousand Ugly Ink Dots, is a rare example of defiant self-expression.31 The dots of ink evoke the catharsis of tears.32 Although painting was typically reserved for quiet, refined expression, emotional outbursts were permitted in poetry, especially when times were out of joint.33 Confucius described grieving as one of the four functions of poetry. The “Great Preface” of the Book of Songs described the nature of poetry as “verbalizing emotion” (shi yan zhi). Therefore, losing composure in poetry was defensible as long as the poet did not go so far as to appear “disgruntled.”34 It was respectable to weep and wail if the poet sounding forth did so in communion with the ancient spirit of Qu Yuan. Qu Yuan was the ancient poet whom Shi Lu imagined on his tombstone and whose spirit he invoked while wandering in the Sichuan wilderness in 1969.35 Unjustly cast out of court, the scholar-official eventually killed himself in despair. While suicide was not endorsed in the Confucian tradition, Qu Yuan was still revered as an exemplary person because he never abandoned his loyalty to the king, even when he had every reason to be disloyal.36 Qu Yuan was also known for his irrepressible creativity. To relieve his distress, so the legend goes (a legend substantiated by his poetry), Qu Yuan spewed forth a magnum opus. To remain creatively vital like Qu Yuan was one of several Confucian models for how to transcend degrading circumstances. A remarkable painting Shi Lu created in the same year as the revised travel sketches can be similarly understood as a dramatic performance reenacting his persecution experience. This completely new painting with a dual title, Goddess of Beauty or Eastern Venus de Milo (Meidianshen), was produced in stages, with its initial form subjected to a radical revision, much like the travel sketches (fig. 9.7). Shi Lu did not usually allow his children to observe him painting, but he made an exception in this case, inviting them to watch as he prepared a beautiful, fine-lined drawing on silk.37 The masterful way Shi Lu controlled the brush to paint the goddess’s clothes and hair astounded his son, Shi Guo, who also aspired to be a painter. The painting originally featured only a female deity, perhaps a bodhisattva, against a plain background without inscriptions. Shi Lu’s whole family thought it was an exceptional work showing that Shi Lu could still paint beautifully despite his many setbacks. What Shi Lu did next, however, horrified his family. Some months later, when he was alone in his studio, he poured a whole bottle of bright red oil-based ink over the work, partially covering the goddess’s torso. Typically, red ink is used sparingly in a traditional Chinese painting, to color the carved chops with which painters stamp their names on paper or silk, but Shi Lu gave this painting a bath in red. His wife feared that he had completely ruined it. The goddess now appeared to float in an “ocean of blood.” Not long after, Shi Lu cut the painting into two parts. When his family asked him why, he said he wanted to give one-half of the painting to his son and the other to his daughter. Though the painting is still severed at the middle, both halves are with his son.

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9.7 Shi Lu, Goddess of Beauty, Eastern Venus de Milo (1970). Even when lapsing into mental illness, Shi Lu’s thinking about art and politics remained profound. In a dreamy mental state, he poured red ink over this drawing of a goddess, then cut it in half, reenacting the injury to art and artists during the Cultural Revolution. In an inscription added in 1972, he counseled his son Shi Guo, “Never marry ugliness. Only socialize with beauty.” Ink and color on paper, 39.4 x 35.4 in. From Wang and Cai, Shi Lu (1996), 139. Photographed with permission of the artist’s family.

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The violence he did to the painting after it was nominally complete, pouring red ink over it and cutting it with scissors, was evocative of the emotional and physical wounds he received during the Cultural Revolution.38 According to his son’s memoirs, no conflict was more profound than the sense of betrayal Shi Lu felt with regard to his former idol. The break with Mao had severe psychological consequences for Shi Lu, “as if an ax had cut him in two.”39 That he so drastically “revised” his earlier paintings—both the goddess and his travel sketches—in the aftermath of his incarceration seemed related to the demand that he revise his depiction of Mao in Fighting in Northern Shaanxi. His anger at that earlier infringement seemed to fuel these later acts of revision, not as a surrender but as an assertion that the artist decides when a painting needs to be modified. He would not be bullied like fellow painter Dong Xiwen, who was famously forced to modify his 1952 masterpiece Founding of the Nation several times and damaged it in the process.40 In a series of inscriptions added in 1972, Shi Lu called the lady a goddess of beauty, explaining that she was actually an Eastern version of Venus de Milo, the Greek statue hailed for its timeless beauty despite its missing arms. He added another inscription at the top addressed to his son Shi Guo: “Never marry ugliness. Only socialize with beauty.” These later inscriptions add to the painting’s symbolic richness. That he cut the “Venus de Milo” in half and bathed her in blood suggests a parallel to the trauma he personally, and art generally, experienced. The painting attests to Shi Lu’s faith in the sustainability of beauty even in the direst of circumstances. The goddess retains her divine aura even in a diminished state. Although Shi Lu’s family had been distressed at the artist’s apparent disregard for what they considered a beautiful painting, they found that he was very serious when he wrote the inscriptions. Buried in the painting’s lower inscription, he offered what might be taken as his Cultural Revolution–era motto: “Those who respect beauty can transform themselves from smallness to good health.” Shi Lu defines beauty as more than just physical appearance. It is inseparable from virtue. Ugliness is the state of “having no kindness in your eyes.” At the end of the inscription, he suggests that he is undergoing a profound personal transformation, adding at the end, “Shi Lu right before switching from old to new.” Shi Lu’s children (fig. 9.8) were reluctant to exhibit either the revised travel sketches or the Eastern Venus de Milo until 1987, fearing that people would fail to appreciate their artistic quality.41 Their turbulence reveals his manic state. Not long after he finished painting Eastern Venus de Milo, in the summer of 1970, his mental illness became so severe that his family convinced party authorities to have him institutionalized for a second time. Schizophrenia is typically seen as a sensory and cognitive disorder that robs people of life potential and confines them in a solitary, delusional world. The opposite seemed to occur in Shi Lu’s case: with the onset of disease came a deepened awareness and truthfulness. Perhaps having a brain that was internally occupied and impervious to the outside world was a healthy orientation in the context of the Cultural Revolution; his tangential connection to reality allowed him to contemplate his situation from a remove.42 Though FROM T RAuMA TO RECOVERY

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9.8 The author with Shi Lu’s daughter, a distinguished painter and art administrator in Xi’an. Shi Lu’s son Shi Guo (not pictured) is also an accomplished painter and dean of the School of Design and Art at Beijing Institute of Technology, Zhuhai campus. Both have written books about their experiences with their father during the final years of the Cultural Revolution. Photography by Jon Burris.

his language was at times disorganized and his sensory perceptions distorted, Shi Lu’s thinking on political matters did not grow confused but rather more candid.43 The Cultural Revolution, like the Nazi Holocaust or Stalin’s reign of terror, was a dark tunnel in history when people subjected to its fury were justified in going mad or committing suicide.44 When the extremity of the historical context is appreciated, Shi Lu’s psychosis appears to be a logical response, a type of allergic reaction to a profound social malady. Shi Lu, a true believer in Communism, had been set adrift spiritually and emotionally by the betrayal of a leader he once idolized. Mental illness never completely derailed his tortured process of growth; in some ways it liberated him. As a “madman,” Shi Lu gained immunity to do what others would not dare: to spar with the perverse logic of the Cultural Revolution as the movement unfolded. Both Shi Lu’s behavior and his diagnosis of schizophrenia are consistent with so-called atypical psychosis or brief reactive psychosis as described in current medical literature.45 Patients with this milder version are said to recover more quickly and completely. Onset typically occurs in a sudden burst after a blow to self-esteem or another commensurate psychic event. Thus, if Shi Lu’s illness is understood in the context of this more benign pattern of schizophrenia, his ability to continue writing and painting even in the midst of mental illness is plausible. We need not presume that he was faking it. For Shi Lu, the act of painting connected him to the deepest part of himself, his identity as an artist. Artistic creation reminded him of his self-worth and nourished his recovery. To acknowledge that his illness was real is not to deny that Shi Lu took advantage of his mental illness to think and behave in an oppositional way. Clearly, he engaged in playacting, performing the role of the “madman” as a strategy for protest. As his disease waxed and waned, a more lucid Shi Lu could draw on memories of actual experiences of psychosis to reenact madness theatrically. He understood himself as part of a romantic tradition of poets and painters who either feigned madness or slipped in and out of genuine madness in response to political and social evils. At times, he seemed to 194

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impersonate the diary-writing madman who shouted at humanity to stop “eating men” in Lu Xun’s famous story.46 He reminded some of Hamlet.47 Others compared him to Don Quixote, as he paced the courtyard of the Xi’an Art Academy holding a paddle and accompanied by his loyal sidekick, a small yellow dog.48 When he loitered in the streets wearing a long scholar’s robe, playing the guitar, and singing ancient Sichuan melodies, no one knew whether he was mentally ill or just acting insane as a protest strategy.49 Mental illness undeniably affected Shi Lu’s life and his art, but it accompanied his artistic enterprise rather than preventing him from navigating his destiny.50 In a poem dedicated to his elder brother, “Sending Fond Thoughts,” he confirms that while trauma shook him to the core, it did not strip him of his identity. In response to contemporaries who “narrow-mindedly say I pretend madness . . . ghosts say no. . . . I am still me—preparing the compass for the voyage.”51 Shi Lu gained a more penetrating knowledge of himself from both the Cultural Revolution and schizophrenia. He understood that history had cast him in a farfetched drama. He would not simply perform a starring role; he would narrate this bizarre tale for future generations. When his former patron, Wang Zhaowen, came to Xi’an to tour the recently discovered tomb of Qin Shi Huang in 1974, Shi Lu paid him a visit. Shi Lu joked that people gawked at him as if he were a terra-cotta warrior brought to life. Wang was persuaded that Shi Lu still had his wits about him despite the artist’s odd appearance.52 According to Wang, Shi Lu “hinted that his current appearance helped to protect him from political torture.”53 Despite his mental fortitude, Shi Lu’s body was fragile. By 1974, he resembled a beggar far older than his actual age of fifty-five. Part of this physical deterioration was self-induced, as he had become addicted to alcohol to cope with mental and physical pain. His suffering was real, and he did nothing to hide it. In 1971, Shi Lu’s doctor had not been optimistic that Shi Lu would be able to resume his painting career again. However, Shi Lu was determined to paint. The sedatives his doctor prescribed clouded his thinking and made him feel depressed, so he dispensed with the medicine altogether. He began a daily discipline of painting. Every day he worked extremely hard. Within months, the hallucinations and dreaminess were gone. In 1971–72, Shi Lu began painting in a dramatically new style, called by some New Scholar Painting (Xin Wenrenhua).54 A central aspect of Shi Lu’s New Scholar Painting was his innovative calligraphy. In the 1950s, Shi Lu’s writing had not been viewed as particularly distinctive. However, by the 1960s, his calligraphy became “skinny” and “powerful.”55 After suffering trauma during the first phase of the Cultural Revolution, his writing entered a new phase. Some characters seemed scrawled; others were buoyant and barely there. He wrote out moral phrases: “If you protect what is valuable in yourself, you will live long. If you are at peace with yourself, you will enjoy good health” (Zang han zhe shou, an le zhe kang).56 Throughout the waning years of the Cultural Revolution, Shi Lu continued to accept students who came to his door wishing to learn from him privately.57 For the FROM T RAuMA TO RECOVERY

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first time in years, he could paint without restrictions, in contrast to his life as a cadre in good standing working for the party establishment. He produced paintings for friends and acquaintances in exchange for cigarettes, liquor, beef, or other staples to supplement the insufficient food supply.58 In 1972, a representative from the provincial art establishment surprised him with an invitation to lead a daily art training group on the grounds of the academy. He was asked to serve as an adviser for a group of amateur artists creating revolutionary history painting. He was thrilled. In normal times, he was a very sociable person.59 By 1973, Shi Lu was on his way to again becoming a famous artist of the Shaanxi art field. The improved political climate in Xi’an was part of the broader cultural thaw gaining momentum nationwide. In September 1971, the hypocrisy of the Cultural Revolution was exposed when Lin Biao, the champion of the cult of Mao and his chosen successor, fled China for the Soviet Union after an apparent coup attempt against his former idol.60 As the radicals’ grip on power loosened, pragmatists led by Zhou Enlai reestablished ascendancy. China’s new special relationship with the United States, a hedge against security threats posed by the Soviet Union, encouraged policy changes beneficial to artists. Shi Lu was one of the famous artists tapped by the Beijing Foreign Ministry to begin painting works to send to embassies overseas.61 Zhou’s initiatives threatened Jiang Qing’s power base because her prestige depended on keeping radical Maoism alive and credible. She had special reason to obstruct Shi Lu’s rise because of what he had said about her and her policies. She probably knew of Shi Lu’s insulting poem in which he had dared to suggest that she relied on sexual favors to advance herself. Beginning in late 1973 and culminating in February 1974, Jiang Qing sent her ally Wang Mantian to Xi’an to stage a Black Painting Exhibition with Shi Lu as the number one target. Their group expressed outrage that Shi Lu had “240 students” and was spreading baleful influences among youth.62 They pejoratively called him “Kong Lao Er” (Confucius’s Second Son) and tried to cast him as a poisonous remnant of the old Confucian order.63 They rounded up 130 paintings he had sent to the Export Bureau in Tianjin at the request of the Foreign Ministry and used them to create a public spectacle to discredit Shi Lu. Jiang Qing’s forces commissioned a group of out-of-town scholars with no ties to Shi Lu to scour the inscriptions of his paintings for “counterrevolutionary content.” Several colleges and universities participated.64 Their report, dated June 21, 1974, began with a summary of Shi Lu’s purported crimes, including the reactionary thought crime of “advocating the road of Confucius.” Shi Lu is the vice president of the former Xi’an Art Association. He came from a vicious landlord family. He always insisted on a reactionary stand. He was part of the “Wild, Strange, Chaotic, and Black” school of painting. He not only created reactionary paintings but used his position to advocate a

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counterrevolutionary art road against Mao Zedong thought. During the Cultural Revolution, a lot of people criticized his crimes. Shi Lu responded to this with deep hatred. For several years, he pretended insanity, resisting the investigations of the party and the masses. He continued to secretly make reactionary paintings and poetry. He advocated the road of Confucius and Mencius. He attacked the proletarian dictatorship, wishing to bring reactionary ghosts back to life. The contagion spread by these examples of reactionary painting and calligraphy is extremely serious. Businessmen in Macao have paid large sums of money to buy them, and the influence is very bad.65

Despite Jiang Qing’s concerted efforts, Shi Lu could not be stopped from secretly making “reactionary” paintings and poetry. During the final decade of his life, he relied on the subject matter of China’s traditional scholar painting—the plum, the orchid, the pine tree, and the horse—to express his philosophical outlook. These motifs had been celebrated for centuries as symbols of the exemplary person who remains pure in a corrupting environment. Shi Lu saw himself fighting a world of thistles and brambles, like the flowers he painted. Buoyant and acrobatic, his flowers show agility but also trauma. The Chinese script on his 1970s-era paintings is as expressive as his flowers. On an image of a plum growing sideways from the edge of the picture, the two characters han jiang 寒江 (frigid river) look so wet they are practically illegible (fig. 9.9). The two lean ones, qiu yue 秋月(autumn moon), suggest a sliver of a moon and Shi Lu’s frail body. The inscription reads, “From the frigid river autumn moon, self-understanding grows.” In 1974, Shi Lu painted a picture of an old horse as a kind of self-portrait (fig. 9.10). He left an empty circle in the middle of the horse’s back where a saddle would typically be placed. According to the inscription, this old thoroughbred (lao ji) cannot be saddled. The void at the center of its back leaves no place for a rider. It cannot be made to obey against its will. In the poem “Thoughts on My Youth” from Shi Lu’s secret notebook (see Appendix), the line “I am a lean horse” prompts a viewer familiar with Chinese painting to think of a masterpiece produced during the early years of the Mongol occupation of China. Gong Kai (1222–1307), a former official loyal to the preceding Song dynasty, used the lean horse metaphor to protest the squandering of intellectual talent after the Mongol conquest. Gong Kai’s picture of an emaciated horse suggested that the ruling house had not governed effectively. An inscription on the painting urged the viewer to recognize the worth of the horse despite its shrunken form.66 According to the legend of Bo Le, an enlightened ruler could spot a horse of great potential even if adverse circumstances made the steed look pitiful. To recognize the horse’s stature despite its leanness attested to the onlooker’s discernment.67 Shi Lu’s painting of the old horse blends image and calligraphy in an innovative way. He plays with the ancient notion that a Chinese painter “writes” a picture with

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9.9 Shi Lu, Sideways-Growing Plum (1972), inscribed, “From the frigid river autumn moon, self-understanding grows.” Shi Lu infuses both his flowers and his calligraphy with a strong personal quality. Note the slender characters for “autumn moon,” suggesting Shi Lu’s own frail health. The plum grows sideways to stay aloof from the corrupt soil of the Cultural Revolution. The image calls to mind an iconic work by the Chinese patriot Zheng Sixiao (1241–1318), who famously painted an orchid without roots to show his refusal to recognize the Mongol occupation of China. Ink and color on paper, 12.6 x 9.8 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

calligraphic strokes.68 For example, the horse’s head and the first character of the inscription (lao 老, “old”) look practically the same. Both are thick with ink and irregular at the edges as if to imply fur. The picture and text interrelate in other ways. The small red seal at the end of the inscription looks like a horse. The large black horse in the center looks like writing. Its four legs bend inward like a giant Chinese character— an invented one. The horse’s mane and tail look like strokes of calligraphy. Shi Lu’s brush deftly streaked the paper to create the texture of horse hair. The viewer’s eye is drawn to the swirling circle on the horse’s back. This unpainted area seems to be an interference-free zone, the site of the animal’s defiant spirit. It could also be a wound. The horse looks away. Its talents have not been appreciated. In his final years, Shi Lu had the pleasure of seeing his “black” status reversed and his painting exhibited at the National Art Gallery, Beijing, in 1979.69 By then, he was in very poor health. He died of cancer at the age of sixty-three in 1982, six years after the Cultural Revolution ended.

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9.10 Shi Lu, Old Horse, Absent a Saddle (ca. 1974). Here Shi Lu paints an unattended horse, a traditional symbol for a loyal official whose talents have been wasted. The horse has a void on its back and looks away. According to the inscription, the old thoroughbred cannot be saddled. Ink painting, 30.3 x 21.3 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

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Confucius said that only in winter do we recognize the pine tree’s extraordinary ability to withstand cold.70 In 1972, Shi Lu painted pine trees on the summit of Mount Hua and described how he loved the way they “hold their heads aloft” and “ceaselessly push against the sky” (fig. 9.11).71 He positioned the trees so that the viewer must look up to them. They are large relative to the cliff, and their branches, full of pine needles, reach out like open arms to embrace the universe. When Robert Ellsworth, the famed collector of Chinese painting, saw this painting during a visit to China in 1980, he was astonished; it seemed unfathomable that a Chinese artist could paint with such emotional depth in the midst of the Cultural Revolution.72 Ellsworth purchased Shi Lu’s Stately Pines and donated it to the Metropolitan Museum of New York in 1986.

9.11 Shi Lu, Stately Pines of Mount Hua (ca. 1972). Robert H. Ellsworth, a famous dealer in Chinese art, instantly recognized the extraordinary value of this painting when he saw it in China. Shi Lu had painted it in the midst of the Cultural Revolution, when his career was still under a shadow. According to the inscription, the pine trees on the summit of Mount Hua “hold their heads aloft” and “ceaselessly push against the sky.” They are heroes standing up to the cold. Ink on paper, 53.8 x 27.4 in. Gift of Robert Hatfield Ellsworth to the Metropolitan Museum of New York. Photograph courtesy of the artist’s family.

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Conclusion

D

uring the Cultural Revolution, the Chinese painter Lin Fengmian (1900–1991) stayed up several nights reducing hundreds of his paintings to pulp before flushing them down the toilet. Others he kept but doused with red pigment to make them look acceptable.1 Lin had been criticized for painting his trademark subject, a lone goose or several geese flying against a dark sky (fig. C.1), and for the “stifling mood” of his paintings. During the early 1960s, some party reformers defended his bird-and-flower painting as politically harmless, but during the Cultural Revolution militants revived the notion that they were toxic (fig. C.2). From September 2, 1966, when his home was searched, until the end of 1972, the paintings that Lin did not destroy himself were confiscated or sealed away in boxes. On August 26, 1968, the Shanghai Public Security Bureau accused him of spying for Japan, froze his bank account, and jailed him for four years.2 He was released after a visitor from France, his internationally famous student Zhao Wuji, asked for him repeatedly.3 During the 1920s, Lin lived in France and studied modernist painters such as Matisse and Modigliani. Upon Lin’s return, the influential minister of education Cai Yuanpei appointed him director of Beijing’s premier art college, but he was forced to flee south when the progressive curriculum he founded, which included the use of nude models, put him in danger. From 1928 to 1938, as president of the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, Lin championed artistic freedom and shielded art students who

C.1 Lin Fengmian, Flying Goose (1964). In 1977, Yang Mingyi, a young admirer of Lin’s paintings, heard that the eminent master was preparing to go abroad. Although he had been released from jail, Lin’s future remained uncertain. Contacting him was discouraged. Undaunted, and carrying some of his own paintings, Yang knocked on Lin’s door in Shanghai. Although hesitant at first, Lin welcomed him, looked over his paintings, complimented his talent, and honored Yang with a gift—this painting of a lone goose in flight, the very style for which he had been criticized. Few such works survived the turmoil; many were destroyed by his own hand. Ink and color on paper, approx. 26.4 x 26.4 in. Photographed with permission of Yang Mingyi, who acquired this painting in 1977. Photography by Jon Burris.

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C.2 Cultural Revolution–era criticism of Lin Fengmian’s paintings of flying geese and an owl (Shanghai, 1967). Lin trained in France as a modernist and was a leading art educator prior to Communist rule. After 1949, he was largely restricted from teaching his artistic principles and criticized for painting melancholy subjects. An exhibition of his work during the early 1960s sought to reverse this stigma. However, the Cultural Revolution struck him down again. In 1968, he was accused of spying for Japan and jailed for four years. From “Ba ‘chuan min wenyi’ de Hei Yangban,” 25. Collection of author.

faced arrest for Leftist political activities. He warned against wasting talent. Showing a Confucian respect for age, Lin inscribed on a portrait of his early mentor Cai Yuanpei: “It takes ten years to grow a tree but one hundred years to grow a person.”4 Many now feel that Lin was China’s preeminent modernist, blending Western principles of composition and color theory with Chinese brushwork and poetic sensibility. His palette was not at all limited to gray washes; his still-life paintings were vividly colorful. What a tragedy that so many of his masterpieces were lost or destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, hundreds by his own hand. Under Communist rule, Lin was not allowed to teach his artistic principles.5 He became a recluse, living humbly and painting privately, supplementing a small salary by teaching foreign students and selling his paintings at cheap prices. When the political climate improved in 1977, Lin received permission to travel abroad. Before he left for Hong Kong, a young Suzhou painter who had long admired his painting, known to him only through art journals, visited him in Shanghai. With paintings in hand, Yang Mingyi knocked repeatedly on the artist’s door until it opened a crack. Lin did not recognize him, so he prepared to shut the door, but Yang quickly shoved a letter of recommendation inside. After a long pause, the old master welcomed him in, looked over his paintings, and complimented his talent. After several visits, Lin honored the young artist with a 204

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painting—one of a lone goose in flight, the very style for which he had been ruthlessly criticized (fig. C.1). Few works on this theme had survived the catastrophe.6 The same young artist, Yang Mingyi, saved another ink painting from the trash. During the autumn of 1973, Ya Ming (1924–2002) and Huang Zhou (1925–1997) stayed up late one night to paint together. They threw away their paintings to avoid political trouble, but Yang happened to spy one of the discarded paintings in the trash and asked if he could keep it. Prior to 1971, both Huang Zhou and Ya Ming had been targets of criticism. By 1973, their situation had improved. Now they had opportunities to paint on assignment, but they still could not choose their subject matter. If they wanted to paint something besides oil fields or a red sun, they had to do it secretly.7 On this occasion, Huang Zhou painted an angry bull as a symbol for himself and other persecuted artists (fig. C.3). Its pawing back hoof, swishing tail, and “cold stare” indicated resistance to Cultural Revolution policies.8 Were it not for Yang Mingyi, who saw through the false ideology of the time and appreciated the painting’s value, this art of resistance would have been lost to history. During the Cultural Revolution, the drumbeat of denigration crushed people’s souls. Everyone—to a degree—submitted to the pressure to confess “crimes.” But some battled persecution with a feisty spirit—if not outwardly, then inwardly. They shored up their identity by painting secretly and finding community with fellow artists. They saved art, and art saved them. The seven painters profiled in this book argued against excessive political interference in the arts. As Shi Lu saw it, the artist was a noble figure: guardian of truth, defender of beauty, and champion of ordinary people’s concerns. In a speech near the end of his life, Shi Lu called upon government to stop “forcing artists to pull horse carts.”9 Fifteen years earlier, Feng Zikai had made a similar plea, urging an end to the “giant hedge cutters” that threatened to trim all “shrubs” to a uniform shape. In a 1987 cartoon, Ding Cong portrayed himself seated at a desk with the shadow of a bureaucrat glaring over his shoulders. Four decades before, Ding had criticized the Chiang Kai-shek regime on similar terms when he memorably depicted the glaring eyeball of a censor in his famous 1944 handscroll Looking at Images.10 The Cultural Revolution struck hard at those whose art or personal conduct showed a stubborn, independent character—in short, those who were most like Shi Lu’s ideal. Artists who fell into this category were not a cohesive group. For example, Pan Tianshou was twenty years older than Shi Lu and more focused on art than political affairs. His concern with politics was that it not degrade artistic practice or art education. Shi Lu saw politics differently. He was not just a professional painter but a party cadre and provincial-level art administrator. For him, both art and politics were spiritual callings. Shi Lu’s choice to paint the oarsmen’s skin crimson or to present Mao with his back turned at the edge of a cliff made authorities fear that he was using art to show disapproval of Mao’s policies. Given how pointed Shi Lu’s criticism of Mao later became, those claims may have substance. But interpreting his paintings is more complicated CONCLuSION

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C.3 Huang Zhou, Bull (autumn 1973). Huang Zhou secretly painted this feisty bull late at night with his friend Ya Ming. The bull swishes its tail and raises its rear hoof, possibly preparing to stampede. Its defiant mood is out of step with the standard of the time, which required every painting to show enthusiasm for Cultural Revolution policies. Afraid that the painting might cause him trouble, Huang Zhou discarded it, but Yang Mingyi spied it in the trash can and asked if he could keep it. Ink painting, inscribed by Huang Zhou in 1980 and Ya Ming in 1973. Photographed with permission of Yang Mingyi in 1995.

