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World Within, World Without
Karen Smith
Zhu
Wei’s paintings are an idiosyncratic vision of China’s social and
political life.
Painter
Zhu Wei lives in a small apartment on the fringes of Beijing, the city
where he was born and bred. Despite the general problems in finding
housing in Beijing for those without the statutory work unit, the
peripheral location is no fated make-do. It is a clear choice for a
painter who sees himself as being quite different from other young
contemporary artists who have come to the fore in China since the early
1990s. Zhu Wei was “born out of time” although he’s not entirely
clear about how this would have otherwise affected his art except for
suggesting that a decade later and he would probably have been a
musician. His main rub with the present is the association of his work
with the era of political pop which developed at the end of the 1980s.
This is the main reason why Zhu Wei believes he is so misunderstood. As
a loner who largely prefers his own company, he does not like being
aligned with any school of painting or painted images. The fact that
this occurs lies at the root of his reticence, a verbal plaint against
his current success that is aimed at the foundation upon which that
success has been built in foreign eyes.
In
his article on Zhu Wei’s solo exhibition at Hong Kong’s Plum
Blossoms gallery earlier this year, Gunalan Nadarajan said, “[Zhu Wei]
claims his works have neither political nor intent. However, in his
presentation of the political leaders and ideologues of China, it is
difficult to resist such of reading.” In one way Nadarajan is right,
but to succumb to the temptation of that reading is to take the easy way
of viewing Zhu Wei’s art, the instant that one satisfies - or
gratifies - all preconceptions of what young Chinese artists must be dealing with at the present time in the present climate. Such
preconceptions with regards to China are now well-established, ingrained
in most visions of China, and people have become comfortable with them.
Contradictions disturb Zhu Wei’s art, which is the logical progression
of Chinese traditional ink figure painting, contains recognizable forms,
settings that speak of a stage primed for action, the props minimal or
given undue emphasis. The idea of a narrative is implicit, more so when
the painter explains that scenes and titles from classical and
contemporary literature, film, and music are often used as springboard
for compositions. There are clearly tales being told here.
In
talking about himself and his painting, Zhu Wei is contradictory. He
says he detests people writing about his art, that he is not an
“artist” but a painter and he cannot emphasize enough that his work
is not political in initial concept. Yet, at the same time, he readily
admits that to date, with independence born of success, with two
beautiful catalogues of his work to his name, he is greatly satisfied
with what he has achieved. So much so that he sees no further need for
publicity which he described to me bluntly as being “a waste of
paper.” Refusal to be classified suggests a certain element of
paranoia at work here, an understandable fear of being labeled,
categorized, natural under the circumstances, and a signifier of the
time in which Zhu Wei was born.
In
his paintings, Zhu Wei offers us a cartoon comic strip vision of his
life. They do not form an illustrative blow-by-blow account as
documentary, but are the commentary and reflections of a retiring young
painter with a wryly creative imagination. Perhaps the titles China
Diary and Beijing Story he gives for various series of his paintings are misleading for the
words imply the kind of China watching carried out by Sinologists around
the world, and thus political or economic concerns. These painted images
are more a “Zhu Wei Diary” that draws almost entirely on personal
experiences for inspiration via which the world outside is afforded a
vision of the world Zhu Wei inhabits. These paintings are given a
special distinction by virtue of Beijing executed in traditional Chinese
ink and wash, painted flat on the floor of his studio on broad expanses
of paper that almost entirely cover the floor space. Comparing himself
to a teenager doodling for pleasure, there are also small works, tall
and narrow works, which are almost more inviting, more private and more
expressive by virtue of their scale.
In
his studio, completed or working paintings cover the walls. Music is a
constant accompaniment to his artistic activity, and postcards and
photographs of bands, himself, and those sent from friends abroad are
the only concessions to decoration. And the curtains which are designed
to keep out the light. This stark, yet focused space is the physical
extension of Zhu Wei himself.