than this. Both of the paintings in question express homage to the communist dream of dignity for the common man. Mao is the central figure in both. To the extent that the older Mao still endorsed such heroic aspirations, Shi Lu honored him. But where Mao fell short of upholding the genuine ideals of communism, the artist seems to admonish him. Shi Lu purposely created ambiguity for viewers to puzzle over. It was this ambiguity that put him in jeopardy fifty years ago—and which enhances the appeal of his paintings for audiences today. Some accounts paint Li Keran as timid, but he was bold in defending his artistic standards and his painting style in an environment hostile to self-expression. He stubbornly continued painting in dark ink, even after it became obligatory to identify paintings as revolutionary by amplifying brightness and adding the color red. When the atmosphere became too severe to continue painting as before, Li outwardly conformed. But inside, his defiance continued. He painted in the same thick, dark way—but now with red ink. When it became possible to use black again the way he wanted, he celebrated the removal of the “spiritual handcuffs.”11

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Li Keran’s colleague at the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Li Kuchan, also produced a number of masterpieces after the Cultural Revolution. These billboard-size works depicted a profusion of birds and flowers on a scale that ink painters had rarely attempted. It was his friend and former colleague, Pan Tianshou, who pioneered this grand manner prior to the Cultural Revolution. However, Pan had been persecuted to death, collapsing in 1970, less than a year after the cruel traveling struggle session demoralized him. As one of the few senior-generation bird-and-flower painters to survive the disaster, Li Kuchan spent his final years vigorously painting in solidarity with the unfulfilled aspirations of Pan and others who did not live to see the constructive changes. Condemned as a Rightist well before the Cultural Revolution started, Ding Cong endured the longest period of punishment. Still, adversity did not curb his honesty or sap his self-confidence. Secretly, he made portraits of himself to show that he had not been reduced to a nobody. After the ordeal was over, he took up where he had left off. He refused to be gagged like the so-called Perfect Citizen he had lampooned in his cartoons prior to Communist rule. His friend Huang Yongyu praised him for his “rocklike” character. Huang’s personality was unflappable too. He managed to keep his wit during a humorless time, reaching out to fellow sufferers with gifts of paintings and carved pipes. Feng Zikai lived expansively as well, not just during the Cultural Revolution but throughout his career. The playful cats and carefree children he depicted showed his capacity to find joy in life’s bleakest moments. In his classic account of the Holocaust, Elie Wiesel reflected on what it feels like to be flung into a “half-world” drained of meaning and hope. He describes feeling whittled down to just “a body” or even less, “a starved stomach.” Life seems a perpetual “night” full of “dead stars” and “dead eyes.” Still, an ounce of decency remains. In the camps, the simple utterance “Good night” could send his heart racing at the rare sound of “human words.”12 According to Victor Frankl, another victim of the Holocaust, even concentration camp inmates could transcend their predicament by exercising inner freedom. Whether they chose to submit—mentally and spiritually—to the degrading circumstances determined what sort of people they became.13 Frankl conceded that few prisoners succeeded in keeping “their full inner liberty,” but those who did added profound meaning to their lives.14 The author Ba Jin, an eloquent spokesman for victims of the Cultural Revolution, made a similar comment in the preface to his memoir: “[Those] ten bitter years were far from being a complete waste; I gained something, I cannot put it in so many words, but it is something intense, shining and growing.”15 But these gains came at huge expense. Elsewhere in the same volume, Ba Jin described the strain on his wife simply because she was tied to him. Her gentle heart was smothered: “The cold indifference, derision and abuse that she suffered gradually enveloped her and seemed to suck the very life

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C.4 Shi Lu, detail of Flower, Plant, Insect Long Scroll (1970). Shi Lu completed this major work in the months after his release from the cowshed, a time when he was hearing voices in his head. According to his daughter, who was fourteen at the time, he spread this twelve-foot-long handscroll on his bed to work on it. In Chinese scholar painting, flowers represent virtuous people. The bright red peony in this image is lush and full. It sits upright on a sturdy stem with another set of blossoms about to bloom, but a gray-blue insect looks on. Ink and color on paper, handscroll, 11.8 x 143.7 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

force from her being. I stood by helpless as her health gradually deteriorated, the calm and composure she showed on the outside was nothing more than a deception.”16 Ba Jin’s account makes plain the destructiveness of the Cultural Revolution. He criticizes himself and his countrymen for failing to speak up in a way that might have prevented the disaster.17 Those who did resist political pressure had to be strategic about when they fought back; to oppose extremism at every turn could lead to death or cause harm to one’s family. Shi Lu came the closest to conspicuously and ceaselessly opposing Maoist extremism, but he shielded himself by fostering doubts about his sanity. All the artists profiled in this book succeeded in preserving an inner domain. They leaned mainly on China’s traditional philosophies—Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism—to fortify their resolve. As young artists, their European-inspired art training in China’s modern schools fueled their confidence to go their own way. The strong sense of self they developed helped them to later weather the assault on their personality. In secret paintings, they mounted a counterargument to radical Maoism, particularly the illusion of a single collective dream to which all energies must be harnessed. They sustained art as a refuge for individual expression and built a foundation for the 208

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C.5 Shi Lu, detail of Flower, Plant, Insect Long Scroll (1970). In this image, the insect gorges on the peony, reducing it to a pale green color and thinning out its petals. The attack on the flower appears to be sucking the life out of it. The next image on the scroll (not shown) confirms that the parasite’s feast has blackened the peony and beaten it to the ground. Ink and color on paper, handscroll, 11.8 x 143.7 in. Courtesy of the artist’s family.

innovators of today.18 Contemporary Chinese artists who continue to defy censorship— such as Ai Weiwei and Xu Bing—are their spiritual heirs.19 Shi Lu’s case warrants special attention. Extreme persecution pushed him to invent a new style of painting, one that was far more abstract and psychological than what he had painted before the Cultural Revolution. He makes the tragedy visible through his scrawled and pooled brushwork and his choice of a pale palette of light pink. His “skinny” calligraphy testifies to the thinning out of humanity, just as Giacometti’s emaciated Man Pointing wore the wounds of the Holocaust and World War II. One cannot look at Shi Lu’s paintings without seeing pain, but the viewer leaves feeling refreshed. His inscriptions emphasize that suffering enhances beauty: “Rain’s dew freshens flowers.”20 He created hundreds of unique paintings protesting the Cultural Revolution, including one of his most ambitious, a 1970 handscroll that features three images of a flower confronted by an insect.21 The first is a bright red peony with its long stamen pointing upward (fig. C.4). Beside it are buds about to blossom. A large gray-blue insect looks down at the flower from a perch. Its two antennae contain raindrops. In the second image, the flower is pale green (fig. C.5). Its fullness has diminished. Its blossoms seem CONCLuSION

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skeletal. Next to the flower is a rock balanced on its tip. The insect now looks reptilian with a lizard-like tail. Possibly a moth, it chews on the blossoms. Its tiny red tongue is slightly visible. In the third image, the flower is black. Its body looks like it is lying on the ground drained of strength. A dragonfly points its antennae down like a spear. An engorged caterpillar sits watching. The message suggested by this imagery is not hard to discern: the flower symbolizes art or the artist, or perhaps the revolutionary idealist, and the insects, the attackers during the Cultural Revolution. The blossoms grow leaner and change from red to green to black as insects devour it. The inscription on the scroll mirrors the degeneration experienced by the flower. At one end of the scroll, the calligraphy is orderly and all red. On the other, it is all black, scrawled, and misshapen. Thinking about each section sequentially allows us to form a mental picture of the devastation that extremists caused. Figuring out what the inscription on the flower-and-insect scroll says is more difficult. Shi Lu had just come home from the cowshed and was still in a dreamy state of mind. We might dismiss the whole text as nonsensical and indecipherable, a product of his mental illness. And yet, listed in the inscription are the names of scientists, statesmen, authors, and artists from around the world: Isaac Newton, Thomas Edison, Benjamin Franklin, Charles Darwin, James Watt, Leonardo da Vinci, Victor Hugo, and Sun Yat-sen. He calls them the inventors who advanced civilization. They are “the kind ones” dedicated to improving the people’s lives. “For the sake of the kingdom,” they “guard the universe.”22 Shi Lu urges future generations to respect the creative innovators. His appeal still resounds today.

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APPENDIX

Poems from Shi Lu’s Secret Notebook, ca. 1973–75

During the Cultural Revolution, Shi Lu looked back to the Yan’an era as a golden time when the party was close to the masses. A Song in Praise of Yan’an Mao’s vision of “sky high clouds” . . . scatters! Barren bitterness stirs Mount Hao. There is a meager amount of barley left. Truly, I am happy to share it with the community. Of course we should eliminate “evil ghosts.” Frozen in snow, the peach flower dreams of spring. Who presumes one dollar can earn ten thousand? Schemers who seize office, riches, and power, shouting nonsense! This father protects Yan’an, though compared to the famous revolutionaries, all I gave was perspiration. If you wish to know the weight of bones put them on the scales yourself, balance the boasts and empty claims, and measure the cost in tens of thousands. The painter’s brush never devours youth. Only now do I know the true meaning of gluttony. Imagine one day, three meals of rice for everyone, then see who curses our early years. Friends . . . join the Revolution! How can you eat the rice that others cooked? 211

Spring laughs at the yellow soil plateau. Desolate winds reclaim youthful dreams. Sheep become clouds floating in pure mountains. (Epilogue) This poem is not simply practice for the mouth. Unbounded—hear this in the spirit of a child’s innocence.

Shi Lu admired Bada Shanren’s inventive painting but not his political outlook, which he considered elitist. Bada Shanren is remembered as a mad genius whose strange behavior, although grounded in authentic illness, may have been exaggerated to shield him from further political troubles. His life and Shi Lu’s had many parallels. In Praise of the Painter Bada Shanren (Xue Ge, 1626–1705) Winter’s slaughter unleashed hounds of wind. I walk five miles, pacing back and forth. How I wished to soar like a heavenly horse! But I stood my ground to defend talent. Disobeying Emperor Shun, I chose the unsullied path. Sitting alone on the pedestal of the Heavenly Family, an evening’s glance toward the imperial capital reveals, as yet, no summons to battle. From a single orchid, a spring pavilion grows, a little pigment paints the azure moss. Peering out, a peaceful pair of eyes, my spirit remains undisturbed. Liu Xie swims in the enthusiasm of youth immersed in today’s high spirits. The Eastern Kitchen contains no stolen rice. The pursuit of wealth is not my life— the ancestral estate I did not keep, the arranged bride I never loved. Official service felt too stifling. The new officials are not true talents. I prefer a humble life writing essays and poems. 212

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Ancient sages called it strange to see writers pair off with beautiful women. I won’t waste my time wondering why. Riches and honor are like passing clouds. Big slaughter: fierce jackals. I climb to the bright moon’s refreshing door. Friends share their heart’s dreams over cheap liquor. Peanuts: a simple, satisfying dish. Why are those people so trivial? Ambition destroys their spirit. They chuckle dismissively at Heaven and Earth— why encourage opportunists to flourish? Chiang Kai-shek shouted his slogan “New Life!” I’ll ride a great horse to knock down an entire row of their soldiers, then say, “Excuse me,” as if it were an accident so that no Communist Party member is captured. One generation of wind and moon— for whose benefit is art created? Try walking the void on the outskirts of the universe, then you’ll appreciate what it means to carry the past into an open future. The sky-master should nurture the next generation gingerly: with cloud-like softness. Bada Shanren’s grasp of life was superficial. Looking at his brush paintings again, I snicker at his insufficiency, but I respect his talent. Thoughts on My Youth / Counting Stars Poem No light bursts through sky’s gate. I gaze at Heaven—counting out stars. I was born limber, an acrobat performing flips in the air. Teacher forced me to kneel on bricks. I used his teapot as my bedpan. AP P ENDIX

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How could I oppress men? My nature abhors injustice. Bamboo tall and pure. Orchid fragrant and remote. Plum reddens snow. Bird chirps music. Nature’s elements are so varied. Whoever opposes nature’s principles leaves no children behind. Bullies stepping on others seemingly sweet but carrying a fishy odor. Usurping authority to steal the sky and change the stars, rotten, blind worshippers deserving to die. Their nerves are abnormal like monkeys. A romantic hero relies on humor and virtue, never entering the muddy stream. Who really knows the sky’s height or the earth’s depth? One generation: a capsized boat. Strain your eyes to find the rare autumn butterfly, then discern whether the yellow flower is fat or lean. I am a lean horse. My red brush cannot write out revolution’s deepest worries. [Shi Lu’s Epilogue] In childhood, I learned not to bow to authority. In old age, I cannot be a blind worshipper. You ask me which style of poem this belongs to? (Wind, horse, ox . . . ) Irrelevant!

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NOTES Pre fac e a n d ac k n ow l e d g m e nts 1 2 3

Baranczak, “Breathing under Water,” 1–6. Author’s interview with Li Geng, Beijing, 2016. Author’s interview with Cheng Shifa, Shanghai, 1995. See his 1980 Melody of Guang Ling San (cat. no. 22) in Cheng Shifa’s Paintings Retrospective.

In t rodu c t i on 1 2 3 4

5 6 7

8

9 10 11 12

13

Song Yongyi, Chronology of Mass Killings. Author’s interview with artist (name withheld), Beijing, 1995. On mob violence during the Cultural Revolution, see MacFarquhar and Schoenhals, Mao’s Last Revolution, 124–31. Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 34. The other episodes in this paragraph are described in chapters 1, 5, and 6. On socialist realism in China, see Andrews, Painters and Politics, 119; and Laing, The Winking Owl, 20–23. On socialist realism in the Soviet Union, see Brooks, Thank You, Comrade Stalin!, 108–17; Bown, Socialist Realist Painting, 142–43; and Prokhorov, Art under Socialist Realism, 28–64. Bown, Socialist Realist Painting, 150. Ellen Judd calls the operas “the artistic centerpiece of the Cultural Revolution.” “Dramas of Passion,” 266. Richard Kraus argues that prominent artists, for the most part, experienced a smooth transition to Communist rule until the Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957. He bases his assessment on the privileges afforded artists. These included salaries, housing, travel opportunities, and even extra food rations. Kraus, The Party and the Arty, 40–41. Mao’s image and sayings were the party’s “most crucial symbolic devices” (Leese, Mao Cult, 162). “The museum was a highly controlled political arena” and “the subjects the leaders wanted the public to see were constantly in flux” (Chang-tai Hung, Mao’s New World, 150). Chen Duxiu, “Meishu geming.” Chen Duxiu, “Wenxue geming lun,” 163. Yan Liquan, “Lun ‘ye, guai, luan, hei.’” In 1994, the painter Wu Guanzhong sued several art galleries for claiming that he painted this Mao portrait. Wu explained that he was not eligible to paint Mao during the Cultural Revolution because he had been denounced as a counterrevolutionary. A younger artist, Wang Weizheng, testified that he painted the original in 1967. It became clear that the galleries had put Wu’s name on their fake version to fetch a high price for it. Wu won the lawsuit. Lu Xinhua, “Wu Guanzhong,” 37–38. Cowshed (alternatively translated as “ox-pen”) was the term for the makeshift quarters confining targets of Red Guard criticism during the most violent and chaotic phase of the Cultural Revolution, from 1966 to 1969. Targeted artists were denounced as “ox devils and snake spirits”

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17

18

19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28

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(niuguisheshen) and housed in “cowsheds” with other artists at the academies where they had been faculty or administrators. See Hawks, “Mao Zedong Evaluation”; and MacFarquhar and Schoenhals, Mao’s Last Revolution, 456–57. For example, the Cultural Revolution and Mao in his final years are described as “insane” or “mad” in Schoppa, Revolution and Its Past, 344, 346–47. Both Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger were impressed with Mao’s mental capacities when they met him in person in 1972. Nixon said of Mao that he had a “remarkable sense of humor” and that his mind “moved like lightning.” Macmillan, Nixon and Mao, 75. MacFarquhar and Schoenhals, Mao’s Last Revolution, 413 and 409. In 1975, Mao had tried unsuccessfully to have acting premier Deng Xiaoping approve a resolution formally pronouncing the Cultural Revolution “70 percent positive, 30 percent negative.” When Deng proved unwilling, Mao sponsored a movement to push Deng out of power for a second time. Mao believed that the Cultural Revolution needed to be carried to excess to succeed. His “deliberate opaqueness” left allies in the dark about his aims. MacFarquhar and Schoenhals, Mao’s Last Revolution, 48 and 132. On psychological engineering, see Perry, “Moving the Masses.” Both Ding Cong and Feng Zikai argued for scaling back micromanagement of the arts and were punished for it. Another cartoonist, Hua Junwu, was labeled antiparty for poking fun at administrative interference. Hung Yu, “Hua Chun-wu Is an Old Hand,” 135; author’s interview with Hua Junwu, Beijing, 1995. Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, 26–27. Frankel, “Poetry and Painting,” 289–90. According to Pan Tianshou, only “poets doubling as painters” lived up to the high standard set by traditional Chinese art. Pan Gongkai, “Noble Winds,” 78. The First Emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang, notoriously buried scholars alive and burned Confucian texts. On Mao’s praise of him and Shi Lu’s rebuke, see chapter 7. Political scientist Tang Tsou calls humanistic intellectuals the “passionate spokesmen of civil society.” The Cultural Revolution, 223–24. On the interest of Chinese artists in Western modernism, see Shao, “Chinese Art in the 1950s,” 77–84. According to Vaclav Havel, repressive regimes target art that is “penetrating” and expressive of “autonomous humanity,” not necessarily art that is overtly political. “Six Asides about Culture,” 133. On innovation during the Cultural Revolution, see Paul Clark, The Chinese Cultural Revolution, 50, 231, 251, 260–61. On the appeal of Cultural Revolution–era cultural production, see McDougall, “Writers and Performers,” 292–300. On the visual richness of the Cultural Revolution era, see Jiang Jiehong, Red, 15. On the “hijacking” of Mao images, see Leese, Mao Cult, 20–22. Paul Clark, The Chinese Cultural Revolution, 224–29. Cheng Shifa used this phrase “painting by candlelight” (yijie zhuguang hua danqing) when describing to Wu Tung, Asian art curator of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, the conditions under which he produced a landscape album painting now in the museum’s collection (Boston Museum of Fine Arts, 1981.76). For an illustration of one leaf, see Andrews, Painters and Politics, 344. On clandestine painting, see Silbergeld, Contradictions, xx, 39, and 52. On viewing as a negotiated process “from within and without,” see Bryson, Vision and Painting, 67–69, 151–54, 170. A conference organized by Eugene Wang at Harvard on November 7, 2009, discussed multiple interpretations, often opposing ones, of a single painting, Guo Xi’s 1072 masterpiece, Early Spring.

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33 34

On the visual effect of a painting, see Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 458–73. On indications of social position in a portrait of regents in Haarlem, see Baer, Class Distinctions, 148. 35 On ambiguity as a strategy used by Chinese authors, see Wagner, The Contemporary Chinese Historical Drama, 1–2. 36 Bryson admires traditional Chinese painting for revealing the artist’s bodily presence and the flux and duration of the artist’s labor in the trace of the brush. He argues that Western oil painting, especially religious icons, “disembody” vision because they project a viewpoint of “all-knowing eternity.” Bryson, Vision and Painting, 95. 37 Artist Ben Shahn discusses the gap between a critic’s interpretation and his own conception of a painting in Shahn, The Shape of Content, 25–52. 38 On the risk of forgetting the negative side of the Cultural Revolution, see Andrews, “The Art of the Cultural Revolution,” 56–57. 39 Manlove, “Visual ‘Drive’ and Cinematic Narrative.” 40 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 177, 214. 41 Wedeen, Ambiguities of Domination, 1–24, 159–60. 42 On the “perfectly frontal” gaze of Mao’s portrait, see Wu Hung, Remaking Beijing, 77–82. Already by the 1950s, Mao’s portrait was considered “the most important symbol of the new state.” Localities were forbidden to paint him looking down. Leese, Mao Cult, 39. On Stalin’s “forward gaze,” see Bown, Socialist Realist Painting, 179. 43 Dal Lago, “Personal Mao,” 49. 44 Jiang Jiehong, Red, 14. 45 In 1968, another painter, Zheng Shengtian, depicted Mao gazing toward a vista, but Mao’s scale was colossal, and his sideways pose allowed his face and eyes to still be visible. This painting, Man’s Whole World Is Mutable, was well received by radical Maoists, but Jiang Qing later criticized Zheng’s representation of Mao’s chin. Zheng Shengtian, “Art and Revolution,” 32–34. Zheng believes she disapproved of it because it depicted Mao’s 1967 inspection tour reining in her policies. “Brushes Are Weapons,” 103. 46 Since the 1990s, Chinese pop artists have satirized the Mao portrait, deflating its authority. Dal Lago, Personal Mao, 50–55; Wu Hung, Remaking Beijing, 195–233. Shi Lu had a different relationship to the Mao image. This topic is explored in chapter 8. 47 Hung Chang-tai, Mao’s New World, 111–51. Mao was furious about Khrushchev’s removal of images of Stalin. This increased his sensitivity about how he was portrayed in art. Leese, “Mao Cult,” 68, 81–82. 48 Link, The Uses of Literature, 98. 49 Mao’s interventions to halt criticism of Li Kuchan and Huang Yongyu are discussed in chapters 4 and 5. Mao did not step in to stop criticism of Shi Lu. 50 Mao Zedong, “Talks,” section 4. c ha p t e r 1 . Di n g C on g ’ s T ru e Story of t he Ou tcast A h Q 1

2 3 4 5 6

Ding Cong, Ah Q zheng zhuan manhua. For English translations of Lu Xun’s “The True Story of Ah Q,” see Yang and Yang, Selected Stories of Lu Hsun, 65–112; and Lovell, The Real Story of Ah-Q, 79–123. Wu Zuguang, preface to Ding Cong, Ah Q zheng zhuan manhua, 15. Tang, Origins of the Chinese Avant-Garde, 165–66; Andrews and Shen, “The Modern Woodcut Movement,” 218. This photograph is reproduced in Li Hui, Ding Cong, 25. Ristaino, China’s Intrepid Muse, 8–12. Ding Cong, Ah Q zheng zhuan manhua, 68–70.

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17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

An article in the New York Times mistakenly claimed that Ding “did not draw a line” for the twenty-two years of his persecution. WuDunn, “Chinese Cartoonist,” 2. Ristaino, China’s Intrepid Muse, 40–42; Li Hui, Ding Cong, 33–64. Sullivan, Art and Artists, 122–23. The handscroll is housed in the Spencer Museum of Art, University of Kansas. In 1926, Lu Xun explained how he came to write the story in “How ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ Was Written.” On Ah Q as emblem of China’s national character, see Foster, Ah Q Archaeology, 1–18. Lovell, The Real Story of Ah-Q, xxii. Li Hui, Ding Cong, 54. Vogel, Deng Xiaoping, 40–41. Author’s interview with Ding Cong and Shen Jun, Beijing, 1995; and Li Hui, Ding Cong, 66–76. Ding’s clandestine sketches were published in Meishujia 56 (1987): 28–31. A few years earlier in the same journal, a sampling of the images that he produced for the army magazine were published, but not the clandestine sketches. Huang Miaozi, “Reqing cai bi.” Author’s interview with Ding Cong and Shen Jun, Beijing, 1995. MacFarquhar and Schoenhals, Mao’s Last Revolution, 160. Author’s interview with Ding Cong and Shen Jun, Beijing, 1995. Goldman, “The Fall of Chou Yang,” 135–36; and Goldman, “The Political Use of Lu Xun.” On this debate, see Cheung, Lu Xun, 134–35; Goldman, China’s Intellectuals, 128; and Zhong, “Who Is Afraid of Lu Xun?” Lu Xun discusses his opposition to extremism in “Two Letters,” 40. John A. Lent and Xu Ying conducted interviews with Ding in 2002 and 2006. In 2002, they asked him how he could live with the fact that twenty-two years of his life had been taken away. He responded that he simply had to “live on” and try “not to think too much.” Lent and Xu, “Chronicler of Most of a Century,” 204. This painting was hanging on the wall of Ding’s apartment when I interviewed him. Wang Hongyan, Ding Cong, 132. Chen Siyi, “Wo kan Ding Cong,” 37. Ristaino, China’s Intrepid Muse, 22–23; Hung, “The Fuming Image,” 133. Hung identifies Daumier and Kollwitz as important influences on Ding and other cartoonists. Author’s interview with Ding Cong and Shen Jun, Beijing, 1995; Wang Hongyan, ed., Ding Cong, 102. Huang Yongyu, “Yongyuan de chuanghu,” 183–84. Li Hui, Ding Cong, 76. According to Li Hui, Ding’s self-portrait is particularly “expressive” of his feelings. Ristaino, China’s Intrepid Muse, 63. Sullivan, Art and Artists, 122–23. Mao Dun, “Tan Ding Cong de ‘Ah Q zhengzhuan’ gushi hua,” 2. Foster, Ah Q Archaeology, 181–82. For a survey of visual material related to Lu Xun’s Ah Q story, see Eva Chou, Memory, Violence, Queues, 183–205.

c ha p te r 2. Fe n g Zi ka i Prot e sts t h e G ia nt Hed g e Cu t t ers 1 2 3 4 5 6

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Feng Zikai, “Wo zuole si shou shi.” Translation following Barmé, Artistic Exile, 322–23. Feng Zikai et al., Husheng huaji. The two images under discussion here appear in vol. 3, 127–28 (bonsai tree) and 129–30 (hedge cutters). Ibid., 130. Feng, “Wo zuole si shou shi”; Barmé, Artistic Exile, 322–23; Harbsmeier, Cartoonist Feng Zikai, 39. Barmé, Artistic Exile, 323–24. “Dadao fan-gong laoshou Feng Zikai,” 19.

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Zalan meishujie fan-gong laoshou Feng Zikai, cover. On Li’s impact on the spread of Western art training, see Kao, “Reforms in Education,” 155–56. Pan Tianshou (see chapter 6) attended the same training program but was not enthusiastic about Western art. Xu Hong, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 84–94. Barmé, Artistic Exile, 33–43. On the origins of Feng Zikai’s manhua, see Barmé, “An Artist and His Epithet,” 17–25; Barmé, Artistic Exile, 89–97; Bi and Huang, Zhongguo manhua shi, 72; and Su-hsing Lin, “Feng Zikai’s Protecting Life.” On Chen Shizeng’s “socially aware” painting and its influence on Feng, see Barmé, Artistic Exile, 64. On Yumeji and Hokusai, see ibid., 52–58 and 91–93. Feng Zikai, “Zikai manhua xuan zi xu,” 320–21 (author’s translation). Feng’s estate in his home village of Shimenwan, Zhejiang, was christened Fate Fate Hall (Yuan Yuan Tang) after Feng asked his teacher to name the residence. Li recommended that Feng name it randomly by drawing from a pile of characters. Feng drew the character yuan (of yuanfen, meaning “fate”) twice in a row. Cui Wei, “Feng Zikai,” 1591. After the war, Feng Zikai reluctantly relocated to Shanghai. In 1954, he found an apartment with a brightly lit room on the top floor of a building that suited him. He named it the Sun and Moon Pavilion (Ri Yue Lou) and resided there until his death. Feng Yiyin, Feng Zikai zhuan, 205–6. Harbsmeier, The Cartoonist Feng Zikai, 39. Hung, “War and Peace,” 50–53. For example, Feng instructs readers to look at the image and then “think of something else” in Husheng huaji. On “the art of outcry,” see Tang, Origins of the Chinese Avant-Garde, 213–27. For example, see Feng Zikai’s 1938 work, Bombing II, in Harbsmeier, The Cartoonist Feng Zikai, 172; and analysis in Hung, “War and Peace,” 53–66. Chen Xing, “Chuban qianyan.” On the Buddhist tradition of liberating animals, see Smith, “Liberating Animals in Ming-Qing China.” For example, see the priority given his post-1949 works in Feng Zikai, Feng Zikai huaji. On Feng’s response to the changeover, see Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa fengshen, 280–83. Ibid., 282 (author’s translation). For this self-criticism, see Da gong bao (Shanghai edition), July 16, 1952. An excerpt of it is discussed in Harbsmeier, The Cartoonist Feng Zikai, 36–37. Feng Yiyin, Feng Zikai zhuan, 156. On the situation for cartoonists after 1949, see Harbsmeier, The Cartoonist Feng Zikai, 36. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 119–22. Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa fengshen, 290–91. Harbsmeier, The Cartoonist Feng Zikai, 36. Feng Zikai, “Zikai manhua xuan zi xu,” 320. Then mayor of Shanghai Chen Yi invited Feng to become a member of the Shanghai Literature and History Study Committee in 1953. Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa fengshen, 288. On Feng’s affiliation with the party, see Yang Mingsheng, ed., Zhongguo xiandai huajia zhuan, 178–79. Author’s interview with Feng Xinmei, Hong Kong, 1995. Feng Zikai, “Dai hua,” 339 (author’s translation). Ibid., 340. Ibid., 341. The best collection of Feng Zikai’s propagandistic cartoons from the post-1949 era is Feng Zikai huaji (1963).

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Health factors were partly to blame. By the 1950s, he had difficulty with his eyes and his hands shook, but the uncertain political climate was probably the main factor, as he did paint later. 39 Feng met Zhou at a National Consultant meeting in 1959. Phone interview with Feng Yiyin, 1999. Zhou personally asked Feng to paint more paintings for the sake of the Chinese people. Cui Wei, “Feng Zikai,” 1597. Fellow cartoonist Hua Junwu, an influential party member, encouraged Feng to paint more when he visited his residence during the 1950s. Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa fengshen, 287. 40 The mayor of Shanghai, Chen Yi, intervened to save Feng Zikai from being branded a Rightist. Cui Wei, “Feng Zikai,” 1597. 41 Feng Zikai, “Ah Mi” (author’s translation). It was written in 1962 and published in Shanghai wenxue. 42 The illustration appears in Feng Zikai, “Ah Mi,” in Yuan Yuan Tang suibi ji, 433; Feng Zikai yi mo, 223; and Barmé, Artistic Exile, 325. 43 Feng Zikai, “Ah Mi,” in Yuan Yuan Tang suibi ji, 434; and Feng Zikai yi mo, 224. In his translation of this passage, Barmé says the cat is named Huang Bobo (Uncle Tabby, literally “Yellow”). Artistic Exile, 324. In the two editions I consulted, the passage reads “Mao Bobo” (Uncle Mao). 44 Feng Zikai, “Ah Mi,” in Yuan Yuan Tang suibi ji, 435. 45 This section is based primarily on Red Guard criticism materials published in 1967 in Shanghai. Gong Zong Si Shang Deng Yi Chang Zaofan Dui, “Feng Zikai fan-geming zhengning mianmu de da baolu.” 46 Ibid., 26–27. 47 In the spring of 1957, Mao referred to “ghosts and monsters” still being presented “onstage.” See MacFarquhar, Origins of the Cultural Revolution, vol. 1, 193. For a discussion of supernatural language used to attack intellectuals, see Hsin Cheng Chuang, The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, 22. On Jiang Qing’s assault on “ghost plays,” see Ahn, “The Politics of Peking Opera,” 1068. 48 On accusations of sedition related to the emperor’s name, see Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries, 177–79. 49 On the disposition of writers in socialist states “to write on two levels,” see Wagner, The Contemporary Chinese Historical Drama, 1–2. On satirical camouflage in the author Lao She’s post-1949 writing, see Shih, “Lao-she a Conformist?,” 313–18. 50 Zhu Guangqian’s statement appeared in the newspaper Wenyi bao and is cited and translated in Goldman, Literary Dissent in Communist China, 173–74. 51 See The Kitten Looking at the Painting Like an Old Friend and Small Cat Companions in Feng Zikai et al., Husheng huaji, vol. 3, 24 and 28. 52 Lu Xun, “The True Story of Ah Q,” 65. Feng created illustrations for “Ah Q,” so he knew it well. On the prologue of the Ah Q story, see Martin Huang, “The Inescapable Predicament,” 432. 53 Barmé, Artistic Exile, 323. 54 On Feng Zikai’s accomplishments during his late years, see Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa fengshen, 318–49; Feng Yiyin, Feng Zikai zhuan; Barmé, Artistic Exile; Cui Wei, “Feng Zikai”; Harbsmeier, The Cartoonist Feng Zikai; and Hu Zhijun, “Yu Feng Shi Zikai.” 55 Feng Yiyin, “Bianhou ji.” On Feng’s Worthless Broom Collection, see Barmé, Artistic Exile, 341–42. 56 Feng Xinmei was sent away for ten years to work in a distant pharmaceutical plant after he became angry at militants who treated his father roughly in their home. Author’s interview with Feng Xinmei, Hong Kong, 1995. 57 These rankings usually correlated with the persecuted artist’s former position or title in the cultural bureaucracy. Feng had been head of the Shanghai Chinese Painting Academy and chairman of the Shanghai Artists Association. Barmé, Artistic Exile, 319 and 322.

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Prior to the Cultural Revolution, Feng commanded a relatively high salary. He could work at home and did not have to report to the academy on a regular basis. Author’s interview with Feng Xinmei, Hong Kong, 1995. 59 On naming the Studio of the Nape and Spine, see Barmé, Artistic Exile, 340–41, and the letter of September 9, 1972, from Feng to his son in Feng Zikai wenji, vol. 7, 657. The Feng family has established a private museum at the site of his former residence in Shanghai. The bedroom where Feng lived during the Cultural Revolution can be visited there. 60 Feng Yiyin uses this term to describe her father’s Cultural Revolution artistic production. Feng Yiyin, Xiaosa fengshen, 329. 61 Barmé, Artistic Exile, 344. 62 Correspondence with Feng Xinmei dated September 4, 1974, in Feng Zikai wenji, vol. 7, 684. 63 Ibid., correspondence dated July 7, 1974, 678. 64 For a translation of his letter to Guangqia, see Barmé, Artistic Exile, 336. 65 Feng Zikai et al., Husheng huaji, vol. 6, 199–200. 66 Feng Zikai, preface to Husheng huaji, vol. 3, 7–8. 67 Chen Xing, “Chuban qianyan,” 4. Before he died, Li Shutong wrote letters to two other devotees asking them to help Feng complete this massive project. Unfortunately, Xia Gaizun died in 1946 and Li Yuanjin died in 1950, leaving the full responsibility on Feng’s shoulders. Ibid., 5. 68 Author’s interview with Zhu Xianyin, Shanghai, 2016. 69 Guangqia, preface to Feng Zikai et al., Husheng huaji, vol. 6,6; Chen Xing, preface to ibid., vol. 1, 15. C ha p t e r 3 . Li K e ra n ’ s Lum i n ous Pat h t hroug h Moun ta ins 1

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Li Keran, “Tan yishu shijianzhong de kugong.” The article was published in Renmin ribao, April 16, 1961. English version in Chinese Literature 7 (1961): 121–25. Wan Qingli, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 114–17. Laing, “Chinese Peasant Painting.” For a chronology of the famine, see Dikötter, Mao’s Great Famine, xix–xxi; and Yang Jisheng, Tombstone, xv–xxvi. Most of Li’s published writings are substantive and do not sound propagandistic. One exception is an entirely glowing review of socialist realist paintings in late 1964. Li Keran, “The Third P.L.A. Art Exhibition.” Li made this seal and one other, “At seventy, I started to know I know nothing,” in 1977. Author’s interview with Sun Meilan, Beijing, 2004. Sun Meilan, “Chuantong jin chao,” 2. Hsiao and Ross, “Taking Pains,” 142. Deng, “Jia Dao chuangzuo taidu.” On Deng Tuo, see Cheek, Propaganda and Culture in Mao’s China. Deng was a connoisseur of Chinese painting and knew many painters. “Special Study on Li Keran’s Best Works,” 105; Sun Meilan, “Chuantong jin chao,” 2; and Hsiao and Ross, “Taking Pains,” 143–44. “Dadao Hei Huajia Li Keran.” Wan, “Yi yi de cheng,” 18; author’s interview with Wan Qingli, Hong Kong, 1995. Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 46–47; Wan, Li Keran pingzhuan, 12; Sun Meilan, “Li Keran nianbiao,” 221. In Lu Xun’s story, “The New Year’s Sacrifice,” the female protagonist is directly addressed as so-and-so’s wife, as though she has no individual identity of her own. Li Keran’s mother had no given name either. In later life, she was known as Granny Li and was quite beloved. Interview with Li Geng, Beijing, 2016. Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 50–51. Wan, Li Keran pingzhuan, 12; and Sun Meilan, “Li Keran nianbiao,” 221–23.

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Compiled during the early Qing dynasty and named for the estate in Nanjing where it was commissioned, this manual influenced many Chinese painters of Li’s generation. Author’s interview with Li Geng and Li Zhu, Beijing, 2016. The China Academy of Art was founded in 1928 and has operated under as many as five different names. For many decades, it was known as the Zhejiang Art Academy. I will use the former name for the sake of consistency. It is located near West Lake in Hangzhou, Zhejiang, although it was evacuated and moved inland during World War II. Wan, “Biography of Li Keran,” 19–20. Author Lu Xun gave a strong endorsement to the Eighteen Art Society, writing a preface for the society’s exhibition in 1931. The society was an arts organization with strong Communist affiliations. Li was never jailed like his friend Zhang Tiao, but he did go into hiding and was eventually dismissed from the art academy because of his political ties. Wan, Li Keran pingzhuan, 18. Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 2, 133; Huang Miaozi, “Recollections of Shi Niu Tang,” 5. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 302. Chen Li, “Qiu feng chui xia.” The Chinese word niu can be translated as “ox,” “water buffalo,” or “bull.” Sun Meilan, “Immortal Creations,” n.p. According to Wan Qingli, Guo Moruo wrote seven inscriptions for Li’s paintings, the earliest for a buffalo painting dated April 5, 1941. Wan, “Biography of Li Keran,” 20. Interview with Wan Qingli, Florida, 2016. Another source suggests that Li tended buffaloes as a child. Xue Huishan, “Qi Baishi he Li Keran,” 53. By 1956, a policy shift in favor of traditional Chinese painting was gaining momentum. Chung, Chinese Art in an Age of Revolution, 21. Communist authorities disapproved of the orthodox Four Wangs tradition of landscape painting associated with the Qing dynasty. The Shanghai School of painting that emerged during the late nineteenth century favored human, animal, or bird-and-flower subjects rather than landscapes. In 1924, Li Keran attended three talks by Kang Youwei at the Shanghai Art Academy (Shanghai Meishu Zhuanke Xuexiao). Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 57. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 12–27. Li Keran, “Tan Zhongguo hua de gaizao” (author’s translation). Ibid., 5. Ibid., 8. Li’s remarks are cited in Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan dalu yishu, 77. Yang Siliang describes the early 1950s as a time when “figures were almost exclusively taught in academies. The young were expected to focus on figures, while seniors could still paint other subjects.” Yang Siliang, “Pan Tianshou,” 273. Although he would endorse their efforts later, Jiang Feng was initially skeptical of the three painters’ efforts to rework traditional landscape painting. Wan, “Li Keran and TwentiethCentury Chinese Painting,” 88. Wan was Li Keran’s student and a close confidant. Andrews states that the academy funded the trip, but her information may be based on coverage in the official media after the artists returned. See Andrews, Painters and Politics, 169. The “sketch from life” practice glorified in party rhetoric during the early 1950s was almost exclusively associated with the depiction of the human figure in oil paintings. A notable exception was Zhao Wangyun, the Xi’an painter who accompanied Shi Lu to Egypt and India, who sketched using a Chinese brush in the 1930s. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 284–85. Ibid., 117 (Andrews’s translation).

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Andrews cites the 1954 brochure in her bibliography. For Li’s sketches, 1954–56, I consulted Wan, Li Keran pingzhuan, 101, 104–5. 40 On the rift between Jiang Feng and Zhou Yang, see Andrews, Painters and Politics, 119–28. 41 See ibid., 127–28, for a partial translation and explanation of this report. 42 Most painters at the Central Academy were not allowed an exemption from political meetings or teaching responsibilities. Author’s interview with Li Yan, May 1995, Beijing. 43 Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 63–64 (“paint well or die”) and 150 (300 sketches). 44 Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 2, 130. 45 Li Keran, “Mantan shanshui hua,” 16–17. 46 From 1970 statement by Li quoted in Mei, “Li Keran,” 2049. 47 Sun Meilan included a sensitively written tribute to Li Keran in “Li Keran zhuan,” 114–36; author’s interviews with Sun Meilan, Beijing, 2004 and 2016. 48 Sun Meilan, “Li Keran zhuan,” 125. 49 Ibid., 120. In his 1950s sketches, Li showed exceptional skill in drawing. He won first prize for drawing as a graduate student at the China Academy of Art at Hangzhou. Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 63–64. 50 Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 64–65 and 130. 51 Li Lang, “Li Keran tan,” 78. This document is based on Li Keran’s dictation. Essayist Fang Ji sent Li Keran a poem calling his ink “fine like lacquer.” Fang Chi, “A Myriad Hills,” 85. 52 Kuo, “The Art of Huang Binhong,” 47–49. 53 On Huang Binhong’s style, see Luo Jianqun’s entries in Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 260–63, 266–67, 271–72. 54 Sun Meilan, “Li Keran zhuan,” 128–31. 55 Zhao, “Li Keran, Wu Zuoren tan Qi Baishi,” 61–63. 56 Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 57–58. 57 Sun Meilan, “Li Keran zhuan,” 128–29 and 133. 58 Zhao, “Li Keran, Wu Zuoren tan Qi Baishi,” 63. 59 This quote comes from Li’s published remarks criticizing Jiang Feng during the Anti-Rightist Campaign. See Li Keran, “Jiang Feng weifan dang,” 19–20; Andrews, Painters and Politics, 193. 60 Zhao, “Li Keran, Wu Zuoren tan Qi Baishi,” 63–64. 61 “Chedi qingsuanLiu Shaoqi, Zhou Yang,” 3–4. 62 Fang Dan, “Keguizhe dan, suojiuzhe hun,” part 2, 91; Li Keran, “Guohua dajia Baishi Laoren,” 59. 63 On Picasso’s influence on Li’s painting, see Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 172–73; and “Li Keran’s Painting Devices,” 24. 64 Yan, “Lun ‘ye, guai, luan, hei,’” 20. 65 On Rembrandt’s influence on Li’s painting, see Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 174–75 and 175n151. 66 Silbergeld, Chinese Painting Style, 27. 67 Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 174. 68 Ibid., 88. 69 Guangdong Sheng Meigongshi, ed., “Guangzhou meishujie,” 8; Andrews, Painters and Politics, 171. 70 “Dadao Hei Huajia Li Keran.” 71 Yan Liquan refers to this phrase in discussing audience response to Li’s painting. See Yan, “Lun ‘ye, guai, luan, hei,’” 20. Li’s exhibition opened in Beijing in September 1959 and subsequently toured seven other cities. His landscapes were published in a catalog in 1959, Li Keran shuimo

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xiesheng huaji. This was the only album of Li’s painting published in China during his lifetime. Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 90–91. 72 Yan, “Lun ‘ye, guai, luan, hei,’” 23. Yan’s article primarily criticized Shi Lu’s paintings. 73 “Lin Fengmian huazhan,” 37; Laing, Winking Owl, 52; Peng, Zhongguo yishu biannian shi, 725, 729. 74 Anita Chung notes a “strong leftward shift in the art world” starting in 1963. Chung, Chinese Art, 221. 75 Xue Huishan, “Qi Baishi he Li Keran,” 53. 76 See “Special Study on Li Keran’s Best Works,” E32–E48, for examples. 77 Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 93. 78 For this poem, see Wen Jie, “Shui niu yin.” Fang Dan says that Wen Jie was later driven to commit suicide during the Cultural Revolution. “Keguizhe dan, suojiuzhe hun,” 95. 79 For a reproduction of it, see Sun Meilan, “Li Keran he tade shanshui yishu,” 8. 80 For a reproduction of Han Huang’s painting and others on this theme, see Jang, “Ox-Herding Painting in the Sung Dynasty,” 71. 81 An excerpt adapted from a translation by Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 92–93. 82 Wan’s description in “Li Keran and His Paintings of Buffaloes,” 156. 83 On the buffalo/bull and herd-boy theme prior to the twentieth century, see Jang, “Issues of Public Service”; Sørensen, “A Study of the ‘Ox-Herding Theme’”; and Johnson, Riding the Ox Home. On Mao’s reference to Lu Xun’s poem “Self-Mockery” celebrating the “head-bowed” bull willingly serving the children, see Mao Zedong, “Talks,” section 5. 84 Sun Meilan, “Immortal Creations.” The painting is reproduced in “Special Study on Li Keran’s Best Works,” 47. Author’s interview with Sun Meilan, Beijing, 2004. 85 For Red Leaves over the Mountains (1964), see “Special Study on Li Keran’s Landscape Paintings,” 47–48. There is a color plate (no. 7) in Andrews, Painters and Politics, of Li’s earlier painting Ten Thousand Crimson Hills. Author’s interview with Wan Qingli, Hong Kong, 1995. 86 See her explanation in a sales catalog in which one of Li Keran’s cinnabar landscapes was auctioned. Sun Meilan, “Wan shan hong bian (1999),” 31. See also Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan dalu yishu, 182–83. 87 See Chuang Shen, “Art and Politics.” Fu Baoshi pioneered the practice of using Mao’s poetry as a theme for traditional Chinese painting in the early 1950s. Chung, Chinese Art, 20–21. 88 Li was implicitly attacked during the Anti-Rightist Deviation Movement associated with the Great Leap Forward. Galikowski, Art and Politics, 111. 89 Sun Meilan, “Wan shan hong bian (1963),” 29; Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan dalu yishu, 182–83. 90 Fang Chi, “A Myriad Hills.” Fang wrote the preface to Li’s 1959 exhibition catalog. 91 The reviewer is Qing Che, “Pingjie zuopin.” Qing’s inference that Mao’s poem does not have a sad mood is disputable. On Mao’s poem “Changsha,” Jerome Ch’en and Michael Bullock commented that the “melancholy this poem expresses is unique among Mao’s verse.” Ch’en, Mao and the Chinese Revolution, 321. 92 Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan dalu yishu, 182–83. Of the traditional Chinese painters, Guan Shanyue leaned the farthest toward satisfying the radicals. His 1974 article explains how he left behind Revisionism. Kuan Shan-yue, “An Old Hand.” 93 “Hei de meili,” 2. 94 Li Lang, “Li Keran tan,” 78. 95 Wan, “Li Keran and Twentieth-Century Chinese Painting,” 174. 96 Kuo, “The Art of Huang Binhong,” 48. 97 Chen Li, “Qiu feng chui xia.”

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On the circumstances of his death, see Wan, “Biography of Li Keran,” 27. On his funeral, see “Well-Known Painter Li Keran Mourned,” Beijing Review 33 (January 1990): 9.

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An eyewitness of this struggle meeting says that some of the activists were sympathetic to Li Kuchan and tried to put the dunce cap on his bald head to protect him from the blazing sun. Author’s interview with Pang Tao, Providence, RI, April 1998. Details of the incident and the quotations come from author’s interviews with Li Yan, Beijing, 1995 and 2016. On the reorganization of the art academy system after 1949, see Andrews, Painters and Politics, 35 and 56–58. On policy toward bird-and-flower painting, see Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan dalu yishu, 162; Galikowski, Art and Politics, 30; Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 237. Cai Ruohong defended bird-and-flower painting in 1962, arguing that under Communism such paintings should no longer be dismissed as “pretty toys for the leisured class.” Laing, Winking Owl, 35. Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 227. Xu arranged for Li’s wife to be hired as the Central Academy’s doctor, but the Li family’s financial situation remained difficult. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 1995 and 2016. Regarding his anti-Japanese activities, see Li Yan, Kuchan zongshi yi yuan lu, 20–21. Regarding his role in persuading Qi Baishi to stay, see Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 225–26. Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 231. For example, Huang Yongyu notes Li Kuchan’s daily habit of drinking two cups of liquor at the neighborhood liquor store. Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 1, 81. Translation of Mao’s letter to Xu Beihong quoted from Michael Kau and John Leung, The Writings of Mao Zedong, vol. 1, 129. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 220; Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 227–34; Zheng Li and Jia Zhou, Li Kuchan zhuan, 271–73. Li’s comments cited in MacFarquhar, The Hundred Flowers, 191–92. Li Yan, Kuchan zongshi yi yuan lu, 1. Ibid., 5; author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, May 1995. Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan Zhuan, 237. Ibid. Sun Zhijun was Li’s classmate from art school. Li’s son, Li Yan, married Sun’s daughter, Sun Yanhua. The Red Guards attacked Sun Zhijun in 1966, and he committed suicide. Sun was a close collaborator and friend of the author Lao She, who also committed suicide in 1966. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, July 2004. Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 238. Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 1, 82. Ibid., part 2, 129–30. Zhao Yun is also known as Zhao Zilong. Jiang Feng was accused of leading an “antiparty clique” and sentenced to labor reform. A leadership vacuum followed his purge. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 208–10. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, May 2016. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, May 1995; author’s interview with Li Hang, Ji’nan, 1995. Author’s interview with Wan Qingli, Florida, 2016. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 2016. The Peace Shop later became a division of Rongbaozhai and relocated to Wangfujing. During the early 1960s, it was still a place frequented by celebrities. Fang Dan, “Huaniao dashi Li Kuchan,” part 2, 87. On the Buddhist tradition of empathy toward animals, see Smith, “Liberating Animals.”

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Dikötter, Mao’s Great Famine, 186–88. At least two of Li’s paintings expressing sympathy with the hunted were burned during the Cultural Revolution. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, May 1995; Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 238; Zheng Li and Jia Zhou, Li Kuchan zhuan, 301–6. 29 Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 238. 30 Laing, Winking Owl, 51 and 53. 31 On political meanings associated with Bada Shanren’s imagery, see Tymon, “Painting and Politics.” Zhu Da is another name for Bada Shanren. 32 “Ming Yimin Huajia Bada Shanren,” 37. The symposium that inspired this article came under fire during the Cultural Revolution. See Red Guard Materials: Meishu Fenglei 2 (1967): 19–20. 33 “Chedi dadao Liu Shaoqi,” 2 (Zhou Enlai) and 41 (Jiang Qing). On satirical content in Qi’s painting, see Woo, Chinese Aesthetics, 83–85. 34 “Dadao fan-dong quanwei Li Kuchan,” n.p. 35 Red Guard Materials: Meishu Fenglei 2 (1967): 19. 36 Wan, “Li Kuchan Jiaoshou,” 151–52 ; Zheng Li and Jia Zhou, Li Kuchan zhuan, 307–8. 37 Li Yan, Kuchan zongshi yi yuan lu, 24–26. 38 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, May 1995; Zheng Li and Jia Zhou, Li Kuchan zhuan, 307–13. 39 This cartoon from the post–Cultural Revolution era is reproduced in Ye Qianyu, Xi xu cang sang ji liu nian. 40 Huang Yongyu, Da Ya Bao, part 2, 132–33. 41 Both Li and Huang Yongyu were beaten with belts and belt buckles. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 322. 42 Author’s interviews with Wan Qingli, Hong Kong, 1995; Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995; Li Yan, Beijing, 1995; and Li Hang, Ji’nan, 1995; Fang Dan, “Huaniao dashi Li Kuchan,” 87. 43 Li Yan, Kuchan zongshi yi yuan lu, 23. 44 Li Yan says of his father’s rickshaw-pulling days that “if his health had not been like iron, he could not have tolerated such a regimen.” Ibid., 4. 45 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 1995; Ye Qianyu, Xi xu cang sang, 379–429. Ye’s narrative is enriched by citations from his prison diary, which was returned to him by party authorities after the Cultural Revolution. 46 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 1995. 47 Li Yan, Feng yu yan bian lu, 25. 48 Liu Jintao, “Huiyi Baishi Laoren,” 243. 49 The hands of bird-and-flower painter Chen Dayu were clubbed repeatedly in Nanjing. Author’s interview with Chen Dayu, Nanjing, 1995. In Feng Jicai’s short story “Thanks to Life,” a militant is told to destroy the hands of a painter targeted for struggle. Feng, “Thanks to Life,” 285–86. 50 Qi Baishi inscribed this on a painting of egrets by Li Kuchan ca. early 1930s. Liu Xilin, “Zai du Li Kuchan,” 7. For a reproduction of a painting of an egret by Li, see Kuchan xiaopin, 26. 51 Wan, “Li Kuchan Jiaoshou.” According to the author’s interviews, Nanjing painter Chen Dayu also graciously accepted the apology of a former Red Guard who had denounced him, explaining that he understood the boy had been a victim too. 52 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 1995. 53 Li was forbidden to paint in his off-hours. After 1970, when he lived in the faculty dormitory at the Central Academy, he was closely watched by a security official whose window looked directly onto his room. According to the author’s interviews, Li continued to paint secretly with the lights turned off. Most of these small-scale works were prepared for friends. After 1974, he lived in the suburbs in the apartment of his son, Li Yan. He had more freedom to paint there. 27 28

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Li worked in a labor camp in Hebei until 1970. According to the author’s 1995 interview with Li Yan, his increasingly serious medical issues prompted a humane PLA official in charge of the camps to send him back to Beijing. His life in Beijing was still difficult, because ultra-leftists controlled the Central Academy. All of Li’s family members, including his wife, were dispersed to labor camps in distant regions. Li was put in charge of reception and mail delivery for the Central Academy. His health was still frail and did not substantially improve until 1972. On the demeaning treatment that Li suffered in his job as a school receptionist during the early 1970s, see Zheng Li and Jia Zhou, Li Kuchan Zhuan, 312–13. 55 Sun Meilan, “Du Li Kuchan,” 79–83. On page 81, she refers to an eagle by Li as a “sadly thinking giant,” noting that both Li’s image and a depiction of crouching elephants by Michelangelo “express human pain.” For a more patriotic interpretation of Li’s eagle, see Cao Yu, “Li Kuchan huaji xu,” 77. 56 The early twentieth-century Lingnan painters painted eagles as symbols of a “resurgent China.” Li’s eagles are more humanized and eccentric in appearance. Croizier, Art and Revolution. 57 On Qi Baishi’s admiration for Li Kuchan’s eagle paintings, see Zheng Li and Jia Zhou, Li Kuchan zhuan, 264–67. Li Hang stated in an interview with the author that the eagle was his father’s “representative work” (daibiao zuo) and that his father conceived of the eagle as a self-reference. 58 According to Sun Meilan, Li’s eagle paintings were neither abstract paintings nor naturalistic representations, but “in between”: “He only favored the thinking image in his heart.” “Du Li Kuchan,” 80. 59 Wang Junzhuang quotes Li as saying that his early paintings were more straightforward representations of eagles. Li admitted to modifying the eagle’s appearance over time because he did not feel that the birds in nature looked massive enough. In his late years, Li claimed to paint exclusively the “eagle of my imagination.” Wang Junzhuang, “Jian bi,” 90. 60 According to Sun Meilan, Li’s “bravely silent” personal character was “just like” the eagles he painted. Sun Meilan, “Du Li Kuchan,” 80. 61 Zheng Li and Jia Zhou describe this painting as a pensive-looking male eagle gazing out into the distance. The inscription reads, “There is a pine tree on a mountain. There is an eagle on a pine tree. What eagle? An old eagle. [Then it was signed with the year, month and day.]” Li Kuchan zhuan, 321. The whereabouts of this painting are unknown. Clandestine visits like this one occurred at Li’s faculty residence at the Central Academy, circa 1970–71, as per the author’s 1995 interview with Li Yan. 62 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 1995. 63 On “wordless language” among secret-sharers, see Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 439 and 460–61. 64 Feng Jikai, “Plum Blossoms in the Snow,” 184 and 226. 65 Du Fu wrote, “Ten years later, with broken wings, I still shriek from the shock of that terrible fall.” These poetic lines from “Parting from Su Xi” are discussed in Murck, Poetry and Painting in Song China, 79. 66 Fang Dan, “‘Pi Hei Hua’ yuanshi cailiao,” 27. 67 Radical Maoist materials link Li’s vulnerable-looking bird communities with the artist’s “unhappiness” about “knocked-down reactionaries.” Ibid. 68 This painting is described and illustrated in Li Yan, “Li Kuchan,” 1637, fig. 25. 69 Descriptions of two of Li’s pre–Cultural Revolution paintings that are likely to have contained protest survive in Red Guard materials. One painting of small birds was inscribed, “They sleep so deeply, little do they know that there is a net to catch them.” Another painting, which the Red Guard materials accused of criticizing the Great Leap Forward, portrayed several chickens

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70

71 72 73

74 75 76

77 78

apparently starving, with the ironic inscription “Autumn of the Harvest Year.” Red Guard materials describe a painting of a quail inscribed, “The bird’s clothes are patchy. They are without proper clothes to wear.” While many claims in Red Guard materials are spurious or exaggerated, these descriptions are consistent with themes that Li characteristically painted. Red Guard Materials: Meishu Fenglei 2 (1967): 19. Xu Hong describes an incident in which an editor of an art magazine rejected an image of a cabbage that Pan Tianshou submitted for publication. During the famine year of 1961, the Soviets had commented derisively that “China has nothing to eat except cabbages and carrots.” The editor was afraid that Pan’s painting of a cabbage would look like an endorsement of this smear against China. Pan felt bewildered by the editor’s rejection of his cabbage painting, but he agreed to submit a painting depicting a bird and flowers instead. Xu Hong, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 288–89. Amateur art sponsored by party radicals emphasized material abundance. See Peasant Paintings from Huhsien County. Author’s interview with Wan Qingli, Hong Kong, 1995; Wan, Bonds of Memory, 45 and 268. Author’s interview with Wan Qingli, Florida, 2016. In the Zhuangzi, flight is used as a metaphor to suggest transcendence of fixed, restrictive viewpoints and a liberating expansion of personal space. Li once painted a bird airborne in a painting dedicated to a martial arts master. This did not imply that he was able to fly himself. Li Xiangming, Li Kuchan zhuan, 227–29. From Li Yan, Kuchan zongshi yi yuan lu, unpaginated illustrations and captions. Li Yan, Tie gu zhengzheng bai lian cheng, 182. The younger generation of art critics felt that the post-Mao government’s embrace of senior-generation artists like Li Kuchan after the Cultural Revolution was overblown. Regarding these older artists who were not valued until their twilight years, a Chinese art historical survey says, “Society gave them the highest attention. There was endless propaganda and praise for their contributions during their later years.” Zhang and Li, Zhongguo xiandai huihua shi, 289. Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 2016. On the Daoist art of living, see Graham, ed., Chuang-Tzu: The Inner Chapters, 44–45; and Graham, Disputers of the Tao, 186–87.

c ha p te r 5. Hua n g Yon g y u ’ s Ey e Ta l k 1 2 3

4 5 6

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When the author interviewed him in May 1995, Huang was residing in British-administered Hong Kong. Liang Tianwei, “Huang Yongyu,” 152. Wan Qingli, “Huang Yongyu,” n.p. Wan Qingli is an art historian who, as an art student, was condemned and held captive with senior artists in the cowshed of the Central Academy, Beijing. This gave him the chance to form lasting friendships with famous painters. Author’s interviews with Wan Qingli, Hong Kong, 1995, and Florida, 2016. For an overview of his interactions with senior artists, see Wan, Bonds of Memory. Huang Yongyu, “Meilai yanqu lun.” See also Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 454–55. Feng Jicai, “The Carved Pipe,” 24. Many aspects of the artist’s personality in this story are drawn from Huang’s life. Author’s interview with Feng Jicai, Tianjin, 1995. Hua Junwu, “Kan zi shi tu,” 1; and Feng Jicai, “The Carved Pipe,” 22. According to Wan Qingli, these carved objects “symbolized friendship during hard times.” Wan, “Wo suo zhidao de Huang Yongyu” 10. Huang Yongyu, Da Ya Bao, part 2, 133. Wan, “Wo suo zhidao de Huang Yongyu,” 10; Sun Ke, “Jin gang shi yu ni tu.”

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11

12 13 14 15 16

17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24

25

26 27 28

29

Wan, “Yi yi de cheng,” 19; and Wong, “Art Has a Human Face,” 31. A short time before, Huang and his colleagues had painfully witnessed a suicide jump by another prisoner. According to Li Yi, Huang recounted a dinner conversation during which a friend asked him, “How did you find it possible to struggle against the Gang of Four?” He responded, “All I managed to do was not beg for their forgiveness.” The friend said, “That’s enough.” Huang replied, “Your standard is too low.” Li Yi, “Huang Yongyu,” 86. Huang is described as following the Daoist principle “Retreat in order to advance.” Huang Mengtian, “Yige huajia,” n.p. During the author’s 1995 interview, Huang remarked that even during the most ominous periods of the Cultural Revolution, he could still find “empty space” (kong) for moving around constraints. For more analysis on underground artistic production at this time, see Paul Clark, Youth Culture in China, 5. Author’s interviews with Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995; Yang Mingyi, Suzhou, 1995; Wang Ning, Beijing, 1995; Yang Yanping and Zeng Shanqing, New York, 1995. On Huang’s early career, see Huang Yongyu (1988); Li Yi, “Huang Yongyu”; Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 1; Li Lang, Dalu ming huajia, 172–89; Cohen, “Huang Yongyu.” Andrews, Painters and Politics, 65–73. Printmakers emerging from the Yanan-based Lu Xun Academy of Arts formed an elite corps within the art bureaucracy during Communism’s early years. Jiang Feng, Gu Yuan, and Shi Lu are representative of this influential group. On individual printmakers, see Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan, 233–56. On folk influences, see Huang’s description in “A Story That Seems Someone Else’s,” in Huang Yongyu (1988). Although he was not a party member, Huang’s political credentials were good. He had been antagonistic to Chiang Kai-shek’s regime and was affiliated with progressive causes. His parents were teachers. Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 1, 81–82. See ibid., parts 1 and 2. The establishment of artist communities in residential compounds is characteristic of socialist countries. London, The Seven Soviet Arts, 35–57. For a photograph of Huang with Qi taken on this visit, see Huang Yongyu (1988). Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 2, 129. Ibid., 130. Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 3, 60. Fang Dan (née Hao Ming, b. 1940) is one of the first writers to have interviewed prominent Chinese painters after the Cultural Revolution. He suffered imprisonment during the 1970s for his reportage. In 1988, Fang Dan published a compilation of his articles on Chinese artists. See Fang Dan, Dalu huajia. Some sections of his original three-part article on Huang Yongyu are omitted from this compilation. Huang’s woodcuts appear on the cover of Meishu 11 (1956) and China Reconstructs 1 (1956). His woodcut of Lu Xun appears in Meishu 10 (1956). Fang Dan’s “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” parts 1 and 2, discusses the artist’s printmaking. On Huang’s Ah Shi Ma series, see Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 1. For reproductions of his minority paintings, see Huang Yongyu (1988). Huang Yongyu, “Senlin xiaoxue.” The woodcut department and the “color and ink” department (including the traditional painters) were combined into one political study group during the early 1950s. Huang describes one such session conducted underneath a large tree in the courtyard just outside the kindergarten artists’ children attended. Huang Yongyu, “Da Ya Bao,” part 2, 131–32. Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 2, addresses Huang’s teaching style.

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30 31

Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 446. In 1961, the print department was divided into four sections, and Huang became the head of his own studio. The other print instructors had stronger political credentials. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 218. 32 Author’s interview with Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995. 33 Intellectuals like Huang were sent to participate in the Four Clean-ups as a form of reeducation. MacFarquhar, The Origins of the Cultural Revolution, vol. 3, 334–48. 34 Huang Yongyu, “Dongwu duanju xiangguan de shi.” 35 On the publishing history of Animal Crackers, see “Cong Yongyu sanji dao Hou sanji.” Huang published the reconstructed Animal Crackers in multiple volumes. I consulted Jar Studio Miscellaneous Records (Guanzhai zaji), the first of three volumes collected in Yongyu’s Three Books (Yongyu sanji). For translations of Huang’s captions, see Goodman, Beijing Street Voices, 20–25; Barmé and Minford, eds., Seeds of Fire, 193–97; Huang Yongyu, “A Can of Worms.” Goodman’s translations were drawn from the Democracy Movement’s journal Today (Jintian) and published in 1981. Either Huang or the editors modified or omitted some entries before publishing them in 1983. Huang produced another collection of fables prior to the Cultural Revolution titled Noah’s Ark (Noya fangjiu). From descriptions in Fang Dan’s article, Noah’s Ark seems a more forthright critique of Great Leap Forward policies. Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 3, 60. 36 Author’s translation of the caption accompanying the parakeet in Huang Yongyu, Yongyu sanji, vol. 1, 13. 37 I saw this painting in Ding Cong’s apartment when I interviewed him in Beijing in 2004. 38 Li Lang, Dalu ming huajia, 181. 39 Author’s interview with Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995. 40 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 221. 41 Hua Junwu, an influential party member, was a close friend of Huang’s. See Hua Junwu, “Kanzi Shitu,” 1–3. His mildly critical cartoons were later criticized during the Cultural Revolution. Hua Junwu, Chinese Satire and Humor, 24, 26, and 30. Author’s interview with Hua Junwu, Beijing, 1995. 42 Author’s interview [name withheld], 1995. 43 Huang, “Dongwu duanju xiangguan de shi.” 44 Goodman, Beijing Street Voices, 20–25. 45 The owl entry appears on p. 23 of the reconstructed version but is not included in Goodman’s selection. The clam entry appears on p. 59 of the reconstructed version with a modified inscription and is translated on p. 24 of Goodman, Beijing Street Voices. 46 The centipede entry appears on p. 37 of the reconstructed version. A related inscription is translated on p. 21. The donkey entry appears in the reconstructed version on pp. 9 and 21. According to Fang Dan, a similar image of a donkey on a treadmill appeared in Huang’s unpublished or lost manuscript, Noah’s Ark. This fable was interpreted as a jab at the Great Leap Forward and became the subject of heated criticism during the Cultural Revolution. Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 3, 60. 47 During a television interview with Yang Lan, Huang confessed to having joined in on the denunciations that implicated one of his students during the Anti-Rightist Campaign. Huang Yongyu, interview with Yang Lan. 48 Huang was among the rehabilitated artists interviewed by Han Suyin in 1977. His remarks describing his secret painting during the Cultural Revolution are cited anonymously. Han Suyin, “Painters in China Today,” 16. In the Chinese language version, Huang’s name is revealed. Han Suyin, “Zhongguo Huatan chunyi zhan,” 23. 49 Huang Yongyu, Yongyuan de chuanghu, 183.

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Ibid., 183–84. Eitner, “The Open Window, 282–86. Feng Jicai, “Plum Bossoms,” 177. On Soviet “closet rebellions,” see Hazard, Off Nevsky Prospekt. Huang was preparing a series of woodcuts on the virtuous outlaws in the novel Water Margin when the Cultural Revolution disrupted his project. Author’s interview with Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995. On romantic heroes, see Ruhlmann, “Traditional Heroes.” 54 Author’s interview with Yang Yanping and Zeng Shanqing, New York, 1995. 55 Author’s interview with Yang Mingyi, New York, 1995. 56 Huang Mengtian, “Yige huajia de xin qidian.” 57 Author’s interview with Yang Mingyi, Suzhou, 1995. 58 Yang Mingyi, Jinri Lou sanji, 28–30. 59 Sun Ke, “Jin gang shi yu ni tu.” 60 Han Suyin mentions that Zhou Enlai’s offices sent cadres to Switzerland for training in hotel etiquette as part of the push to bring China’s guesthouses closer to world standards of hospitality. Han Suyin, Eldest Son, 396. 61 Author’s interview with Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995. Huang Yongyu, “Shao Yu he maotouying shijian.” Ellen Laing used a 1978 version of the criticized painting for the cover of her pioneering study. See Laing, The Winking Owl, 86. A reproduction of the criticized owl painting, or one closely approximating it, appears in Li Lang, Dalu ming huajia tanfang lu, 172. 62 Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 439 and 460–61. 63 The owl image and caption appear in Huang Yongyu, Yongyu sanji, vol. 1, 23; Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 444–45 and 453. 64 Author’s interview with Huang Yongyu, Hong Kong, 1995. Huang told Han Suyin in 1977 that he had no intention of publishing the winking owl image. Han Suyin, “Painters in China Today.” 65 According to Eugene Wang, Huang’s first sketch of a winking owl was in 1963 for Ren Yi, a student in the Central Academy’s graphic department. Citing Wu Hung as his source, Wang says that the 1963 winking owl image became a leaf in Huang’s unpublished Noah’s Ark series. “The Winking Owl,” 446. In 1973, Huang painted a winking owl for Shao Yu, director of the People’s Fine Art Press, at Shao Yu’s request. The painting implicated in the 1974 scandal was a different one, painted for Nanjing painter Song Wenzhi in the home of Huang’s friend Xu Linlu. Huang later learned that Shao Yu told Jiang Qing about the latter winking owl painting but not the nearly identical painting in his own collection. Huang, “Shao Yu he maotouying shijian.” 66 After the Cultural Revolution, Huang (speaking under the pseudonym “X”) emphasized Jiang Qing’s political motivations for the persecution of his owl painting. He told Han Suyin, “They wanted us to denounce someone higher up; and by that they meant one of the old, able administrators around Zhou Enlai.” Han Suyin, “Painters in China Today,” 15; and Han Suyin, “Zhongguo Huatan chunyi zhan,” 19–20. 67 Zhou granted the hotel painters immunity from the strict political guidelines of the time. The primary audience for the “hotel paintings” was conceived as the foreign dignitaries who would be staying at these hotels. Access to the hotels by native Chinese was to be severely restricted. Jiang Qing did not approve of Zhou’s distinction between “outer” and “inner” audiences for art. Laing, The Winking Owl, 85. 68 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 349 and 373–76. 69 Huang’s description of Mao’s intervention appears in Liang Tianwei, “Huang Yongyu de ‘Maotouying Fengbo,’” 153. 70 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, 2016. Li Yan said that his father, Li Kuchan, told him this story. 71 Author’s interview with Huang Zhou, Beijing, 1995.

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On Guo Moruo’s role in assembling these catalogs in 1958, see Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 1, 99. 73 Huang Zhou, “Bai mei tu bian houji.” 74 Author’s interview with Li Yan, Beijing, May 1995. 75 On Chan’s viewing of secret paintings by Huang Yongyu, see Yun An (pen name for Gundi Chan), “Ji Huang Yongyu.” Author’s interview with Gundi Chan, Massachusetts, 1995. 76 On the April 5, 1976, Tiananmen incident mourning Zhou, see Goodman, Beijing Street Voices, 31–35. 77 Huang made this postface for the woodcut during their 1977 reencounter and subsequently gave it to Chan. The woodcut is reproduced in Fang Dan, “Qicai Huang Yongyu,” part 1, 95; and Chen Lusheng, ed., Zhongguo jinxiandai mingjia huaji: Huang Yongyu, 31. 78 See Gigliesi, “The Paintings of Huang Yongyu,” 43; and Sullivan, “Painting with a New Brush.” 79 Huang discusses his admiration for Zhou and his prayer before completing the lotus in Zi Yuan, “He hua ba qian.” 80 A strong allegiance toward Zhou rather than Mao infused the April 5, 1976, Tiananmen incident. In recent scholarship, evaluation of Zhou’s leadership is mixed. See Hawks, “Zhou Enlai.” 81 The locus classicus for the lotus theme is Chou Tunyi’s “I love the lotus,” describing the lotus as a flower “that comes from mud but is not tainted by it.” On Huang’s interest in the lotus theme, see Zi Yuan, “He hua ba qian,” 71–73. 82 On Huang’s will to withstand the “great wind,” see Li Yi, “Huang Yongyu.” 83 Huang Yongyu, interview with Yang Lan. 84 Huang completed the assignment in 1977. Chinese media at the time did not mention his role in designing the tapestry. Laing, The Winking Owl, 90–96, esp. 94; Sullivan, Art and Artists, 215–16. 85 Li Yi, “Huang Yongyu,” 86. 86 Author’s interview [name withheld], 1995. 87 Huang Mengtian, “Yige huajia de xin qidian.” 88 Richard Kraus, “Bai Hua.” 89 In 1980, Huang told Joan Cohen that he did not return to teaching following the Cultural Revolution because “he finds it difficult to breathe the same air as the colleagues who denounced him.” Cohen, “Huang Yongyu,” 70. 90 The author saw this sculpture during a visit to Huang’s Hong Kong residence in May 1995. Schwarcz discusses the sculpture in Colors of Veracity, 88–89. 91 Li Yi, “Huang Yongyu”; and Croizier, “Qu Yuan and the Artists,” 48–50. 92 For reproductions of Huang’s paintings Qu Yuan Sobbing and Zhong Kui Sets Aside His Knife, see Li Yi, “Huang Yongyu.” 93 For his recent paintings, see Huang Yongyu, Huang Yongyu at 80. 94 Huang Yongyu, “How Can One Not Miss Jiangnan?” 95 Maggio, “The House That Huang Yongyu Built,” 61. 96 Author’s interview with Wan Qingli, Florida, 2016; Wan, Bonds of Memory, 279–80. c ha p te r 6. Pa n T ia n sh ou ’ s N o c t u rne f or a Plum T ree 1 2 3 4

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Pan stepped down from his administrative tasks in 1947. For a concise overview of his career, see Pan Gongkai, “Pan Tianshou,” 335. Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 119–21; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 73–74. Lang, “Ershi shijide chuantong si dajia,” 16–22. Ibid.,” 17. On Li’s influence on Pan, see Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 24–30; and Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 70–71.

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Pan’s work was based on a Japanese study. Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 52–53; Andrews and Shen, “The Japanese Impact,” 18–22. 6 Pan used this signature on his paintings in his later years to keep his childhood school in his memory. Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Beijing, 2004. 7 Barnhart et al., Three Thousand Years of Chinese Painting, 329. 8 Gao Tianmin, entry for fig. 102, in Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 382. 9 Siliang Yang was able to consult the payroll of August 1949 for the faculty and staff of the China Academy of Art. He discovered that both Pan and Lin Fengmian were paid 560 yuan per month, while the venerable Huang Binhong was given only 520 yuan per month. “Pan Tianshou,” 153n197. 10 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 119; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 84. 11 An announcement of Pan’s award appears in Meishu 7 (1958): 39. 12 Pan had a difficult time during the early years of Communist rule, but his career flourished in 1957–66. Author’s interviews with Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995, and Beijing, 2004. 13 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 249–63. 14 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 142–47. 15 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 253–54. 16 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 7–8. 17 Pan opposed “blending” Chinese and Western painting. Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 93–97. 18 Ibid., 192. 19 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 84–109. 20 Pan Tianshou, “Jiaodai cailiao.” The translation here follows Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 155. 21 Pan Tianshou, “Sheishuo Zhongguohua biran taotai?,” 22. 22 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 285. 23 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 193, also mentions Pan’s article. 24 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 275. 25 Gao Tianmin, entry for fig. 97, in Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 370. 26 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 142–45. 27 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 164. 28 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 257. 29 This dialogue is reported in ibid., 259. 30 On Pan’s interest in Bada Shanren, see Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 84 and 141–42; Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 286; Gao Tianmin’s entry on fig. 101 in Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 380–81; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 77. 31 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 193. 32 Lang Shaojun calls Pan the twentieth-century master who pushed traditional methods “to a surprisingly dangerous place.” Lang, “Ershi shijide chuantong si dajia,” 17. On “creating and eliminating danger,” see Wu Fuzhi, “‘Zaoxian’ yu ‘poxian,’” 213–15. 33 Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Beijing, 2016. 34 Tan Xiyong, Pan Tianshou huaji, 10; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 80–82. 35 Gao Tianmin, catalog entry on this painting in Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 394; Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 253–54. 36 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 237–38. 37 On Pan’s painting of a water buffalo, see Gao, “Xiongwei kuoda, gagu xinqi,” 218. 38 Ni, “Pan Tien-shou’s Paintings,” 105–6; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 79–82. 39 Author’s interview, Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995. 40 Author’s interview, Zhu Yingren, Hangzhou, 1995. 41 Lang, “Ershi shijide chuantong si dajia,” 17.

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Excerpt from a longer inscription. Translation adapted from Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 44. See also Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 156. 43 Part of the poem is omitted here. Adapted from a translation in Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 47–48. 44 Pan Tianshou, “Tan tan Wu Changshuo Xiansheng.” This version is adapted from the translation in Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 49n63. 45 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 162–63; and Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 8. Pan’s insistence on making his own choice in marriage was not uncommon among artists of his generation. 46 Pan was not a Communist Party member, but by the late 1950s, he had attained the most senior rank for a professor, the only art professor to do so. This rank permitted him to speak with great authority. Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995. 47 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 196–202. 48 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 283–84. 49 For example, see Pan’s painting The Brilliance of Auspicious Clouds (1964) for the Hangzhou Hotel, in Su, “Pan Tianshou guohua.” 50 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 283. 51 Ibid., 287–88. Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995. 52 Kang Sheng’s calligraphy is published in Guangming ribao, October 7, 1962, 4; Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 207. 53 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 288. 54 Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995. 55 Fang Dan, “Weida huajia Huang Zhou,” 66. Fang Dan reports that Jiang Qing singled out Pan Tianshou as a target for struggle in an attempt to control Kang Sheng. This article is mainly about another painter, Huang Zhou, also patronized by Kang Sheng. 56 Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 207–8; and Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 322. 57 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 305–36. 58 Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 400–401; Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 305. Political problems at the Central Academy, Beijing, began as early as July 1964, according to Xu (313n44). 59 Li Dazhen said that upon seeing the master add ink over and over to darken the clouds, he “immediately felt this was an ill omen.” Li Dazhen, “Hehua chitou qingyi shen,” 178; Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 222. 60 Author’s translation of inscription. See also Siliang Yang’s translation, “Pan Tianshou,” 222. 61 For a translation, see Nancy Lin, Reverberations, 73. 62 Addressing a national assembly of art educators, Pan used this phrase to argue for more focus on Chinese painting in the art curriculum. Pan Tianshou meishu wenji, 179; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 91. 63 On ink as color, see Silbergeld, Chinese Painting Style, 27. Pan generally used reds and blues sparingly. Ni, “Pan Tien-shou’s Paintings,” 105–6. 64 “Daodi suqing Pan Tianshou Hei Hua liudu,” 19. 65 John Hay, “Construction and Insertion of the Self,” 71–72; and Silbergeld, Contradictions, 19–21. On poetry as “the outside of an inside,” see Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, 27. 66 According to Yang Siliang’s interviews, Pan said these things privately prior to 1958. The source for these remarks is Pan Tianshou hei hua zhai bian, cited in Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 217n271. 67 “Yan yan,” 12. 68 “Tewu de huashen,” 24. For a discussion of Pan’s bird paintings as the embodiment of a spy, see Jiang Qing, “Reforming the Fine Arts,” 197. 69 Xiaoneng Yang, Tracing the Past, 394–95. 70 Author’s interview, Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995.

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Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 205n248; Zheng Shengtian, “Brushes Are Weapons,” 96. Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 208. Siliang Yang interviewed a doctor who had examined Pan while he was jailed in the cowshed. Dr. Ma Fengshun said that Pan suffered from heart failure and possibly liver disease but was denied medical treatment. After Dr. Ma insisted that Pan needed hospitalization, she was sent to a labor camp. Ibid., 211n259. 74 Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Hangzhou, 1995; Zhou, “Pan Tianshou Xiansheng de renpin he huapin,” 447. 75 Pan Gongkai reports that his father separated out anything that might be useful from the garbage he collected. “Whether president or ox-demon,” he was always conscientious and “careful to economize.” Pan Gongkai, “Huainian wode fuqin,” 7. 76 Yang Siliang’s dissertation was the first English-language study to make use of Pan’s prison (cowshed) diary and confession materials discovered in the academy archives. The author obtained a copy in 1995. Both the diary and the confession are unpaginated. Author’s translation. Pan Tianshou, “Niupeng riji” and “Jiaodai cailiao.” 77 Pan Tianshou, “Jiaodai cailiao.” 78 Pan Tianshou, “Niupeng riji.” 79 According to propaganda of the time, Lei Feng declared in his diary, “It is glorious to be a nameless hero.” On Lei Feng, see Chesneaux et al., The People’s Comic Book; MacFarquhar, The Origins of the Cultural Revolution, vol. 3, 338–39; Kraus, Brushes with Power, 98–101. 80 Pan’s attitude here is reminiscent of a critique by Shao Zhuanlin, who characterized thought reform as excessively harsh. “For the intellectual, the change from old to new is a painful process. He has to be immersed in clear water three times, bathed in bloody water three times, and cooked in salt water three times.” Goldman, “The Unique ‘Blooming and Contending,’” 72. 81 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 314–15; Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 212n261; Roberts, “Tradition and Modernity,” 92–93. 82 Xu, Pan Tianshou zhuan, 314–41. 83 Mao Zedong, “Report on the Peasant Movement in Hunan,” 46–47. 84 On Mao’s frustration with “foot-draggers,” see Spence, Mao Zedong, 127–28. 85 Author’s translation. In 1995, Lu Yanshao’s calligraphy was hanging in the administrative offices of the China Academy of Art in Hangzhou. 86 Siliang Yang cites a conversation with Zhu Yingren, who described Pan as “a completely changed man” after his return. “Pan Tianshou,” 212n261; author’s interview with Zhu Yingren, Hangzhou, May 1995. 87 See Mencius, Mencius, book 1, part A, no. 3, 51–52. 88 On shi poetry as “the highest form of speaking to someone else,” see Owen, “Poetry in the Chinese Tradition,” 295. On poetry’s “autobiographical” dimension, see Owen, “The Self ’s Perfect Mirror.” 89 Fang Xiaoru was remembered as a local hero in Pan’s native village. Xu Hong proposes a strong link between Pan and Fang. Pan Tianshou zhuan, 315, 322. Siliang Yang states that Pan was “probably thinking of Fang Xiaoru” when he composed the poems. “Pan Tianshou,” 212. 90 On Fang Xiaoru, see Mote, “Fang Hsiao-ju.” See also Crawford, Lamley, and Mann, “Fang Hsiao-Ju”; and Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations, 99. 91 On literary inquisition in China, see Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries; and Jonathan Spence, Treason by the Book. Following the Cultural Revolution, Chinese scholars researched historical episodes of inquisition with great interest. See Kung, “Lun Qingdai de wenziyu”; and Wei, “Zhong du ‘Qingdai wenziyu dang.’” 92 The first Ming emperor had two painters executed. These incidents are cited in Vanderstappen, “Painters at the Early Ming Court.” In a still-extant document resembling a legal deposition, Su

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Shi (1037–1101) admitted making a provocative comment in a painting inscription. The Song court condemned him to exile for this. Hartman, “Poetry and Politics in 1079,” 34–35; and Hartman, “The Inquisition against Su Shih.” 93 Fang Xiaoru’s last testament in poetry expresses similar sentiment: “Treacherous ministers effect plots; / Planning for the country to follow their schemes. / Faithful ministers become aroused; / Blood and tears flow and mingle.” Adapted from the translation in Crawford, Lamley, and Mann, “Fang Hsiao-ju.” 94 In a 1961 speech, Pan stated that painters at their peak can paint entirely from memory. Pan, “Zhongguo hua,” 180. Pan’s son says his father painted from memory “with his draft inside his stomach.” Pan Gongkai, “Huainian wode fuqin,” 7. 95 Fang Dan uses this expression to explain Pan’s bitter fate in Fang Dan, “Weida huajia Huang Zhou,” 66. 96 In his commentary on the novel Rulin Waishi (The Scholars), Marston Anderson says of the plum painter Wang Mian: “It is precisely his painting . . . that gets him into trouble, attracting to his hut a variety of corrupt officials who wish to use his paintings to impress their superiors.” Anderson, “The Scorpion in the Scholar’s Cap,” 275. 97 Chuang Tzu, The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, 97. 98 Author’s interview with Zhu Yingren, Hangzhou, 1995. 99 Huang Fabang’s 1985 portrait is reproduced on the cover of Strassberg and Nielsen, Beyond the Open Door. Strassberg calls the painting “an image of the heroic martyr” (12). 100 Danzker, Pan Gongkai, 14. 101 Author’s interview with Pan Gongkai, Beijing, 2016. c ha p te r 7. I n si de t h e Se c ret N ot e b o ok 1

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Shi Lu also kept a secret notebook while still in the cowshed, but it was confiscated from him in 1969, when guards discovered it. In 1974–75, he reconstituted it and worked on it secretly at night in his home. Author’s interview with Shi Guo, Zhuhai, 2004. Key resources are Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun; Shi Dan, Shi Lu; Ye Jian, “Art Is Valued for Its Originality”; Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku; and Hawks, “Summoning Confucius.” In 2007 and 2008, three volumes devoted to Shi Lu’s art were published on the occasion of a symposium. See Wang Huangsheng et al., eds., Shi Lu de shidai yu yishu; Shi Lu shougao; and Shi Lu neige shidai. Author’s interview with Shi Dan, Xi’an, 2016. Shi Guo described the same drawing as some kind of “spiritual garden” ( jingshen de zhuangyuan) when I interviewed him in 1999. Ling Hubiao, “Yishu di daolu,” 313–14. For examples of his painted name seals in his notebook, see Wang Huangsheng et al., Shi Lu shougao, 234, 241. He Rong, “Shi Lu,” 78. For a picture of his notebook cover, see Wang Huangsheng et al., Shi Lu shougao, 239. Ye Jian, “Yongxin xian’e,” 16. Ye Jian said Shi Lu’s plums symbolize love of life. See ibid.; Kraus, Brushes with Power, 107–8. He Boqun, “Yemei shen chu,” 105. Author’s interview with Shi Guo, Massachusetts, 1999. Ibid. Another Chinese artist famously made tiny prison notes during the Cultural Revolution, concealing them in his clothes. In contrast to Shi Lu, who instructed his children to preserve his notebook as a kind of archive to be studied for both content and visual appeal, Mu Xin told Toming Jun Liu that his secret notes were more like visual art than literature, and “not easily interpretable.” Monroe et al., The Art of Mu Xin, 139. Neret, Rodin, 35.

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According to a memoir written by one of Shi Lu’s students who studied painting with him privately during the 1970s, Shi Lu was a great admirer of Rodin. He Boqun reports that Shi Lu advised him to consult two essential books on art: Liu Xie’s Wenxin Diaolong (The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons) and Rodin on Art. He Boqun, “Yemei shen chu,” 104. For the text to which Shi Lu was referring, see Rodin on Art. On Liu Xie, see Fu-sheng Wu, The Poetics of Decadence, 17–24. Both texts champion careful craftsmanship. 15 On Rodin’s The Thinker within the context of The Gates of Hell, see Elson, The Gates of Hell, 123–31. 16 Miao, Zui ren dian feng, 39. 17 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 5. 18 Ibid., 2. The Feng family library is estimated to have held over ten thousand books. 19 Cao Xueqin’s novel is also known in English by the title The Story of the Stone. 20 On Shi Lu’s childhood, see Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 2. 21 Schwarcz, Place and Memory, 41, 148–82. 22 “Gardens and Parks Must Serve the Workers,” 205. 23 Schwarcz characterizes the May Fourth generation as intent on being both “vigorously thoughtful and ardently patriotic” in Schwarcz, The Chinese Enlightenment, 290. 24 Levenson, “The Day Confucius Died.” Levenson’s comments are discussed in Schwarcz, “Remapping May Fourth.” 25 On the falsehood of considering Confucianism a “frozen fossil,” see Berthrong and Berthrong, Confucianism, 30. 26 Tu, “Cultural China,” 4. 27 Ibid. 28 Lu Xun, “The Crisis of the Essay,” 341–43. 29 Lu Xun, “On the Power of Mara Poetry.” For interpretations, see Mills, “Lu Xun,” 191–92; Lyell, Lu Xun’s Vision, 91–92; and Pollard, The True Story, 206. 30 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 2–3. Shi Lu refers to this episode in his poem “Thoughts on My Youth.” 31 On Feng Jianwu’s sponsorship of Shi Lu’s art education, see Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 3. 32 Ibid., 3. 33 Ibid., 5. 34 Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 60; Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 6. 35 Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 63–64. 36 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 8–9. 37 Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 61–64. 38 Shi Guo, “Chronology of Shi Lu,” E12. 39 Ibid. 40 Li Jiantong, “The Everlasting,” 53. 41 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 7. Shi Guo’s account describes his father’s “two victories.” 42 Shi Lu, “Qin Shi Huang.” 43 Translation from Li Yu-ning, The First Emperor of China, 1. 44 Shi Lu, “Qin Shi Huang,” 204. 45 Miao, “Zui ren dian feng,” 39. 46 For Shi Lu’s image of Confucius and discussion, see Hawks, Summoning Confucius, 83. 47 Shi Lu, “Qin Shi Huang,” 214. 48 Ibid., 204. 49 Ibid., 199. 50 Personal correspondence with Shi Guo, 1999, about Shi Lu’s drawing “Tombstone.” 51 For a translation of this poem, see Hawks, “Summoning Confucius,” 68–70.

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Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 13. A reproduction of Fighting in Northern Shaanxi was published for the first time in Meishu 4 (1961): 16; Chuang Shen, “Some Remarks,” 52 and 55n3. Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan, 177–85; and Andrews, Painters and Politics, 288–96. For the proceedings of a conference convened to discuss the show, see “Xin yi xin qing.” Meng Lanting’s letter is dated July 20, 1962, and it appears in Meishu 4 (1962): 32. The editor’s note appears in Meishu 1 (1963): 33. Yan Liquan, “Lun ‘ye, guai, luan, hei.’” Ye Jian, “Shi Lu fengge lun,” 19. Bao, “Shi Lu,” 52. See another translation of the poem in Andrews, Painters and Politics, 296. Peng, Zhongguo yishu biannian shi, 728–29. Author’s translation of “My Motto: ‘Wild, Crazy, Chaotic, and Black.’” For the Chinese text of this poem and others by Shi Lu, go to www.shelleydrakehawks.com. Author’s interviews with Shi Dan and Ye Jian, Xi’an, 2004. On the Guggenheim show, see Andrews and Shen, A Century in Crisis, fig. 141, and 231. Andrews reproduced Shi Lu’s painting on her book cover and insightfully discusses it in Painters and Politics, 236–38. Ma, “Zhuiyi Shi Lu,” 59. Peng, Zhongguo yishu biannian shi, 671–72. On Shi Lu’s quarrel with Wang Zhaowen about the painting in 1959, see Zheng Gong, “‘Fu’ zhi wei fu,” 30. On the approval process for the painting, see also Shi Lu, “Meishujia bixu yao mei,” 305. Shi Lu’s Fighting in Northern Shaanxi was one of five revolutionary images honored in Wenwu 7 (1961), insert. On the Lushan conference, see MacFarquhar, Origins of the Cultural Revolution, vol. 2, 187–251. Chang-tai Hung, Mao’s New World, 143. Andrews describes the viewer’s perspective in Shi Lu’s image as like looking down “from a helicopter.” Andrews, Painters and Politics, 237. Ma, “Zhuiyi Shi Lu.” Human figures are typically depicted small in Chinese landscape paintings, but painting Mao that way was less common and more risky. Fu Baoshi’s landscapes also depicted Mao small. Chung, Chinese Art in an Age of Revolution, 134–37. During the summer of 1959, Zhou Enlai reviewed a landscape painting by Fu Baoshi and Guan Shanyue and told them to double the size of the sun, a well-known symbol for Mao. Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 180. The phrase used by the military official to criticize Shi Lu’s Shaanxi painting is identified in Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, 5; and Shi Lu, “Meishujia bixu yao mei,” 306. Romberg, Rein In at the Brink, preface. Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 5. Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 63–64. Li Gongming discusses a photograph in which Mao sits on a bench at a 1943 productivity meeting and a man stands above him, arguing that it is possible that Shi Lu used the photograph as a reference for his woodcut. Li Gongming, “Du hua zhaji,” 22, 24. Li Jiantong, “The Everlasting,” 59. For his opposition to Mao’s relentless steel making, see Shi Lu, “Qin Shi Huang.” Yang estimates China’s total population loss due to the famine at 76 million. Jisheng Yang, Tombstone, 430. Shi Lu, “Meishujia bixu yao mei,” 304–6. Shi Guo, “Chronology of Shi Lu,” E13. Li Jiantong, “The Everlasting,” 56–57. On the controversy over Li Jiantong’s account of the life of the revolutionary Communist Liu Zhidan (1903–1936), and Kang Sheng’s criticism of it as “anti-

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party,” see MacFarquhar, Origins of the Cultural Revolution, vol. 3, 293–94. Shi Lu worked with Li on a movie script about Liu Zhidan. Both were loyal party members, acquainted since Yan’an days. Later Li Jiantong burned all her letters from Shi Lu about the project for fear he would get into trouble. Li Jiantong, “The Everlasting,” 60. 29 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 13. 30 Yan Shanchun, “Painting Mao,” 91–101. 31 Fong, “Imperial Portraiture,” 49–50. 32 Ma, “Zhuiyi Shi Lu,” 59–60. 33 Ibid., 60; Hua Hsia, “The Paintings of Shi Lu,” 95. 34 Ma, “Zhuiyi Shi Lu,” 60. 35 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 13. 36 On “steel fever,” see Dikotter, Mao’s Great Famine, 56–63. 37 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 13. For Shi Lu’s comments about the pagoda, see “Xin yi xin qing,” 27–28. 38 Several of Shi Lu’s practice drafts are reproduced in Shi Guo, “Shi Lu: Bimo zhi bian,” 26. 39 Andrews and Shen, The Art of Modern China, 175 and 339n12. 40 On famine conditions in the winter of 1958, see Becker, Hungry Ghosts, 82. According to data collected by Yang Jisheng, the famine began in the winter of 1958 and grew more severe in 1959. In April 1959, the State Council reported that severe food shortages were affecting fifteen provinces. Jisheng Yang, Tombstone, 406 and xxi. 41 Chinese socialist realist paintings stressed “positive interpretations almost exclusively,” going farther than Soviet counterparts. Chang-tai Hung, Mao’s New World, 149. 42 Mao published eighteen poems in January 1957 and ten more in January 1964. Siliang Yang, “Pan Tianshou,” 171–72. 43 Kraus, Brushes with Power, 65–74. 44 Mao’s comment is cited in Meisner, Marxism, 164. 45 Byrnes, “Specters of Realism,” 71–74. 46 Liu Chunhua’s painting was part of an initiative to reevaluate Mao’s role in the 1922 Anyuan coal miners’ strike. An earlier painting by Hou Yimin pictured Liu Shaoqi as the leader, but Liu’s version credits the triumph to Mao. Author’s interview with Liu Chunhua, Beijing, 1995; Andrews, Painters and Politics, 338; Silbergeld, Contradictions, 43–44. 47 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 10–12. 48 Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 64–65. 49 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 229. 50 Murck, Poetry and Painting, 37–42. 51 Shi Lu, Xue hua lu, 147–69. 52 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 16. 53 Shi Lu, Xue hua lu, 153. 54 Ibid., 149. 55 Shi Lu, “Xin yu mei,” 60. 56 On Shitao’s Waterfall on Mount Lu, see Burkus-Chasson, “Clouds and Mists.” 57 On the Ruckenfigur, see Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 211. 58 Gaddis, The Landscape of History, 5. Friedrich’s painting serves as the cover of Gaddis’s book and a focus of commentary. 59 O’Toole, Different Views, 12, 17–18. 60 Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 182. 61 Ibid., 74. 62 Shi Guo, “Shi Lu: Bimo zhi bian,” 26–27. 63 Zheng Gong, “‘Fu’ zhi wei fu,” 30.

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On shifting perspective or multiple viewpoint, see Silbergeld, Chinese Painting Style, 37–38. DalÍ achieved ambiguity in paintings like The Hallucinogenic Toreador (1969–70) through optical effects. 65 Shi Lu, “Meishujia bixu yao mei,” 305–6. 66 Fu, Autocratic Tradition and Chinese Politics, 188. The umbrella is a traditional Indian symbol for royalty. 67 Andrews translates the title as Ferry to the East. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 296. 68 Miao, “Zui ren dian feng,” 37. 69 For the calligraphy scroll with Eastern Crossing’s inscription, see Min, “Zhuanzhan Shaanbei shiqi,” 20; and Wang Huangsheng et al., eds., Shi Lu de shidai yu yishu, 294. It is also published in Shi Lu: A Retrospective, fig. 8, calligraphy section. This publication dates it to 1975. 70 Andrews, Painters and Politics, 296; Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, 81; He Rong, “Shi Lu,” 72–73. 71 Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, 81. 72 Hou, “Huai Shi Lu Xiansheng chuangzuo,” 40. 73 Denton, “Visual Memory,” 211. 74 Ibid., 213. 75 Prokhorov, Art under Socialist Realism, 46. 76 On the barge hauler “who raises his head” in Repin’s painting, see Jackson, The Wanderers, 40. 77 Sullivan, Art and Artists, 135–37. Art educator Xu Beihong promoted this painting as a model. Wang Yongzhu, ed., Zhongguo meishu jiaoliu shi, 189. 78 Shi Lu, “Jinian Lu Xun,” 22. 79 For Shi Lu’s sketch of an Indian woman carrying water, see Wang Yushan and Cai Peixin, Shi Lu, 24. 80 Shi Lu, “Dingtian Lidi,” 35–36. 81 Shi Lu, “Qin Shi Huang,” 206. 82 Fischer, Washington’s Crossing, 2. 83 The inspiration for Leutze’s painting was a poem including the line “The Ship is called: ‘Revolution’!” Ibid., 3. 84 Leutze’s painting had debunkers too. Ibid., 4. 85 On the theme of the storm-tossed boat in Romanticism, see Eitner, “The Open Window,” 287–90. 86 Mao Zedong, “The Chinese People Have Stood Up.” 87 Min, “Zhuanzhan Shaanbei shiqi,” 20. Author’s translation of inscription. 88 Shi Lu, Xue hua lu, 148. 89 Graham, Disputers of the Tao, 201. 90 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 12. 91 Hou, “Huai Shi Lu Xiansheng chuangzuo.” 92 For this painting, see Wang Yushan and Cai Peixin, Shi Lu, cover and 82. 93 On Shitao’s emphasis on selfhood, see Jonathan Hay, Shitao, 2 and 24–26. Hay suggests that one-stroke means “a cosmic unifying principle” akin to the Dao (enlightened path) in Daoism (272). Chou Ju-hsi describes one-stroke as a transformative “welling-up from within,” releasing fetters. In Quest of the Primordial Line, 136–37. 94 Shi Lu, Xue hua lu, 147. On self-expression through brushstrokes, see Fong, Between Two Cultures, 7–11. 95 Shi Guo, “Ji chen de jia shu,” 22. 64

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Li Shinan, “Kuang ge dang ku.” Other key resources for this chapter: Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun; author’s interviews with Shi Guo, Massachusetts, 1999, and Zhuhai, 2004; author’s interview with Shi Dan, Xi’an, 2004 and 2016.

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21 22 23 24

25 26

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Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, chapter 1, 3–4. Author’s translation. Interview with Arthur Kleinman, Cambridge, MA, April 2003. Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 22–23. Ibid., 24–25. Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, 10. Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 24. Ibid. Ye Jian, “Art Is Valued for Its Originality,” 95. Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 27. Ibid., 27–29. Ibid., 30. On Shi Lu’s drawings of Mao, see Miao, “Zui ren dian feng,” 39. Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 30–31. Ibid., 31. Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, 162–63. Shi Guo, “Shi Lu hua Meidianshen ji,” 289–93; Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 32. Wu Guanzhong, “Shi Lu de ‘qiang’ ji qita,” 42. Shi Lu’s revised paintings are illustrated in Wang Yushan and Cai Peixin, Shi Lu, 142–43, 177–84. Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 151; Wu Guanzhong, “Shi Lu de ‘qiang’ ji qita,” 43. For my interpretation of Shi Lu’s Spiritual Castle, see Hawks, “Summoning Confucius,” 81–87. Like Shi Lu, Mu Xin sought companionship with civilization’s greatest minds, both in China and abroad. Monroe et al., The Art of Mu Xin, 137. For Buddhist depictions of hell, see Howard, Summit of Treasures, 46–55, esp. 50. On Picasso’s Guernica, see Schama, The Power of Art, 380. Cahill, “Confucian Elements,” 128. Cahill notes that “aloofness” was a prized quality in traditional scholar painting. Cahill, The Painter’s Practice, 132. Cahill explains that our image of Chinese artists of the past must be adjusted. Traditional literati accounts omitted mention of business transactions because they wished to preserve the myth that painting was an entirely spiritual endeavor without regard for money. See ibid., 2–3. On conceptions of poetry, see Owen, Readings, 25–27. Schwarcz, Place and Memory, 118–19. Schwarcz discusses art historian Wu Hung’s argument that a “cultural taboo” in premodern China “prevented intellectuals from either preserving or portraying ruined sites.” McNair, The Upright Brush, 1–15. Cahill, “Painter’s Practice,” 6. See also Cahill, “Confucian Elements,” 138. Cahill, “Painter’s Practice,” 6. Silbergeld, Chinese Painting Style, 46–47. James Cahill comments that Shitao was a painter who “laid the foundations for a great new age of painting, in which the burden of the past was finally thrown off.” Cahill, The Compelling Image, 216 and 198–215. On the “wildness” of Ten Thousand Ugly Ink Dots, see Edwards, The Painting of Tao-chi, 34–37. Fong, Images of the Mind, 201–2. Sturman, Mi Fu, 107. Ch’ien Chung-shu, “Poetry as a Vehicle of Grief,” 23 and 29. For a translation and discussion of Shi Lu’s poem in the style of Qu Yuan, see Hawks, “Summoning Confucius,” 68–70. Schneider, A Madman of Ch’u. Shi Guo, “Shi Lu hua Meidianshen ji,” 289–93. A contemporary artist, Mo Yi, did something similar to protest the June 4, 1989, tragedy at

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Tiananmen Square. He tinted a photograph of himself bloodred and cut it in half. Wu Hung, Remaking Beijing, 220–21. 39 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 21. 40 As political figures were disgraced, Dong Xiwen had to remove them from his painting. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 80–86. 41 Shi Dan, Shi Lu, 148–62; Shi Guo, “Shi Lu hua Meidianshen ji,” 291. 42 On the “constructive deluge of ideas” distinguishing a manic person who is “talented, trained, and obsessed with his work,” see the discussion of Beethoven in Hershman and Lieb, Manic Depression, 70–76. 43 According to Shi Guo, his father’s thinking on political matters always remained rational, even when his thinking in other respects seemed unclear. Author’s interview with Shi Guo, Massachusetts, 1999. 44 On the Cultural Revolution in relation to the Holocaust, see Schwarcz, “The Burden of Memory,” 1–13. 45 My appreciation to Arthur Kleinman for making this suggestion. On brief reactive psychosis, see Sass, Madness and Modernism, 359–61. On schizophrenia, see Torey, Surviving Schizophrenia. 46 Lu Xun, “A Madman’s Diary.” 47 Wang Zhaowen, “Zaizai tansuo.” 48 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 37. 49 Guo, “Last Works by the Eccentric Painter Shi Lu,” 74. 50 Plato defined madness as occurring when the rational soul no longer serves as the “charioteer” of the self. Sass, Madness and Modernism, 1 and 70–71. See also Cahill, “The ‘Madness’ in Bada Shanren’s Paintings,” 119–43. 51 For Shi Lu’s poem and its English translation, see Hawks, “‘Painting by Candlelight,’” appendix 5, 741. 52 Author’s interview with Wang Zhaowen, Beijing, 2004. 53 Wang Zhaowen, “Zaizai tansuo.” 54 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 34. 55 Ibid. On Shi Lu’s calligraphy, see Ling, “Yishu de daolu,” 311–13; and Wang Fei, “Kuang guai qiu li,” 37–40. 56 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 34. 57 Li Shinan found Shi Lu to be a gentle teacher who encouraged him to be innovative. Li Shinan, Kuang ge dang ku, 6–12. 58 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 37. 59 Ibid., 38. 60 On the aftermath of Lin Biao’s attempted coup, see MacFarquhar and Schoenhals, Mao’s Last Revolution, 337–57. 61 On the “Hotel School of Painting,” see Cohen, The New Chinese Painting, 117; Laing, Winking Owl, 85–87; Andrews, Painters and Politics, 368–76; Fang Dan, “Guaijie Shi Lu”; Ye Jian, “Yongxin xian’e de yichang naoju”; Eugene Wang, “The Winking Owl,” 435–73; Silbergeld, Contradictions, 61–62; Galikowski, Art and Politics in China, 158–60. 62 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 39. According to Shi Guo, the number 240 was an exaggeration. However, Shi Lu had a strong following among youth. 63 Shi Lu remained a loyal Communist, but he drew strength from Confucian ethical teachings during adversity. On Shi Lu’s invocation of Confucian legacies, see Hawks, “Summoning Confucius,” 60–61. 64 Shi Guo, Shi Lu hua lun, 39–40.

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“Pipan fandong huajia Shi Lu.” Cahill, Hills beyond a River, 17–18; Chu-tsing Li, “The Freer Sheep and Goat,” 306–7; Wai-Kam Ho and Sherman Lee, Chinese Art under the Mongols, 93–95; and Silbergeld, “In Praise of Government,” 169–70. On the Bo Le legend, see Silbergeld, “In Praise of Government”; Spring, “Fabulous Horses and Worthy Scholars”; Hartman, “Poetry and Politics in 1079,” 34–35. Lai, Understanding Chinese Painting, 13–14. Shi Guo, “Biography of Shi Lu,” 62. “The Master said, ‘It is only when the cold sets in that we realize the pine and the cypress are the last to fade.’” Analects 9.28 in Ames and Rosemont, Analects of Confucius, 132. Wen Fong’s translation of Shi Lu’s inscription in Between Two Cultures, 234–37. Miao, “Zui ren dian feng,” 40.

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Chen Yingde, Haiwai kan dalu yishu, 192–93; Fang Dan, “Guji de shi, beiliang de ge,” 71, 76. Feng Yeh, “Lin Fengmian’s Biography,” 188–201. Lin was thrown into jail rather than a cowshed, because he was no longer a professor and did not belong to a specific work unit. Correspondence with Zheng Shengtian, January 13, 1999. Sullivan, Art and Artists, 154. Li Keran, “Yiwei zhenzheng de yishujia,” 116. Andrews, Painters and Politics, 88. Yang, Jinri Lou sanji, 40–42; author’s interviews with Yang Mingyi, Beijing, 2016, and Wan Qingli, Florida, 2016. Wan also visited Lin in 1977, although local officials had discouraged it. Author’s interview with Ya Ming, Suzhou vicinity, May 1995. Yang Mingyi, Jinri Lou sanji, 28–30; author’s interviews with Yang Mingyi, Suzhou, May 1995, and Beijing, May 2016. The fact that 1973 was the year of the ox possibly influenced Huang Zhou’s decision to paint this animal. Miao, “Zui ren dian feng,” 40. Sullivan, Art and Artists, 122–23. Li Keran, “Fensui jingshen jiasuo,” 14. Wiesel, Night, 18, 34, 39, and 50. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning, 75. Ibid., 76–77. For art by inmates of Auschwitz, see Mickenberg, Granof, and Hayes, The Last Expression. Ba Jin, Random Thoughts, xvi. Ibid., 25. Ibid., 55. On this point, see Shao, “Chinese Art in the 1950s,” 83. Xu Bing created a phoenix from garbage to raise awareness about the work conditions of construction workers. The vast sculpture was not welcome in China and was shipped abroad for exhibition. Ai Weiwei protested the shoddy school construction that contributed to the death of schoolchildren in the Sichuan earthquake. He built a huge display of children’s backpacks on the façade of the Haus der Kunst in Munich. This inscription is on a 1975 lotus painting reproduced in Yu and Liu, Shi Lu huaji, vol. 2, 380. This handscroll is reproduced in Wang Yushan and Cai Peixin, Shi Lu, 146–47. Dr. Juliane Noth of Freie Universitat, Berlin, discussed it in her talk “Beyond Politics and Madness,” at Harvard University’s Sackler Museum on October 21, 2013. Author’s translation of excerpts from the inscription on Shi Lu’s Flower, Plant, Insect Long Scroll in Wang Yushan and Cai Peixin, Shi Lu, 146–47.

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GLOSSARY Ah Mi 阿咪 name of Feng Zikai’s pet cat and essay Ah Q 阿Q character in Lu Xun’s short story “The True Story of Ah Q” Ai Qing 艾青 (1910–1996) poet and theoretician on Chinese painting Ai Weiwei 艾未未 (b. 1957) dissident painter and son of Ai Qing Ba Jin 巴金 (1904–2005) author Bada Shanren 八大山人 (1626–1705) painter admired by Li Kuchan, Pan Tianshou, and Shi Lu bai hua 白话 plain talk, vernacular language Bai Hua 白桦 (b. 1930) writer who based the artist protagonist in his film, Bitter Love, on Huang Yongyu Bai mei tu 百梅图 Hundred Plum Pictures, paintings by persecuted painters collected by Vice Premier Gu Mu during the Cultural Revolution Bai qiao tu 百桥图 Hundred Bridges Pictures, catalog of paintings by Yang Mingyi baicai 白菜 Chinese cabbage, white vegetable Bei Dao 北岛 (b. 1949) one of Misty Poets, cofounder of journal Today (Jintian) benzhi 本质 innate character Bi zhou zi zhen 敝帚自珍 Prizing One’s Own Worthless Broom, a series Feng Zikai painted secretly during the Cultural Revolution on behalf of friends and family to replace those lost in the turmoil Bo Le 伯乐 ancient judge of fine horses budaoweng 不倒翁 wobbly toy Qi Baishi liked to paint to symbolize corrupt officials Cai Ruohong 蔡若虹 (1910–2002) painter and administrator favorable to ink painting Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培 (1868–1940) pioneering

educator instrumental in the founding of major art academies in China Chen Baichen 陳白塵 (1908–1994) dramatist and editor, commissioned Ding Cong’s Ah Q woodcuts for the West China Evening News Chen Dayu 陈大羽 (1912–2001) bird-andflower painter Chen Li 陳黎 (b. 1954) Taiwan poet who honored Li Keran Chen Shizeng 陳師曾 (1876–1923), a painter who influenced Feng Zikai Chen Yi 陈毅 (1901–1972) Communist military leader and mayor of Shanghai Cheng Shifa 程 十 发 (1921–2007) Shanghai ink painter who told curator at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, that he “painted by candlelight” during the Cultural Revolution Chuci 楚辞 The Songs of the South, poems by the banished official Qu Yuan da dao 打倒 strike down, topple da jiandao 大剪刀 giant hedge cutters, the image Feng Zikai used in a speech urging party officials to interfere less in art and literature da xieyi 大写意 monumental freehand style of painting Da Ya Bao Hutong 大雅寶胡同 the residence for faculty of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing, where Huang Yongyu, Li Keran, and Li Kuchan lived with their families Dagongbao /Takungpao 大公报 Hong Kong– based newspaper “Dai hua” 代画 “In lieu of a painting,” name of Feng Zikai’s essay daibiao zuo 代表作 representative work dao mei 倒楣 have bad luck

245

dao mei 倒梅 upside-down plum Deng Tuo 邓拓 (1911–1966) journalist whose essay on the ancient poet Jia Dao became linked with Li Keran’s painting Painstaking Creation during the Cultural Revolution Ding Cong 丁聪 (1916–2009) cartoonist and illustrator of Lu Xun’s “True Story of Ah Q,” also known as Xiao Ding 小丁 to distinguish him from his father, also a cartoonist Ding Song 丁悚 (1879–1969) Ding Cong’s father, a cartoonist in Shanghai who did not want his son to become a cartoonist dixia huodong 地下活动 underground activities Dong Xiwen 董希文 (1914–1973) painter who revised his masterpiece over and over as power struggles eliminated leaders depicted in The Founding of the Nation Dongdu 东渡 Eastern Crossing, title of 1964 work by Shi Lu, original painting criticized and lost, only draft remains Dongwu duanju 動物短句 Animal Crackers, title of Huang Yongyu’s humorous book of animal fables Du Fu 甫杜 (712–770) poet Du qiao yi zhi chun 独俏一枝春 “A solitary beauty raises a single branch toward spring,” phrase on the inscription of Pan Tianshou’s Plum and Moon duhua 毒画 poisonous painting Duo Duo 多多 (b. 1951) one of Misty Poets Erliutang 二流堂 House of Loafers, nickname for home of writers and artists in wartime Chengdu; later used against Ding Cong during the Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957 fandong quanwei 反动权威 reactionary authority Fang Dan 方丹 (b. 1940) author of articles on painters after the Cultural Revolution Fang Xiaoru 方孝孺 (1357–1402) persecuted official from Pan Tianshou’s hometown fan-geming 反革命 counterrevolutionary fan-gong 反共 anticommunist or antiparty feng 风 wind (moral suasion) Feng Chenbao 丰陈宝 Feng Zikai’s daughter and editor of his works

246

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Feng Jianwu 冯建吴 (1910–1989) Shi Lu’s brother, painter and founder of art school Feng Jicai 冯骥才 (b. 1942) Tianjin author of stories about painters Feng Xinmei 丰新枚 Feng Zikai’s son, also known as Simon Feng Feng Yaheng 冯亚珩 Shi Lu’s original name before joining the Communist movement Feng Yiyin 丰一吟 Feng Zikai’s daughter and author of biography of her father Feng Zikai 丰子凯 (1898–1975) painter of Protecting Life Painting Collection Fu Baoshi 傅抱石 (1904–1965) traditional Chinese painter, teacher of Li Keran “Fu shou gan wei ruzi niu” 俯首甘為孺子牛 “Like a head-bowed ox, willingly serving the child [masses].” Line from Lu Xun’s poem “Self-Mockery,” hailed as a model by Mao Zedong in “Yan’an Talks.” Inspiration for Li Keran’s water buffalo paintings gaizao 改造 remold (one’s thinking) reeducation Gao Qipei 高其佩 (1660–1734) pioneer in finger painting practiced by Pan Tianshou Gu Mu 谷牧 (1914–2009) vice premier who organized Hundred Plum Pictures Gu Yuan 古元 (1919–1996) revolutionary printmaker Guan Liang 关良 (1900–1986) painter known for opera characters Guan Shanyue 关山月 (1912–1986) traditional Chinese painter known for adapting to party requirements Guangming ribao 光明日报 Guangming Daily Guangqia 广洽 Buddhist monk living in Singapore who helped Feng Zikai publish Protecting Life Painting Collection Guanzhai 罐齋 Jar Studio, nickname for Huang Yongyu’s tiny residence during the Cultural Revolution gui 龟 turtle, a personal emblem for Shi Lu guilu 規律 rules, regulations Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1892–1978) revolutionary poet and organizer of Let Hundred Flowers Bloom painting catalogues in the late 1950s guohua 国画 national (i.e., traditional Chinese) painting Guomindang 国民党 Nationalist Party

Han Huang 韓滉 (723–787) painter of water buffaloes admired by Li Keran “Han jiang qiu yue liaoran shen” 寒江秋月了 然身 “From the frigid river autumn moon self-understanding grows,” from inscription on Shi Lu’s 1972 plum painting He Boqun 何伯群 Shi Lu’s student during the Cultural Revolution He Haixia 何海霞 (1908–1998) painter, Shi Lu’s colleague he hua 荷花 lotus flower Hei Hua, Hei Huajia, Hei Huayuan 黑画, 黑画 家, 黑画院 Black Paintings, Black Painters, Black Painting Academy hong zhuan 红专 red and expert Hongweibing 红卫兵 Red Guards, young militants loyal to Chairman Mao Hongyi Fashi 弘一法师 name for Li Shutong after he became a monk hou 吼 shout out or roar Hu Yaobang 胡耀邦 (1915–1989) ousted general secretary whose death sparked protests in 1989 Hu Zhijun 胡治均 Feng Zikai’s friend who felt obliged to destroy Feng’s paintings during the Cultural Revolution. Feng replaced them by painting secretly. Hu Zongnan 胡宗南 Nationalist general “Hua cao jingshen” 花草精神 “flowers-andgrass spirit,” phrase on seal of painter Zhu Yingren, criticized by Jiang Qing’s allies hua hua de ren 画画的人 one who paints paintings Hua Junwu 华君武 (1915–2010) cartoonist and art administrator Hua yu lu 画语录 Notes on Painting, a theoretical text by Shitao that inspired Shi Lu’s sequel Huaisu 懷素 (737–799) famous Buddhist calligrapher admired by Li Kuchan Huang Binhong 黄宾虹 (1865–1955) traditional Chinese painter, teacher of Li Keran Huang Fabang 黄发榜 (b. 1938) creator of oil painting honoring Pan Tianshou Huang Miaozi 黄苗子 (1913–2012) cartoonist, friend of Ding Cong, also branded a Rightist Huang Yongyu 黄永玉 (b. 1924) humorous painter, printmaker, and essayist

Huang Zhou 黄胄 (1925–1997) painter specializing in animals, friend of Huang Yongyu huashen 化身 embodiment Huaxi wanbao 华西晚报 West China Evening News hui shou 回首 turn one’s head around, look back on, reflect Huo dao lao; xue dao lao; xuebuliao 活到老学 到老学不了 “Live until old age; study until old age; just can’t study anymore.” Phrase from Pan Tianshou’s confession statement. Husheng huaji 护生画集 Protecting Life Painting Collection, Feng Zikai’s six-volume series of images designed to cultivate compassion Ji Kang 嵇康 (223–262) ancient musician whose melody was lost after he was executed unjustly Jia Dao 贾岛 (779–849) poet honored by Li Keran as paragon of hard work jian 尖 sharp-pointed or ruthless, what Shi Lu wrote in the air during struggle meetings Jiang Feng 江丰 (1910–1982) art administrator opposed to traditional Chinese painting Jiang Qing 江青 (1914–1991) Mao’s wife and leader of radical Maoists in the art field “jiangshan ruci duo hei” 江山如此多黑 “Our motherland so black,” a taunt aimed at discrediting Li Keran’s landscape paintings “jiangshan ruci duo jiao” 江山如此多娇 “Our motherland so beautiful,” a line from Mao Zedong’s 1936 poem “Snow” Jieziyuan hua zhuan 芥子园画传 Mustard Seed Garden Painting Manual jingshen de zhuangyuan 精神的庄园 spiritual garden, son’s description of Shi Lu’s drawing Jintian 今天 Today, journal admired by democracy activists, subsequently banned Jiushi Niandai 九十年代 The Nineties, Hong Kong journal “kan wan shan hong bian” 看万山红遍 “I see ten-thousand crimson hills,” a line from Mao Zedong’s 1925 poem “Changsha,” which inspired Li Keran’s all-red landscape painting kang 抗 resist

GLOSSARY

247

Kang Lao 康老 “respected elder Kang,” respectful term for Kang Sheng in Pan Tianshou’s confession materials Kang Sheng 康生 (1898–1975) a powerful official whose patronage of Pan Tianshou entangled him in turmoil Kang Youwei 康有为 (1858–1927) reformer whose call for Chinese artists to develop a bold new aesthetic inspired Li Keran kangyi 抗议 protest “ke guizhe dan suo yaozhe hun” 可贵者胆所 要者魂 “What is precious is courage, what is necessary is soul,” Li Keran’s philosophy stated on a calligraphy scroll kong 空 empty space valued in Chinese painting Kong Lao Er 孔老二 “Confucius’s Second Son”; Shi Lu was called this as an insult ku yin tu 苦吟图 Painstaking Creation Picture (lit. bitterly chanting [poetry] picture), title of Li Keran painting lao er jiu zhishifenzi 老而旧知識分子 “elderly and old-style intellectual,” term Pan used to describe himself in confession materials lao ji 老骥 old thoroughbred horse Lao ren 老人 signature used by Li Kuchan, meaning one who respects Laozi, the Daoist master Lao She 老舍 author Lei Feng 雷锋 selfless martyr that Mao Zedong held up as a model hero Leipotoufeng Shouzhe 雷婆頭峰壽者 Pan Tianshou’s signature, the “Shou” from Leipotou Peak Li Geng 李庚 Li Keran’s son, a painter Li Hang 李杭 Li Kuchan’s son Li Hua 李桦 (1907–1994) printmaker Li Jiantong 李建彤 author of a biography about the revolutionary Liu Zhidan and friend of Shi Lu who toured the countryside with him in the summer of 1958 Li Keran 李可染 (1907–1989) painter of landscapes, water buffalo, and ancient figures Li Kuchan 李苦禅 (1899–1983) bird-and-flower painter who integrated opera and martial arts into his painting theory and practice Li Sanqi 李三企 Li Keran’s birth name

248

GLOS SARY

Li Shinan 李世南 Shi Lu’s student during the Cultural Revolution Li Shutong 李叔同 1880–1942 (Hong Yi Fashi) Westernizing teacher who later became a monk; collaborated with Feng Zikai on Protecting Life Painting Collection Li Yan 李燕 (b. 1943) Li Kuchan’s son; painter, calligrapher, and author Li Yingjie 李英杰 Li Kuchan’s original name; ying (hero) sounds similar to ying (eagle), his representative subject matter Li Zhu 李珠 Li Keran’s daughter Lin Biao 林彪 (1907–1971) promoter of Mao cult and Mao’s appointed successor until 1971, when his plane crashed on the way to the Soviet Union Lin Fengmian 林风眠 (1900–1991) modernist painter and first president of China Academy of Art, Hangzhou; teacher of Li Keran liu 流 “the flow,” key term in Shi Lu’s Xue hua lu Liu Chunhua 劉 春 华 (b. 1944) painter of Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan Liu Shaoqi 劉 少奇 (1898–1969) ousted president who was persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution Liu Zhidan 刘志丹 (1903–1936) a Communist revolutionary whose history Shi Lu researched Lu Xun 鲁迅 (1881–1936) Zhou Shuren, author of “True Story of Ah Q,” and other influential texts; admired by Ding Cong and Shi Lu Lu Yanshao 陆儼少 (1909–1993) painter who wrote a memorial for Pan Tianshou lamenting his mistreatment Luo Ming 羅銘 (1912–1998) painter who accompanied Li Keran sketching in 1954 luwu 芦屋 “thatched hut or reed house,” Shi Lu’s nickname for the storeroom where he painted after he was released from the cowshed ma 骂 scold, criticize Ma Gaihu 马改户 sculptor who worked alongside Shi Lu when he was painting Fighting in Northern Shaanxi in Beijing ma que 麻雀 sparrow, one of “four pests” targeted to be killed in 1958; Huang Yongyu’s symbol for a warning to be alert

manhua 漫画 lyrical cartoon pioneered by Feng Zikai Mao Bobo 毛伯伯 Uncle Mao [Zedong]; similar to Mao Bobo, the name for Feng Zikai’s cat Mao Bobo 猫伯伯 Uncle Cat, name of Feng Zikai’s deceased cat discussed in Feng’s essay “Ah Mi” Mao Dun 矛盾 playwright, wrote an introduction for Ding Cong’s Ah Q woodcuts Mao Zedong 毛泽东 (1893–1976) paramount leader who instigated the Cultural Revolution “mei bu li zhen” 美不离真 “Beauty cannot exist without truth,” Shi Lu’s statement Meidianshen 美典神 Goddess of Beauty (lit. Beauty Paragon Spirit), title of Shi Lu painting Meishu 美术 Fine Arts Meishu yanjiu 美术研究 Fine Arts Research Meishujie dapipan ziliao 美术界大批判资料 Art Circles Mass Criticism Materials men 闷 stifling, sulking, or depressed Meng Lanting 孟兰亭 pen name of painter who wrote a letter complaining that Shi Lu’s brushwork does not belong to authentic traditional Chinese painting Min Lisheng 闵力生 Shi Lu’s wife mu 墓 tomb or mausoleum Mu Xin 木心 (b. 1927) writer and painter who kept a prison diary during the Cultural Revolution, now living in exile mubei 墓碑 tombstone nan you 难友 friend(s) in adversity nei 内 inner emotional domain neibu 内部 internal, restricted circulation Ni Yide 倪贻德 (1902–1969) artist and critic who taught Li Keran drawing niu 牛 water buffalo, bull, ox, or cow niuguisheshen 牛鬼蛇神 “ox ghost snake spirit” (insulting name for intellectuals during the Cultural Revolution) niupeng 牛棚 cowshed or ox pen; a makeshift prison within a school or work unit during the Cultural Revolution nu 怒 anger

Pan Gongkai 潘公凱 (b. 1947) Pan Tianshou’s son, painter and president of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing Pan Tianshou 潘天寿 (1898–1971) painter and president of the China Academy of Art, Hangzhou Peng Dehuai 彭德怀 (1898–1974) military leader who challenged Mao’s Great Leap Forward policies at the Lushan conference in 1959 Qi Baishi 齐白石 (1863–1957) innovative painter, teacher of Li Keran and Li Kuchan Qian Shizhi 钱食芝 (1880–1922) Li Keran’s first teacher, a Xuzhou painter Qian Songyan 錢松喦 (1899–1985) painter of landscapes Qianlong 乾隆 Qing emperor (r. 1736–96) who initiated an inquisition qigong 气功 breathing exercises and movement to foster vitality Qin Shi Huang 秦始皇 (259–210 BCE) name of China’s first emperor, known for cruelty and strength; Mao admired him Qu Yuan 屈原 (ca. 343–ca. 277) poet and loyal official admired by Shi Lu Renmin huabao 人民画报 People’s Pictorial Renmin meishu 人民美术 People’s Arts Renmin ribao 人民日报 People’s Daily Ri Yue Lou 日月楼 Sun and Moon Pavilion, Feng’s name for his Shanghai residence ronghe Zhong-Xi 融合中西 blending the Chinese and Western, an approach to art associated with Xu Beihong and Lin Fengmian, among others; Pan Tianshou opposed it San Bu Xiansheng 三不先生 Mr. Thrice No, Feng Zikai’s nickname before 1949, because he valued home life and stayed aloof from politics sao 騷 ancient verse associated with Qu Yuan Shaanxi ribao 陕西日报 Shaanxi Daily Shanghai Meishu Zhuanke Xuexiao 上海美 术专科学校 Shanghai Art Academy, one of China’s earliest art schools, also called Shanghai Meizhuan 上海美专

GLOSSARY

249

Shanghai Wenxue 上海文学 Shanghai Literature Shanghai Zhongguo Huayuan 上海中国画院 Shanghai Chinese Painting Academy ShaoYu 卲宇 (1919–1982) artist who reported Huang Yongyu’s Winking Owl to Jiang Qing under pressure shen 身 body Shen Zhou 沈周 (1427–1509) landscape painter shenwang 神王 spirit-king, heroes of Shi Lu’s imagination in his revised travel sketches of 1970 shi 詩 poetry Shi Dan 石丹 (b. 1956) Shi Lu’s daughter, painter and art administrator Shi Guo 石果 (b. 1953) Shi Lu’s son, painter and art administrator Shi kan 诗看 poetry journal Shi Lu 石魯(Feng Yaheng 馮亞衡) (1919–1982) Communist idealist and innovative painter, poet, and essayist shi yan zhi 诗言志 poetry speaks emotion or aspiration, ancient belief about poetry’s function shici 诗词 poetry Shiniu Tang 师牛堂 Learn from the Water Buffalo Studio, name for Li Keran’s studio Shitao 石涛 (1642–ca. 1707) an innovative painter Shi Lu admired shou jin shu 瘦金书 skinny-gold calligraphy, one of Shi Lu’s writing styles during the Cultural Revolution shu kong 书空 writing on empty air; Shi Lu did this during struggle meetings shuo li 说理 reasoned discussion, title of Shi Lu’s woodcut to address violence of land reform campaigns Si Hai 四害 Four Pests: rats, flies, mosquitoes, sparrows; movement to kill sparrows (1958–60) opposed by Li Kuchan Si Qing 四清 Four Clean-ups, movement in 1963 to clean up politics, economy, organization, and ideology Si Wang 四王 Four Wangs (Qing painting masters Wang Shimin, Wang Jian, Wang Hui, and Wang Yuanqi), a style rejected as backward by many twentieth-century painters Sima Qian 司馬遷 (ca. 145–ca. 90 BCE) historian who suffered on account of his outspokenness

250

GLOS SARY

“sixiang beitong de juren” 思想悲痛的巨人 “sadly thinking giants”; art historian Sun Meilan’s description of Li Kuchan’s eagle paintings during the Cultural Revolution Su Shi 蘇軾 (1037–1101) poet who suffered exile on account of his poems suibi 随笔 casual, informal essay; Feng Zikai wrote in this style Sun Meilan 孙美兰 art historian and painter who wrote about Li Keran and Li Kuchan Sun Zhijun 孙之隽 (1907–1966) illustrator criticized during anti–Wu Xun campaign of 1951; friend of Li Kuchan tichu kangyi 提出抗议 raise a protest tujiu 秃鹫 bald-headed vultures that live in high altitudes like Tibet; Pan Tianshou liked to paint them Wan He Tang 万荷堂 Hall of Ten Thousand Lotuses, Huang Yongyu’s residence on the outskirts of Beijing Wan Qingli 万青力 (1945–2017) art historian and painter who was confined in the cowshed with Li Keran, Huang Yongyu, and Li Kuchan Wan xiang 万象 Ten Thousand Phenomena, the title of a new journal Ding proposed before the Anti-Rightist Campaign ousted him from his position as editor Wang Hongwen 王洪文 (1935–1992) radical Maoist labor activist allied with Jiang Qing Wang Jingfang 王菁芳 (ca. 1900–1956) traditional Chinese painter at the Central Academy of Fine Arts; friend of Li Kuchan Wang Mantian 王曼恬 (d. 1977) radical Maoist, leading ally of Jiang Qing in the arts Wang Naizhuang 王乃壮 (b. 1929) painter who studied calligraphy under Li Kuchan Wang Weizheng 王为政 (b. 1944) painter who designed Mao image Wang Zhaowen 王朝聞 (1909–2004) art critic who showed support for Shi Lu and Feng Zikai Wen Jie 聞捷 poet who wrote “Ode to the Water Buffalo” for Li Keran in 1961 Wenhuibao 文汇报 Literary and Art News wenyan 文言 literary language wenyi 文藝 literature and art

wenziyu 文字狱 culture-writing prison, inquisition wo 我 I or me Wu Changshuo 吴昌硕 (1844–1927) master painter of the Shanghai school of painting and Pan Tianshou’s mentor who worried that Pan’s painting was too bold wu fa wu tian 无法无天 without law, without Heaven (unbounded authority) Wu Guanzhong 吴冠中 (1919–2010) painter who wrote an admiring article about Shi Lu’s revised paintings Wu Tung 吴同 (Tom Wu) curator, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston Wu Xun 武训 (1838–1896) educator and advocate for public education criticized by Mao Zedong and allies Wu Zuguang 吴祖光 playwright; friend of Ding Cong Wu Zuoren 吴作人 painter; friend of Li Kuchan and Li Keran Wuchanjieji Wenhua Da Geming 无产阶级文 化革命 Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (1966–76) xi hua 西画 Western painting xi zuo 习作 practice studies xian 险 danger or risk; how connoisseurs described Pan Tianshou’s painting Xiangjixuan 项脊轩 Studio of the Nape and Spine, Feng Zikai’s nickname for the cramped space in his apartment where he was confined during the Cultural Revolution xie sheng 写生 sketch from life xieyi huaniao hua 写意花鸟画 freehand (“sketch the idea”) bird-and-flower painting Xin Guancha 新观察 New Observer xin hua 心画 painting from the heart Xin wenren hua 新 文人画 new scholar painting, name for style developed by Shi Lu xingge 性格 personality, character xiong ying 雄鷹 grand, imposing eagle Xiongshi 雄视 powerful gaze, title of a Pan Tianshou painting xiuzhengzhuyi heixian 修正主义黑线 revisionist black line

Xu Beihong 徐悲鸿 (1895–1953) president of the Central Academy of Fine Arts; one of Li Kuchan’s teachers Xu Bing 徐冰 (b. 1955) artist whose recent Phoenix project faced censorship Xu Shuping 胥淑平 artist who made woodcuts based on Ding Cong’s illustrations of Ah Q xuan ya le ma 悬崖勒马 rein in at the brink of the precipice Xue hua lu 学画录 Notes on Studying Painting, treatise written by Shi Lu Ya Ming 亚明 (1924–2002) painter; friend of Huang Zhou and Yang Mingyi Yan Liquan 閻立川critic who called Shi Lu’s painting “wild, crazy, chaotic, and black” Yan’an 延安 wartime headquarters for the Communist movement after the Long March Yang Mingyi 揚明義 (b. 1943) Suzhou painter specializing in water scenes and bridges; friend of Huang Yongyu; collected paintings by Lin Fengmian and Huang Zhou Yang Yanping 楊燕屏 (b. 1934) painter; friend of Huang Yongyu Yan-Huang Yishuguan 炎黄艺术馆 Yan-Huang Art Gallery founded by painter Huang Zhou (named for ancient sage-emperors) Yao Wenyuan 姚文元 (1931–2005) literary critic allied with Jiang Qing “ye, guai, luan, hei” 野 怪 乱 黑 “wild, strange, chaotic, black,” derisive label for Shi Lu’s painting in the 1960s; Shi Lu wrote a poem defiantly claiming it as his motto Ye Jian 叶坚 journalist and art critic; friend of Shi Lu Ye Qianyu 葉淺予 (1907–1995) painter in cowshed of Central Academy of Fine Arts yi hua 一画 “one-stroke,” terminology found in Shitao’s Hua yu lu yijie zhuguang hua danqing 依借烛光画丹青 painting by candlelight yimin 遺民 “leftover people,” loyalists to toppled dynasty ying 鹰 eagle Yishu 艺术 arts Yongyuan de chuanghu 永遠的窗戶 Eternal Window, title of a Huang Yongyu painting

GLOSSARY

251

Yuan Yuan Tang 緣緣堂 Fate Fate Hall, the name of Feng Zikai’s estate in Zhejiang yuanfen 缘分 fate yuantiao 远眺 gaze far into distance “zang han zhe shou an le zhe kang” 藏含者寿 安乐者康 “Protect what is valuable in oneself and live long; be at peace with oneself and enjoy good health,” saying by Shi Lu zawen 杂文 satirical essay associated with Lu Xun Zeng Shanqing 曾善慶 (b. 1932) painter friend of Huang Yongyu Zhang Chunqiao 张春桥 (1917–2005) radical Maoist literary critic allied with Jiang Qing Zhang Ding 張丁 (1917–2010) painter friend of Li Keran who accompanied him sketching and spoke with him about Picasso Zhang Yongsheng 张永生 radical leader who was abusive toward Pan Tianshou Zhao Wangyun 趙望雲 (1905–1977) painter who traveled to India and Egypt with Shi Lu Zhao Wuji 赵无极 (1920–2013) painter who left China in 1948 and pursued a career in France; student of Lin Fengmian Zhao Yun 趙雲 (ca. 168–229) general from Romance of the Three Kingdoms period Zhejiang Meishu Xueyuan 浙江美术学院 Zhejiang Art Academy, former name for China Academy of Art at Hangzhou Zheng Shengtian 郑胜天 (b. 1938) painter and curator Zheng Sixiao 郑思肖 (1241–1318) painter of a rootless orchid to protest the Mongol occupation of China Zheng Zhenduo 郑振铎 (1898–1958) journalist who coined the term manhua for Feng Zikai’s lyrical cartoons

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“Zhi qi bai shou qi hei” 知其白守其黑 “Know the white, guard the black,” from Daoism Zhong Kui 钟馗 protector god who kills demons Zhongguo Meishu Xueyuan 中国美术学院 China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, also known as Zhejiang Art Academy from 1958 to 1993 Zhongguo meishubao 中国美术报 China Fine Arts Newspaper Zhongguo Meishuguan 中国美术馆 National Art Museum of China Zhongyang geming bowuguan 中央革命博物 馆 Museum of the Chinese Revolution, now the National Museum of China located on Tiananmen Square Zhongyang Meishu Xueyuan 中央美术学院 Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing Zhou Enlai 周恩來 (1898–1976) China’s premier and chief diplomat Zhou Yang 周杨 (1908–1989) Marxist theorist, literary critic Zhu Guangqian 朱光潜 (1897–1986) philosopher of aesthetics Zhu Yingren 朱颖人 (b. 1930) painter, colleague of Pan Tianshou Zhu Youlan 朱幼闌 (1909–1990) calligrapher who collaborated with Feng Zikai Zhuan zhan Shaanbei 转战陕北 Fighting in Northern Shaanxi, title of Shi Lu’s 1959 painting featuring Mao Zedong ziwo geming 自我革命 self-revolution ziyou 自由 freedom Zou Peizhu 邹佩珠 (1920–2015) sculptor and wife of Li Keran zuopin 作品 work of art

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INDEX A academies, confiscation/destruction of art from, 9–10. See also individual academies academy artists: bird-and-flower, removal of, 76; Huang Yongyu, 95–113; Li Keran, 53–73; Li Kuchan, 75–93; Pan Tianshou, 115–36; Shi Lu, 179–83 “Ah Mi” (Feng), 44–47 Ah Shi Ma (Huang Yongyu), 98 Ai Qing, 61 Ai Weiwei, 209 Andrews, Julia, xii, 58 Animal Crackers (Dongwu duanju) (Huang Yongyu), 99–100, 105, 230n35, 231n65 Animal Farm (Orwell), 100 Anti-Japanese War, 18 Anti-Rightist Campaign of 1957: Ding condemned in, 23; Ding targeted in, 113; Huang Yongyu influenced by, 98–99; Jiang Feng in, 59, 68; Li Kuchan and, 77–78; Zhao in, 167–68 Apollo Driving His Chariot (Shi Lu), 184, 187fig. Appreciating a Painting (Li Keran), 59, 60fig. art: artists’ commentaries on, 12; changing political policies on, 13–14; complexities of interpreting, 11–12; Ding on lack of scope for, 23; Li Keran on professionalism in, 53, 54–55; Mao’s vision for, 13, 14; multiple meanings in, 11, 13, 162, 171; propaganda use of, 4–5; resistance in, 13–14; revision of, 157, 184, 187–89figs., 190–91, 192fig., 193 Augustus, Emperor of Rome, 161

B Ba Jin, 47, 207–8 Bada Shanren: Li Kuchan compared to, 82; Pan compared to, 124–25; Pan on, 120; Shi Lu influenced by, 146; Shi Lu on, 143; Shi Lu’s poem on, 212–13

Bai Hua, 111 Baranczak, Stanislaw, ix Barge Haulers on the Volga (Repin), 174, 240n77 Barmé, Geremie, xii Bei Dao, 11 Beihai Garden, Beijing, 52 Beijing National School of Fine Arts, 78 Bickford, Maggie, xii bird-and-flower painting: banned, 76, 118, 125, 128; eagles in, 84–87; as insufficiently political, 61; landscape synthesis with, 124, 125–28; by Li Kuchan, 76, 79–90, 207; by Lin, 202fig., 203–5; opera and, 78–79, 78fig.; painters’ hands injured to prevent, 84; by Pan, 116–18, 117fig., 120–30; party line on, 40; return to favor of, 79; by Shi Lu, 140, 141, 141fig., 142, 145, 208fig., 209, 210, 209fig.; by Zhu, 135 Bitter Love, 111 Black Painting, 5–6; exhibitions of, 106; Feng and, 45–46; Huang Yongyu and, 105–6, 111; Li Keran and, 58, 63–65, 64fig., 67–72, 206; Li Kuchan and, 86–90; Pan and, 10, 127–30; Shi Lu and, 140, 157, 196–97, 198 Bo Le, 197 Book of Mencius, The, 133–34 Book of Songs, 191 Book of Zhuangzi, 176 Bosch, Hieronymus, 190 bourgeois individualism, 10 Bryson, Norman, 216n32, 217n36 Buddhism, 145, 208; Feng and, 31–34, 38, 39, 50; influence of on family in China, 145; Li Kuchan and, 78 buffalos: by Li Keran, viiifig., ix, 59; by Pan, 122fig., 123 Bull (Huang Zhou), 205, 206fig. Bumper Harvest (Pan), 118 Burris, Jon, xi–xii

275

C cabbage paintings, 75–76, 90–92, 228n70 Cai Ruohong, 158–59, 173, 225n4 Cai Yuanpei, 203, 204 calligraphy: by Ding, 21; by Feng, 38; by Kang, 125; by Li Keran, xi, 54fig., 55–56, 57fig., 63, 64fig., 68, 69fig.; by Li Kuchan, 77, 80; by Mao, 6, 7fig., 165; painting interwoven with, 10; by Pan, 116, 116fig., 120, 123; Pan and, 115; by Shi Lu, 4, 176, 183, 185–89figs., 193, 195–201, 208fig., 209–10, 209fig.; teaching of, 120; by Wang Naizhuang, frontispiece capitalism, 4 cartoons and cartoonists: Communist Party on, 40, 41; Cultural Revolution denouncement of, 9; Ding Cong, 16–29; Feng Zikai, 30–50; by Huang Yongyu, 99–100; by Shi Lu, 179 “Carved Pipe, The” (Feng), 95 cats: Feng on, 44–47; Pan images of, 116, 116fig. CCP. See Chinese Communist Party (CCP) censorship, 11; Ding on, 28fig., 29; Feng on, 41, 42–44, 46; resistance to, 205 Central Academy of Fine Arts, Beijing: bird-andflower painting removed from, 76; Huang Yongyu at, 96–100; Li Keran at, 61; Li Kuchan at, 79; painting stopped at, 125; Pan Gongkai at, 136; printmaking at, 98; struggle sessions at, 82–83; teachers made janitorial staff at, 82–83 Chairman Mao at a People’s Heroes Assembly (Shi Lu), 147–48, 147fig., 160 Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan (Liu), 165–67, 167fig., 182 Chan, Gundi, 107, 108 “Changsha” (Mao), 69 “Chanting by Lakes, Repairing the Sky Poems” (Shi Lu), 151 Chen Baichen, 18 Chen Dayu, 226n49 Chen Duxiu, 5 Chen Li, 58, 73 Chen Seyi, 27 Chen Shizeng, 36 Cheng Shifa, xi, 216n31 Chiang Kai-shek, 147, 148, 173; censorship under, 29; Ding on, 205 China Academy of Art at Hangzhou, 57–58, 76; in Land Reform Movement, 118; Lin at, 203–4; Pan at, 115, 120, 125; teachers confined at, 128

276

I N DEX

China Fine Arts Newspaper (Zhongguo meishubao), 71 China Times, 58 Chinese Artists Association, 41; Shi Lu in, 165; “sketch from life” paintings exhibited, 62 Chinese Communist Party (CCP): art as propaganda for, 4–5; claimed capitalist leanings of, 4; on cartoons, 40–41; on colors, 63, 69–71; Feng and, 34, 39–40, 41; on individualism, 10; Li Kuchan sidelined by, 75–77; Shi Lu in, 146–50 Chinese Cultural Relics (Wenwu), 82, 159 chronology of events, xv–xvii Claudot, André, 63 coal production, 53 common people: Ding’s portrayal of, 21–23, 22fig., 24; Li Kuchan’s solidarity with, 87–88; Mao on terror in the countryside, 133; revolutionary awareness in, 174, 175; Shi Lu on, 162, 171, 174, 175, 205–6 conformity, pressure for, 4–6, 158–59, 165–67 Confucianism, 204, 208; ink painting equated with scholars in, 9; New China and, 145–46; Pan on deference and, 133–34; scholar aesthetic in, 190; Shi Lu and, 196–97; World War I’s aftermath and, 145 Confucius: Mao and, 149, 151; on grieving and poetry, 191; on pine trees, 201 cowshed, 6, 215n13; Huang Yongyu’s humor in, 95–96; Li Keran in, 55; Li Kuchan in, 82, 83; Pan in, 128, 135; Shi Lu in, 181–82; Wan Qingli in, 112–13 cranes, 88, 89fig. creativity: during the Cultural Revolution, 11; Feng on children’s, 36, 37fig.; Feng on repression of, 41–47, 205; Li Keran on professionalism and, 53, 54fig., 55; mental illness and, 193–95, 242n42; narrow opportunities for, ix; Shi Lu on repression of, 157, 171, 205, 209–10; survival of in the Cultural Revolution, ix, 11, 100, 101–2, 201, 205 Criticize Lin Biao and Confucius movement, 151 Croizier, Ralph, xii crossings theme in paintings, 172fig., 173–76 Crouching Crane: I Am the First to Paint It (Li Kuchan), 88, 89fig. Cultural Revolution: creativity during, 11; difficulties in investigating, 6–7; Eight Model Performances in, 5; evaluation of by the CCP, 6; Feng on repression in, 31–34, 43–47, 48; Feng’s

work during, 47–50; Huang Yongyu on, 97–98; hypocrisy of, 196; impact of on painters, 3–4, 43–44; individual artists’ choices suppressed in, ix; Li Keran denounced in, 55; Li Kuchan in, 82; Li Kuchan on, 82, 84–90; Lu Xun and, 24; Mao’s assessment of, 7; Mao’s motivation for, 4, 7, 9, 145, 149; oral history on, 6; paintings destroyed in, 203–5; Pan condemned in, 123–24; Pan on, 128, 130; periodization of, 11; Qi Baishi denounced in, 63, 65; resistance to, 205–10; Shi Lu in, 142–43; Shi Lu on, 184, 190, 191; toll of, 194, 205; youth response to, 3

D Da gong bao, 40 Da Ya Bao Hutong, 96 dance, 11 Dancing Ink Lotus (Huang Yongyu), 94fig., 95 Dante Alleghieri, 143, 190 Daoism, 208; Huang Yongyu influenced by, 229n11; Li Keran influenced by, 72; Li Kuchan influenced by, 93, 228n73; Shi Lu influenced by, 142, 176, 190–91; spontaneity in, 190–91; turtles in, 142 Davis, Richard L., xii “Democracy Wall,” 100 Democratic Criticism Meeting (Shi Lu), 148 Deng Tuo, 55 Deng Xiaoping, 171; cat metaphor used by, 45; evaluation of Mao under, 6; removal of from power, 9 “Diary of a Madman” (Lu Xun), 24 Ding Cong, 3–4, 16fig.; Ah Q and, 17–23, 20figs., 22fig., 27, 29; abuse of, 207; allegiance of to Lu Xun, 17–18, 24–25; calligraphy by, 21; condemned as Rightist, 18, 23, 98; exiled to Great Northern Wilderness, 17, 23; Huang Miaozi and, 23–25, 25fig., 98; Huang Yongyu and, 25, 25fig., 27, 98–99, 113, 207; integrity of, 25; as “Loafer,” 18, 23; Mao Dun’s praise for, 29; official artwork by, 23; portraits by, 25–27, 26fig., 29fig.; resistance by, 205, 207; returned to Beijing, 24; secret sketches by, 23; self-portraits by, 26fig., 27; sponge sculptures by, 4, 24; steadfast character of, 25, 27, 207; woodcuts and, 17–18, 27; Wu Zuguang and, 18, 23 Ding Song, 18 “Discussing the Reform of Chinese Painting”

(Li Keran), 59–61 Divine Comedy, The (Dante), 143 Dong Xiwen, 193 Double Waterfalls at Green Cliff (Li Keran), 71–72, 72fig. Dream of the Red Chamber, 144 Du Fu, 87 Duo Duo, 11 Dusk at Lake Rong (Li Keran), 63, 64fig., 65fig.

E Eagles: by Li Kuchan, 81fig., 84, 85fig., 86, 86fig., 88fig., 92 East China Artists Association of Shanghai, 34 Eastern Crossing (Shi Lu), 172fig., 173–76 Eastern Venus de Milo (Shi Lu), 191, 192–93, 192fig. Eight Model Performances, 5 Eighteen Art Society, 58, 222n19 Eighth Army, 76 elders: denigration of, 50; Li Kuchan on, 88, 88fig., 92, 92fig.; Pan on deference to, 133–34; thought reform of, 9, 132; youth set against in the Cultural Revolution, 92, 133 Ellsworth, Robert H., 201 Empty Mountain Small Disaster (Feng), 35fig. Eternal Paragon of Virtue and Learning (Huang Yongyu), 110fig., 111, 112 Eternal Window (Huang), 100fig., 101–2

F Falling Rain (Li Kuchan), 87, 87fig. fame, 135 Fang Dan, 229n24 Fang Xiaoru, 134, 236nn89,93 Fate Fate Hall (Yuan Yuan Tang), 47, 48, 219n13 Feng Chenbao, 41fig. Feng Jianwu, 146, 167, 195 Feng Jicai, 87, 95, 102 Feng Xinmei, 47–48, 221n56 Feng Yaheng. See Shi Lu Feng Yiyin, 39–40, 41fig. Feng Zikai, 3–4, 30–50, 115, 207; abuse of, 35fig.; beauty’s value, 40; bird flight as symbol, 36, 37fig.; blacklisted, 2fig., 3; bonsai tree as symbol, 31, 33fig.; Buddhism of, 31–34, 38, 39, 47; on cartoons as political, 38; on cat Ah Mi, 30fig., 31, 44–47; changing political conditions and, 40–42; combination of art forms by, 10; criticism of, 47; early

INDEX

277

encounters with Communist leadership, 39, 40; eel image by, 48, 49fig., 50; focus on children by, 36; “giant hedge cutters” image by, 32fig.; “giant hedge cutters” speech by, 31, 34, 47–48; home celebrated as refuge by, 38; identity maintained by, 40, 48; Li Shutong and, 31, 36, 38, 47, 50; on links with world art, 11; lyrical style of, 36, 38; on multi-level interpretation, 43–44; nearly a Rightist, 44; on play, 21, 36–38, 45, 46–47; protecting the heart against callousness, 50; on psychological experience of repression, 43, 48, 50; on reality, 42–43; on repressive policies, 41–47; secret art by, 47; sent to labor camp, 48–50; translation work by, 40; view of art, 205; wartime cartoons by, 38 Fighting in Northern Shaanxi (Shi Lu), 5, 13fig., 155–73, 156fig.; brushwork in, 162; calls for revision of, 157, 171, 173, 193; closeness to the edge in, 163; compared with Wanderer above a Sea of Fog, 169fig., 170–71; conception for, 161–62; criticism of, 159; critics on, 159; gaze theory on, 12–13, 13fig.; on the Great Leap Forward, 160–61; hero portraits compared with, 158, 160; influence of on landscape and figure painting, 155, 161; landscape in, 159–60; Mao’s portrayal in, 156–63, 168, 170–71, 193, 205–6; poet surveying the landscape in, 165–66; possible ambivalence toward Mao in, 157–59, 171, 173; preliminary sketches for, 158–59, 161, 163fig.; restless horse in, 171, 173; soldiers in, 162 Fine Arts (Meishu), 5–6, 67; on Li Keran, 71; on Shi Lu, 155, 157 Fine Arts Research (Meishu yanjiu), 119 Five Water Buffaloes (Li Keran), 68, 69 Flower, Plant, Insect Long Scroll (Shi Lu), 208fig., 209–10, 209fig. Flowers-and-Grass Spirit (Zhu Yingren’s seal), 135 Flying Goose (Lin), 202fig. folk arts/traditions: Ding and, 18; Huang Yongyu and, 96, 102; Li Keran and, 59; Pan and, 118; sponge sculpture, 24 Foucault, Michel, 12 Founding of the Nation (Dong), 193 Four Clean-Ups campaign, 99 Four Pests campaign, 80 Four Purities theme, 90 Frankl, Victor, 207 Friedrich, Caspar David, 102, 169fig., 170–71 Frog on a Rock (Pan), 120 Fu Baoshi, 58, 69, 238n17

278

I N DEX

G Gang of Four: arrested, 107; Shi Lu on, 182–83 Gao Qipei, 120, 122 Gao Tianmin, 120 Garden of Earthly Delights (Bosch), 190 gardens, 144–45 Gates of Hell, The (Rodin), 143 gaze theory, 12–13, 93, 217nn42,45; counter-images asserting independent gaze, 10, 14; “dead eyes,” 207; discernment, 197; “eye talk,” 95, 105; gaze in Ding’s images, 21–23, 27–29; gaze in Friedrich’s image, 169fig., 170; gaze in Huang Yongyu’s images, 104fig., 113fig.; gaze in Huang Zhou’s image, 205, 206fig.; gaze in Li Kuchan’s images, 80, 81fig., 85fig., 86, 86fig., 88fig., 89fig.; gaze in Liu Chunhua’s image, 167fig.; gaze of Mao obscured, 12, 167–68, 176; gaze in Pan’s images, 116fig., 117fig., 121fig., 122fig., 123; gaze in Repin image, 174; gaze in Shi Lu’s images, 156fig., 159, 168, 170, 172fig., 173–76, 198, 199fig.; “kindness in eyes,” 193; “peaceful pair of eyes,” 212 Gazing Far at Magnificent Mountains and Rivers (Li Kuchan), 80, 81fig. ghosts: Huang Yongyu on, 112; Mao on, 45, 46; purging of, 10 Giacometti, Alberto, 209 Goddess of Beauty (Shi Lu), 191–93, 192fig. Gong Kai, 197 goose images, 202fig., 203, 204fig., 205 Gorky, Maxim, 24 Goya, Francisco, 27 Great Leader. See Mao Zedong Great Leap Forward: cost of in lives, 160–61; expertise in art questioned in, 53; famine from, 9, 23–24, 53, 87–88, 165, 239n40; Feng on, 45; Feng’s work for, 44; Huang Yongyu on, 100; Li Kuchan on, 78, 81; Pan on, 124; Peng Dehuai on, 159; Shi Lu on, 149, 160–61, 163, 164fig., 165, 167–68, 174–75 Great Northern Wilderness, 17, 23 Grieder, Jerome, xii Gu Mu, 106–7 Guan Shanyue, 69, 71, 225n92, 238n17 Guangdong Provincial Artwork Studio, 67 Guangming Daily, 125 Guangqia, 48, 50 Guo Moruo, 106, 222n25

H Hall of Ten Thousand Lotuses (Wan He Tang), 112–13 Han Huang, 68 Havel, Vaclav, 216n27 He Boqun, 237n14 He Haixia, 179 Hefner, Robert A., III, xi Hell of Poisonous Snakes, The, 190 Hindu Man (Shi Lu), 184, 185fig. historical preservation: hostility toward, 3, 10; Huang Yongyu supports, 112, 113; respect for, 11 Hokusai, Katsushika, 36 “Holding-up-the-Sky Indian Women” (Shi Lu), 174–75 Holocaust: purge of artists likened to, 75, 194, 207 Hong Kong University, 92 Hongyi Fashi. See Li Shutong Horse-Cart Driver (Shi Lu), 184, 186fig., 187fig. hotel design projects, 103, 105 House of Loafers (Erliutang), 18, 23 Hu Yaobang, 112 Hu Zhijun, 41fig.; Feng’s paintings destroyed by, 47 Hu Zongnan, 148 Hua Junwu, 83, 158–5, 216n20, 220n39, 230n41 Huaisu, 77 Huang Binhong, 58; humiliation of, 119; influence of on Li Keran, 63; lotus images by, 108, 109fig., 111; Pan and, 120; Pan compared to, 116 Huang Fabang, 135–36 Huang Miaozi: in Anti-Rightist Campaign, 98; exiled to Great Northern Wilderness, 23; malnutrition of, 24; on portrait of Ding, 25, 25fig. Huang Yongyu, 3–4, 94fig., 95–113, 207; on Ah Q, 27; aphorisms about animals, insects, and birds by, 99–100; on the Cultural Revolution, 111–12; Daoism and, 96; on Ding, 207; Eternal Window by, 4, 101–2, 101fig.; eye talk by, 95; on Gu, 107; Hong Kong and, 96, 111; humor of, 95, 99, 101–2, 105; in Jar Studio, 100, 101–2, 106, 107–11; landscape tapestry by, 111; Li Keran and, 62, 95–98, 106, 111; Li Kuchan and, 78, 83, 97, 106, 107, 111; loyalty of to friends, 95–96, 102; Mao and, 106–7, 111; minority peoples and, 98; perseverance of in painting, 100, 101; pipes carved by, 94fig., 95, 96, 102; portrait of Ding, 25, 25fig.; portrait of Zhou, 107, 108, 108fig.; resistance by, 96, 111; skepticism of, 98–99; sketching tours by, 102–3; treatment of, 99–100, 105, 106, 113;

Wan Qingli and, 96, 112, 113; winking owls by, 98, 104fig., 105–6, 113, 113fig., 231n65; woodblock prints by, 96, 98, 108fig.; Yang Mingyi and, 102, 103fig., 112; young artists supported by, 99, 112–13 Huang Zhou, 102; paintings destroyed by, 205; resistance by, 205, 206fig. Hundred Bridges Pictures (Yang), 112 Hundred Flowers Movement: Ding on the arts in, 23; Feng and, 34, 41, 42; Huang Yongyu and, 106–7; Pan and, 119, 127 Hundred Plum Pictures (Bai mei tu), 106–7 Hundred Schools of Thought, 106

I “In Lieu of a Painting” (Dai hua) (Feng), 42–44, 46 “In Praise of the Painter Bada Shanren” (Shi Lu), 143, 212–13 In the Yan River, the Pagoda’s Reflection (Shi Lu), 163, 164fig., 165 independence: Ding on, 23; striving for, ix, 11, 23; in traditional art, 10–11 Indian Spirit-King (Shi Lu), 184, 189fig. individualism, 10, 31–34 Inferno (Dante), 190 ink painting: colors in, 127; equated with Confucian scholars, 9; by Li Keran, 63–65, 64fig., 67–68; by Li Kuchan, 92–93; native vs. foreign influences on, 5–6; by Pan, 127–28; “wild and chaotic,” 5–6 inquisitions, 134 inscriptions. See calligraphy intellectuals: Huang Yongyu as, 111; Mao’s death and, 107–8; Pan on, 131–32; reeducation of, 5, 9, 24, 29, 110fig., 131–35; special treatment of “returned,” 96. See also scholars It Sings a Long Song as It Cries (Feng), 35fig.

J Japanese invasion, 38, 43–44, 76, 83, 115, 146 Jar Studio, 100–102, 106, 107–11 Ji Kang, xii Jia Dao, 54fig., 55 Jiang Feng: on bird-and-flower painting, 76, 79, 118; on Li Keran, 65; on native vs. Soviet art, 62; on Qi Baishi, 65; reconciliation of with Li Kuchan, 84; removed in Anti-Rightist Campaign, 59, 68; on traditional painting, 119 Jiang Qing: art policy under, 106; art as propaganda

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279

under, 5; catastrophic influence of, 6; on Huang Yongyu, 105; Pan targeted by, 125, 128, 129fig., 132–34, 234n55; on portrayals of Mao, 166–67; on Qi, 82; Shi Lu on, 161, 182–83; Shi Lu targeted by, 196–97; Shi Lu work confiscated by, 140

K Kang Sheng, 124–25, 131, 135 Kang Youwei, 59, 63 Katsushika Hokusai, 36 Khrushchev, Nikita, 9 Kraus, Richard, 215n7

L Land Reform Movement: Pan in, 118; Shi Lu on, 148, 167–68 landscape painting, 5; conventions in, 63; by Huang Yongyu, 111; by Li Keran, 53, 59–72; by Pan, 124–28; by Shi Lu, 155–73; shifting perspective in, 171; Xi’an school of, 155 Lao Ren. See Li Kuchan Lao She, 59 Lao Shen, 87, 102 Laozi. See Li Kuchan leader portraits: of Mao, expectations for, 5, 158, 159, 165–70; in Syria, obedience generated with, 12 lean horse metaphor, 197–98, 199fig. Learn from the Water Buffalo Studio (Shiniu Tang), 68–69 Lei Feng, 132, 135 leisure: Feng on, 38; traditional arts as activity of, 10 Lenin, Vladimir, 174 Lent, John, 218n22 Lesson in Flying, A (Li Kuchan), 88, 88fig. Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom (Bai hua qi fang tu ji), 106 Let the Horses Drink at the Yan River (Shi Lu), 162 Leutze, Emmanuel, 175 Levenson, Joseph, 145 Li, Chu-tsing, xii Li Dazhen, 234n59 Li Geng, ix, 57, 73 Li Hui, 17, 25 Li Jiantong, 161, 239n28 Li Keran, ix, 3–4, 52fig., 53–73; accused of being Black Painter, 56fig., 67, 72, 106; blank spaces used by, 56, 72; bright black aesthetic of, 63–65, 67–68; brushwork by, 63; calligraphy by, 54fig.,

280

I N DEX

55–56, 57; childhood and background of, 56–57; commitment to art of, 58; confessions by, 55; death of, 73; education of, 56–58; experimentation by, 67; figure painting by, ix, 59, 60fig.; heavy ink used by, 58, 67–68, 71; Huang Yongyu on, 96–98; Jiang’s endorsement of, 62; landscape painting by, 59, 60–72; in left-wing organizations, 58; on lifelong learning, 53, 54fig., 55; light/dark contrasts, 63, 67, 71, 72, 72fig.; and Lin Fengmian, 57, 67–68; on links with world art, 11; modesty of, 68; new aesthetic by, 59–61; personality of, ix, 58, 62, 206; phases of landscape painting by, 62; political sensitivity of, 58–59; on professionalism in the arts, 53, 54–55; on Qi Baishi, 65; Red Guards harassment of, 55, 56fig., 95; red painting by, 69, 70fig., 71; resistance by, 68, 206; sketching trips by, 61–63, 67–68, 223nn36,37; socialist realism and, 61–62; traditional vs. foreign influences on, 5–6; water buffalo paintings, 68–69; Western influences on, 5–6, 65–67 Li Keran Academy of Painting, Beijing, 69fig., 73 Li Kuchan, 40, 74fig., 75–93, 207; abuse of, 75–76; cabbage paintings by, 75–76, 90–92; childhood and background of, 78; at China Academy of Art, 116–17; communism, support for, 76, 82; and the Cultural Revolution, 83–84; defense of sparrows, 80; defense of Pan, 83; eagles and other bird paintings by, 80, 81–82, 81fig., 84–90; education of, 78; endorsement of, 92–93; frank opinion in rooster image, 56fig., 82; generous spirit of, 78; Gu’s visit to, 107; human qualities in bird images by, 81, 82; Huang Yongyu and, 78, 83, 97; influenced by and loyal to Qi Baishi, 79–80, 90, 92; influenced by Xu Beihong, 79; ink techniques of, 92; integrity of, 84, 90; letter of to Mao, 77; lotus images by, 111; martial arts practice by, 74fig., 75, 78–79, 82–83; materials denied to, 82, 83; murals by, 92; naturalistic paintings by, 80; opera performances by, 78–79, 80, 83; physical constitution of, 75–76, 83; Red Guard materials about, 56fig., 228n69; resistance to adapting his art, 80–81, 83; secret painting by, 227n53; struggle sessions against, 75–76, 82–83 Li Sanqi. See Li Keran Li Shinan, 179–80, 181 Li Shutong, 36, 221n67; Feng as devotee of, 39; influence of on Feng, 38; one-hundredth anniversary of, 48, 50; poem of for Pan, 115;

progressive ideals of, 118 Li Xiaoke, 73 Li Yan, 75, 83, 92–93, 93fig. Li Yingjie. See Li Kuchan Li Zhu, 69fig. Liezi, 135 Lin Biao, 151, 159, 196 Lin Fengmian, 202fig.; controversy over, 67–68; goose images by, 202fig., 203, 204fig., 205; Li Keran accepted by, 57–58; paintings destroyed by, 203; on Westernizing of art, 115 Literary and Art News (Wenhui bao), 42 Liu Chunhua, 165–67, 167fig., 239n46; Shi Lu on painting of, 182 Liu Shaoqi, 2fig., 3; denounced by Red Guard, 6; removal of from power, 9; revisionism of, 9 Liu Xie, 212, 237n14 Liu Zhidan, 239n28 Long March, 147, 159 Looking at a Potted Plant; Thinking of Something Else (Feng), 33fig. Looking at Images (Ding), 19, 29, 205 Looking at the Cutting of Evergreens; Thinking of Something Else (Feng), 32fig. lotus images, 108, 109fig., 111 Lu Xun, 195; on Confucianism, 145–46; Ding’s draft illustrations for short stories by, 24; Ding’s sponge sculpture of, 24; as safe subject for art, 24–25; Shi Lu and, 139; Shi Lu on, 174; “True Story of Ah Q,” 17–29, 47; on the water buffalo, 59, 69; on woodcuts, 10, 17–18 Lu Yanshao, 133 Luo Ming, 61–62

M Ma Gaihu, 161–62 MacArthur, Douglas, 160 MacFarquhar, Roderick, 9 madness, 7, 179–80, 182–84, 190, 193–95, 210, 212; used as a shield, 182, 195, 208 Magnolia Lily (Shi Lu), 140, 142fig. Man Pointing (Giacometti), 209 manhua, 36. See also cartoons and cartoonists Mao Dun, 29 Mao Zedong: art purges by, 10; artists defended by, 13, 217n49; assessment of Cultural Revolution by, 7; on the symbol of the willing buffalo, 69; calligraphy by, 6, 7fig., 165; coal and steel production under, 53; as creative genius, 6,

7fig.; critics purged by, 23; Feng’s “Ah Mi” essay and, 45–47; on gardens, 144; on his own power, 171, 173; on Huang’s owl painting, 106; on the Hunan peasant movement, 133; Hundred Flowers policies, 23, 34, 41–42; Li Kuchan’s letter to, 77; on lifelong learning, 132; mausoleum of, Huang Yongyu’s tapestry in, 111; motives of for Cultural Revolution, 4, 7, 9, 145, 149; mourning for, 107–8; on native art forms, 161; Pan on poetry of, 127–28; on plums, 127; poetry by, 69–71, 70fig., 165; policy of engagement with Western nations, 103, 105; portrait of, by Liu Chunhua, 166–67, 167fig.; portrait of, by Wang, 6, 7fig.; portraits of, conforming to expectations for, 5, 158–59, 165, 166–67, 238n17; portraits of, ideological indoctrination with, 12–13; portraits of, by Liu, 165–67, 167fig.; portraits of, satirized, 217n46; portraits of, by Shi Lu, 5, 12–13, 147–48, 147fig., 155–77; on Qi Baishi, 65; as Qin Shi Huang, 149, 150fig., 151; on reining in at the brink, 160; sensitivity of to portrayals, 165–66; Shi Lu on, 143–44, 146–49, 151, 182–83, 193; Shi Lu’s break with, 143, 149–51, 173, 193; Shi Lu’s resemblance to, 149, 151, 155; on Wu Xun, 78. See also Fighting in Northern Shaanxi (Shi Lu); Eastern Crossing (Shi Lu) Marxism, 98 Marxism-Leninism, 61, 132 May Fourth Movement, 17, 145 May 7 Cadre School, 24 Memorial Portrait of Zhou Enlai (Huang), 107–8, 108fig. Meng Lanting, 155, 157 Metropolitan Museum, 201 Midsummer (Li Kuchan), 92, 92fig. Min Lisheng, 148, 180 Ming Taizu, 171, 173 Ministry of Culture, 124 Mongols, 145, 197 Mr. Thrice No (San Bu Xiansheng), 38. See also Feng Zikai Mu Xin, 237n12 Mulvey, Laura, 12 Museum of the Chinese Revolution, (Zhongguo Geming Bowuguan), now National Museum of China, 12–13, 157–58 Mustard Seed Garden Painting Manual, The (Jieziyuan huazhuan), 57 “My Old Home” (Lu), 24

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281

N National Art Museum of China, also known as National Art Gallery (Zhongguo Meishuguan), 24, 198 National Beijing Arts College, 76 National Military Exhibition, 173 National Museum of China. See Museum of the Chinese Revolution nature: Feng on, 31–34; Huang’s images of, 99–100; Li Keran on representation of, 62–63; Shi Lu’s portrayal of Mao and, 167, 170–71; Shi Lu’s poem on, 212, 214 Needham, Joseph, xi Neighbors (Feng), 43–44 New China, 145–46; Li Keran’s new aesthetic for, 59–61 New Observer (Xin guancha), 61 New Scholar Painting, 195–201 Nineties, The (Jiushi niandai), 96–97 Noth, Juliane, 244n21

O Old Horse, Absent a Saddle (Shi Lu), 197–98, 199fig. “On the Hard Work of Artistic Practice” (Li Keran), 53–55 opera, 11, 78–79, 78fig., 80, 83 oral history, 6 Oriental Art College, 146 Orozco, José, 27 Orwell, George, 100 Owl Metaphor (Huang Yongyu), 113, 113fig. owls: Huang Yongyu’s winking, 98, 104fig., 105–6, 113, 113fig.; Lin’s paintings of, 203, 204fig.

P pagoda images, 162–66, 164fig., 166fig., 171 Painstaking Creation (Li Keran), 54fig., 55 painting by candlelight, definition of, ix, 11, 216n31 Pair of Eagles Gazing Far (Li Kuchan), 84, 85fig., 86 Pan Gongkai, 136, 136fig. Pan Tianshou, 3–4, 40, 48, 114fig., 115–36, 207; abuse of, 125, 128, 129fig., 132–35; as academy president, 115–17; art materials denied to, 4; attention of to design, 116, 123, 130; blank space in paintings by, 116; bold questioning of why traditional painting must “die out,” 119; calligraphy training, support for, 115; in China Academy of Art, 115, 116–18, 234n46; combination of

282

I N DEX

art forms by, 10; confession by, 131, 132; “dangerous” art of, 122; death of, 135; decorum and resistance by, 130–31; diary by, 131–32; on eagles, 84; encyclopedic knowledge of, 116; evaluation of, 135–36; on fame, 135; finger painting by, 120, 122; health of, 129fig., 131–32, 133; humiliation of, 119; on ink, 127–30; innovation by, 115; Kang Sheng and, 124–25, 131, 135; landscape painting by, 124, 125–28; Li Kuchan’s defense of, 83; Lu Yanshao on, 133; poetry by, 127, 134, 135; political adaptation by, 118; on political use of art, 120; political views of, 205–6; portrait of, 135, 136; as rebel against convention, 123–24; removed from teaching position, 76; son Pan Gongkai as academy president, 136; state-sponsored commissions by, 124; struggle sessions of, 132–34; trash collection by, 131; vulture images by, 120, 121fig.; Western techniques and, 118–20; Wu Changshuo and, 116, 123; Zhu Yingren and, 135 Pan Tianshou Memorial Museum, 136 Pang Tao, 225n1 Paying Tax in Grain (Pan), 118 Peace Calligraphy and Painting Shop, 80 Peking Daily, 77 Peking Opera, 78–79, 78fig., 80, 83 Peking University, 3, 77, 83 Peng Dehuai, 159 People’s Art (Renmin meishu), 59–61 People’s Consultative Conference, 125 People’s Daily (Renmin ribao), 41, 53, 65, 98 People’s Liberation Army, 39–40 People’s Pictorial (Renmin huabao), 18, 27 Picasso, Pablo, 65, 190 pigtails, 21 pine tree images, 197, 200fig. Planting Melons against Possible Crop Failure (Pan), 118 Plum Tree and Moon (Pan), 10, 125, 126–28, 126fig. plums/plum blossoms: in Hundred Flowers movement, 106–7; by Li Kuchan, 90, 92fig.; by Pan, 10, 125–28, 126fig.; by Shi Lu, 140, 197, 198fig., 199fig., 214 poetry: emotional outburst in, 191; by Mao, 6, 7fig.; painting interwoven with, 10; by Pan, 134–35; by Shi Lu, 143, 151–53, 152fig., 195, 211–14 Portrait of Yang Mingyi (Huang Yongyu), 103, 104fig. Powerful Gaze (Pan), 120, 122, 122fig.

privacy, 11, 38 Prizing One’s Own Worthless Broom (Bi zhou zi zhen) (Feng), 47 propaganda, ix; art as, 4–5; by Feng, 38; by Li Kuchan, 81; by Shi Lu, 148 Protecting Life Painting Collection (Husheng huaji) (Feng), 31–35, 38–39, 44, 47, 48, 49–50, 49fig.; blacklisted, 2fig., 3; cats in, 46 Provincial Prosecutorial Bureau, 183

Q Qi Baishi, 56fig., 58; buffalo paintings by, 68; cabbage paintings by, 90; on eagles, 84; Huang Yongyu and, 97; influence of on Li Keran, 63, 65; influence of on Li Kuchan, 79, 80; integrity of, 84; on Li Keran, 62; Li Keran and, 59; Li Keran on, 63; Li Kuchan and, 76, 83, 92, 92fig.; miserliness of, 97; Pan compared with, 116; political commentary by, 82 Qian Shizhi, 56 Qian Songyan, 69, 71 Qin Shi Huang, 149, 150fig., 195 Qin Shi Huang, China’s First Emperor (Shi Lu), 150fig., 151 Qu Yuan, 112, 151, 191

R Raising of the Cross (Rembrandt), 67 Raising the Middle So the Ends Boil First (Feng), 48, 49fig., 50 Reading (Du shu), 25 Reasoned Discussion (Shi Lu), 148 Records on Painting (Hua yu lu) (Shitao), 168 Records on Studying Painting (Xue hua lu) (Shi Lu), 168, 176–77 Red Cliffs Reflect the Emerald Flow (Shi Lu), 176 Red Dust (Shi Lu), 184, 188fig. Red Guards, 2fig., 3, 7fig., 8fig.; on Black Painters, 6; on Feng, 34, 35fig., 45–47; Huang targeted by, 100; Huang’s deception of, 96; on Li Keran, 55, 56fig., 67; Li Keran harassed by, 95; Li Keran works destroyed by, 55; on Li Kuchan, 82–83, 228n69; Li Kuchan’s sessions with, 75–76; painters’ hands injured by, 84, 226n49; on Pan, 120, 122, 127, 128–31, 129fig.; on Qi, 65, 66fig.; Shi Lu targeted by, 140, 142, 180–83 red in paintings: by Li Keran, 69–71, 70fig., 206; by Li Kuchan, 81; party positions on, 63; by

Pan, 234n63; by Shi Lu, 159, 173–74, 175, 191–93, 192fig. Red Leaves over the Mountains (Li Keran), 69 Red Lotus Honoring Zhou Enlai (Huang Yongyu), 108, 109fig., 111 Rembrandt van Rijn, 29, 66–67 Repin, Ilya, 174 “Report on the Hunan Peasant Movement” (Mao), 133 resistance, ix, 13–14, 48, 205–10; Ding’s, 24–25, 27, 29; Feng’s, 47–48, 50; Huang Yongyu’s, 96; inner freedom and, 207–08; Li Keran’s, ix, 68–71, 206; Li Kuchan’s, 75–76, 83–90; Shi Lu’s, 140–43, 149–53, 184–95, 197–201, 209–10 Revolutionary Committee, 182–83 Revolutionary History Museum at Ya’nan, 158 Rivera, Diego, 27 “Rivers and Mountains So Beautiful” exhibition, 67 Rodin, Auguste, 143, 237n14 Romanticism, 146 Rongbaozhai Gallery, 124–25 Ruckenfigur, 168, 169fig., 170–71

S scholar aesthetic, 116, 190 scholars: aesthetic of in Pan’s painting, 116; ethic of in Li Kuchan’s white cabbage image, 90, 91fig., 92; Huang Yongyu on, 110fig., 111–12; imperial backlash against, 134; in Li Keran’s painting, ix, 54fig., 56fig., 59, 60fig.; Shi Lu’s New Scholar Painting, 195–201; Pan on deference to, 133, 134; Shitao’s image of, 168; uprightness in actions and thinking, 130–35 Schwarcz, Vera, xii, 237n23, 242n44 seals and seal making: by Li Keran, 53, 54fig., 55; painting interwoven with, 10; by Pan, 116, 116fig., 123, 135; Shi Lu’s painting on, 139–40, 141fig. “Self-Mockery” (Lu), 59 “Sending Fond Thoughts” (Shi Lu), 195 Shaanxi Daily (Shaanxi ribao), 179 Shanghai Literature (Shanghai wenxue), 45 Shanghai Artists and Writers Association, 31 Shanghai Artists Association, 44 Shanghai Chinese Painting Academy, 44; Feng removed from, 34 Shanghai People’s Art Press, 93 Shanghai Public Security Bureau, 203

INDEX

283

Shen Congwen, 96 Shen Zhou, 161 Shenzong, Emperor, 168 Shi Dan, 139, 194fig. Shi Guo, 163, 177, 183, 193, 242n43 Shi Kan, 165 Shi Lu, 3–4, 5, 48, 138fig., 154fig., 178fig.; appearance of, 180, 181; on artist as noble figure, 205; on beauty, 193; bold political speech of, 167–68; brushwork of, 176–77, 197–98; calligraphy by, 4, 193, 195–96, 197–201, 209–10; childhood and background of, 144–45; combination of art forms by, 10; in Communist movement, 146, 147–49, 158, 211, 213; on Confucianism, 145, 146, 151, 243n63; after the Cultural Revolution, 183–201; on the Cultural Revolution, 184, 190, 191; death of, 198; education of, 146; escapes by, 182; figure painting by, 155, 161; flower subjects of, 140, 142, 142fig., 197, 198fig., 208fig, 209–10, 209fig.; on gardens, 144–45; on the Great Leap Forward, 149, 160–61, 163, 164fig., 165, 167, 168, 174–75; in India and Egypt, 174–76, 183, 184–90, 185–89figs.; institutionalization of, 143, 180, 181, 193, 194–95; landscape painting by, 161; lean horse metaphor by, 197–98, 199fig.; on links with world art, 11; on Mao and Mao worship, 143–44, 149, 150fig., 151, 157–62, 173, 193, 205–6. 211, 214; marriage of, 148; mental illness of, 143, 156fig., 173, 179–80, 182, 183–84, 188, 190, 193–95, 210, 212, 242n43; multiple meanings in paintings by, 162, 171; New Scholar Painting by, 195, 196–201; on ordinary people, 162, 171, 174, 175; pagoda images by, 162–66, 164fig.; paintings by sent to embassies, 196; pen name of, 139; persecution of, 142–43; persecution of reenacted by, 191, 192–93, 192fig.; physical health of, 173, 176, 181, 195; pine tree images by, 197, 200fig.; poetry by, 143, 151–53, 152fig., 195, 211–14; portraits of Mao, 12–13, 147–48, 147fig., 155–77; propaganda by, 148; on Qin Shi Huang, 149–51, 150fig.; Red Guards’ abuse of, 140, 180–83; resemblance of to Mao, 149, 151, 155; resistance by, 205–6; respect of for nature, 169, 170–71; revised paintings by, 183–90, 185–89figs.; Revolutionary Committee on, 182–83; secret notebook of, 139–53, 211–14; self-portraits of, 141fig., 143, 151, 152fig., 154fig.; struggle sessions, 4, 181–83; students of, 195–96; Jiang Qing and, 140, 161, 166–67, 182, 196, 197; tomb image by, 139–40, 141fig., 143, 151–53,

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I N DEX

152fig.; tour for art popularization by, 161; traditional vs. foreign influences on, 5–6; trauma in art of, 140, 190–91; view of artists, 205; “wild, strange, chaotic, and black,” accusation and embrace of claim as his motto, 6, 157; woodcuts and, 147–48, 147fig., 160; at Xi’an Art Academy, 143, 155, 179, 180; Yan’an and, 147, 148–49, 158, 160–61, 163, 164fig., 165, 166fig., 171, 183, 211, 212; Yellow River sketches by, 161. See also Fighting in Northern Shaanxi (Shi Lu) Shitao, 139, 242n31; on brushwork and concept of one-stroke, 176, 177, 241n93; self-expression by, 190–91; Shi Lu influenced by, 146, 168 Shovel Out the Art World’s Revisionist Black Line, 2fig., 3 Sideways-Growing Plum (Shi Lu), 197, 198fig. Sky is Wide Enough to Allow a Bird to Fly as It Wishes, The (Feng), 36, 37fig. Sleeping Birds (Pan), 116, 117fig. Snow, Edgar, 171 social realism, 4 social satire, 18–19 socialist realism, 4–5; crossings paintings in, 174; hero portraits in, 158; Huang Yongyu and, 98; optimism required in, 165; Shi Lu and, 161, 165, 173–74 “Song in Praise of Yan’an, A” (Shi Lu), 143, 211–12 Songs of the South (Chu ci) (Qu Yuan), 151 Soviet Union: CCP admiration for, 40; Chinese art vs., 61–62; Chinese identity vs., 124; Lin Biao’s flight to, 196; revision of art in, 157 sparrows, 80, 102 sponge sculptures, 4, 24 Stalin: Mao compared to, 165, 194 Stately Pines of Mount Hua (Shi Lu), 197, 200fig., 201 Statue of the Perfect Citizen (Ding), 28fig., 29 steel production, 53, 160–61; Pan on, 124; Shi Lu on, 149 stone inscription rubbings, 55–56, 57fig. struggle sessions, 9–10; in gardens, 144; Li Kuchan in, 75–76, 82–83; Pan in, 132–34; Shi Lu in, 4, 181–83; theatrics of, 9–10 Stubborn Buffalo (Li Keran), viiifig., ix suicides: in Confucian tradition, 191; during the Cultural Revolution, 3, 143 Summer Pond Water Buffalo (Pan), 122fig., 123 Sun Meilan, xii, 69, 69fig.; on Li Keran, 62, 71; on Li Kuchan, 84 Sun Zhijun, 78, 225n16

Supervision (Ding), 28fig., 29 surveillance, state-sponsored, 12 Syria, leader portraits in, 12

Tujia people, 98 turtle images, 140–42, 141fig.

T

Uncle Cat (Mao Bobo), 31, 44–47 United States, China’s relationship with, 196

Tagore, Rabindranath, 184, 189fig. Tale of Genji, The, 47 talent, preventing the waste of, 11, 119, 197–99, 204, 210, 212–13 Taste of Freshness, A (Li Kuchan), 90, 92fig. Ten Thousand Crimson Hills (Li Keran), 69, 70fig., 71 Ten Thousand Phenomena (Wan xiang), 23 Ten Thousand Ugly Ink Dots (Shitao), 190–91 Thinker, The (Rodin), 143 Thoroughly Topple the Big Black Flag That Liu Shaoqi and Zhou Yang Erected in the Art World: Qi Baishi, 66fig. thought reform, 9, 235n80; Ding on, 29; Feng and, 40; Huang Yongyu and, 96; Li Keran and, 55; Li Kuchan and, 81; Pan and, 118, 131–32, 134–35; Shi Lu and, 182–83 “Thoughts on My Youth/Counting Stars Poem” (Shi Lu), 197, 213, 214 Tiananmen Square, 73; Huang Yongyu on crackdown in, 111–12; Li Keran’s support for demonstrators in, 73; Mao portrait overlooking, 12–13; Mao Mausoleum in, 111 Timid Spotted Cat (Pan), 116, 116fig. Tolstoy, Leo, 184, 189fig. Tombstone Honoring Poetry (Shi Lu), 151–53, 152fig. Topple Anti-Communist Old Hand Feng Zikai: Ten Cartoons, 35fig. Topple Black Painter Li Keran; Topple Reactionary Academic Authority Li Kuchan, 56fig. traditional arts: changes in policy on, 40–41; crackdown on, 125–28, 126fig.; difficulty of policing, 10; as elitist, 5–6; esteem for, 10; Feng in, 41; fresh possibilities of, 11; as ghosts, 10, 45–46; Huang Yongyu and, 98; inner freedom based on, 208–9; Jiang Feng on, 59, 119; as leisure activity, 10; Li Keran on, 59, 60fig., 61; Li Kuchan on, 75, 76; Pan in, 115; preservation of, 117–19; Shi Lu on, 176–77. See also bird-andflower painting; calligraphy; ink painting “True Story of Ah Q, The” (Lu), 17–29; Ding’s life compared with, 27, 29; Feng’s imitation of, 47; focus on the marginalized in, 24–25; plot of, 19 Tsinghua University, 3

u

V Van Gogh, 174 Venus de Milo, 192fig., 193 vultures, 120, 121fig., 128, 129fig.

W Wan Qingli, xii; Huang Yongyu and, 96, 112fig., 113; Li Keran and, 55, 67; Li Kuchan and, 90; Lin Fengmian and, 243n6 Wanderer above a Sea of Fog (Friedrich), 169fig., 170–71 Wang, Eugene, xii, 105, 216n32 Wang Hongwen, 183 Wang Jingfang, 77 Wang Mantian, 106, 196–97 Wang Naizhuang, frontispiece Wang Weizheng, 6, 7fig., 215n12 Wang Xiyan, 34 Wang Zhaowen, 41, 158–59, 195 Washington Crossing the Delaware (Leutze), 175 water buffaloes: by Li Keran, viiifig., ix, 59, 68–69, 69fig.; by Pan, 122fig., 123 “We of Da Ya Bao” (Huang), 96–98 Wedeen, Lisa, 12 West China Evening Newspaper (Huaxi wanbao), 18 West China Union University, 146 Western influence: after the Cultural Revolution, 196; on Chinese art, 11; Chinese identity and, 145–46; on Feng, 36; on Li Keran, 59–61, 65–67; on Li Kuchan, 79; on Lin, 204; Mao’s policy of engagement and, 103, 105; Pan and, 118–20; Romanticism in, 146; Shi Lu and, 177, 237n14 What Is Precious Is Courage, What Is Necessary Is Soul (Li Keran), 56, 57fig. White Eagle (Li Kuchan), 86, 86fig. Wiesel, Elie, 207 “wild, strange, chaotic, and black,” 6, 157 “Winter Plum, The” (Mao), 127 Withered Lotus Cast in Iron (Pan Gongkai), 136 woodcuts: by Dong Cong, 17–23, 20fig., 22fig.; by Huang Yongyu, 96, 98, 107–8, 108fig.; official support for, 96; by Shi Lu, 147–48, 147fig., 160;

INDEX

285

social injustice depicted in, 38 World War I, 145 Wu Changshuo, 116, 123, 146 Wu Guanzhong, 183, 215n12 Wu Tung, xi, 216n31 Wu Xun, 78 Wu Zuguang, 18; in Anti-Rightist Campaign, 98; exiled to Great Northern Wilderness, 23 Wu Zuoren, 86, 96

X Xi’an Art Academy, 143; Red Guards at, 180–83; Revolutionary Committee at, 182–83; Shi Lu at, 155, 179–80, 183–90; shut down, 183 Xi’an Art Gallery, 173 Xiao Ding. See Ding Cong Xu Beihong, 59, 240n77; Huang Yongyu employed by, 96; Li Kuchan and, 76, 79; Mao’s letter to on Li Kuchan, 77 Xu Bing, 209 Xu Shuping, 17, 20fig., 22

Y Ya Ming, 205 Yan Liquan, 67, 157 Yan Riverbank (Shi Lu), 165, 166fig. Yan’an: Shi Lu and, 147, 148–49, 158, 160–61, 163, 164fig., 165, 166fig., 171, 183, 211, 212; “Yan’an Talks” (Mao), 13, 69 Yang Mingyi, xi; Huang Yongyu and, 102, 103fig., 112; Lin Fengmian and, 202fig., 204–5; Huang Zhou and, 205, 206fig.; Ya Ming and, 205, 206fig. Yang, Siliang, xii, 123–24, 233n9, 235nn73, 76 Yang Xiaoyan, 158–59

286

I N DEX

Yang Yanping, 102 Yan-Huang Art Museum, 106–7 Yao Wenyuan, 183 Ye Qianyu, 83, 97 Yumeji, Takehisa, 36

Z Zeng Shanqing, 102 Zhang Chunqiao, 183 Zhang Ding, 61; Huang Yongyu and, 97; Picasso and, 65; “sketch from life” trips, 61–62 Zhang Qingchun, 90 Zhao Wangyun, 167–68; in India and Egypt, 184; Shi Lu and, 184 Zhao Wuji, 203 Zhejiang First Normal College in Hangzhou, 36, 115 Zhejiang Provincial Revolutionary Committee, 132 Zheng Shengtian, 217n45, 243n2 Zheng Sixiao, 198fig. Zheng Zhenduo, 36 Zhong Kui, 112 Zhou Enlai: artists protected by, 106; on bird-andflower painting, 135; on Feng, 41, 44, 220n39; hotel design projects, 103, 105, 231n60, 232n67; Huang Yongyu on, 107, 108–11, 108fig., 109fig.; influence of art on policies of, 168; Li Kuchan and, 82; on Qi, 82; reestablished ascendancy of, 196; in Shi Lu’s painting, 172fig., 173 Zhou Yang, 62, 117–18 Zhu De, 173 Zhu Guangqian, 46 Zhu Yingren, 135 Zhu Youlan, 50 Zhuangzi, Book of: influence on Shi Lu, 176