I
began somewhat cautiously asking Zhu Wei to explain his approach to
painting, the techniques he uses, his artistic concerns, I was not
surprised when he replies “I never tell people how I paint, nor about
any techniques I use.” There was a pause before he added, “I think
it would be better if we talk about something other than art.” The
reason he gave is that art alone is too dry and uninteresting. He
reminded me that for all of the two years I have known him, we have
never talked about art. This is true, for he usually steers the
conversation to film, books, or music which was the first passion of his
life. His relatively recent friendship with Cui Jian is one of the
biggest gratifications of his art for it was his paintings that brought
the two together and led to Zhu Wei to create the massive 19 by 10 meter
backdrop which Cui Jian now uses for all the band’s performances, of
which he is particularly proud. Nothing could have pleased Zhu Wei more
than Cui Jian telling him that his paintings “had music in them.”
“I
always wanted to play music but it was not possible when I was young,”
he said, “I had no money to buy a guitar. Now I’m too old, it’s
too late. I was just born at the wrong time. In my next life perhaps.”
The association between the two, music and painting, inspired such works
as China Diary No.16 (the
image of the blindfold was used by Cui Jian in an MTV video in 1995) and The Square No.9. “So little
of the art being made in China right now really reflects life in China
in this age. That’s why I have such respect for Cui Jian. What he says
very precisely reflects our situation, he expresses what people are
feeling. This is what I want to capture in my work.”
Despite
all the advances, all the trade, all the new and foreign products, the
flashy cars, the bars and the tremendous upswing in the lifestyle of
people in the big cities, that make these cities seem like cities the
world over, this is still China. Nationalism is more widespread than in
almost any other country in the world. To talk about life within such a
society is to enter a complex minefield of interlinked components. This
we can all appreciate, but there are many aspects of life in China that
are so nuanced as to be virtually invisible to outsiders. It is a
mistake, however, to believe that because people are hard to see they do
not exist. The irony is contained in the phrase “…with Chinese
characteristics” that is much used these days. Defining these
characteristics is a problem for the preconceptions are a barrier that
is hard to challenge.
“From
what I’ve seen written about my works so far, I don’t think people
really understand what I’m doing.” is Zhu Wei’s comments. “They
are too ready to see nothing more than a political stance. How can I
argue against that? There are images of PLA soldiers, famous historical
/ political faces, and on occasion a definite satire, but more important
I paint my own world, my own experiences. I was in the army for ten
years. That was a big chunk of my life and naturally left a deep
impression. But you only have to open your eyes on any street in
Beijing, read the papers, watch TV, to see that I’m not painting
anything that isn’t there for those who choose to see it.”
Herein
lies the difficulty of seeing Zhu Wei’s work as anything other than a
continuation of the role of the literati in Chinese society. This is the
tradition of the recluse executing beautiful images that actually
express dissatisfaction with the society from which he deliberately
withdraws. Zhu Wei has not taken to any mountain, for the city and the
life it contains is the source of all his characters. The exaggerated
forms in Zhu Wei’s painting, the caricatures, the expressions and the
incongruous mixtures of forms, eras and appearances are bizarre but they
are not entirely contrived for it is possible to witness something akin
to them all in a day’s trip around the capital. Take works such as
those in the Box series and
the China Diary series, for
example. But beyond that, there is satirical comment of the most biting
and direct kind, found in such works as The
Story of Beijing No.19 (1993), the series New
Positions of the Brocade Battle, the Tightrope series, contained between the words and the subtle arrangement of the
composition.
The
more one looks at the paintings, the more one can see of Zhu Wei
himself, represented in uniform amongst the ballooned figures with the
thick lips and pinprick eyes that have become his distinctive style.
Despite the poses, the stances, there is an emptiness, a blank enclosing
the drilled-in actions and an air of despondency. Naturally, the smiles
here have to be those of cynicism for they don’t come from the heart,
from real happiness. “Ever since (current) artists discovered that
they could criticize society in paint, everybody’s been doing it
without any rationale. An artist has to have an individual identity. [In
art now] you see all these inane smiles, but anyone who lives in China
knows that Chinese people don’t smile very much. It’s a struggle to
get by everyday. While the smiles may make people aware of the lack of
real smiles in life, I find them empty, ugly, full of underlying hatred.
While my work may be cynical, it is not angry, it is not born of
animosity.”
On
that point we must agree. I do not feel Zhu Wei paints from hatred or if
he does it is so deeply veiled in color and wry humor as to glide past
the unsuspecting eye. Zhu Wei believes that he still has some way to go
before he achieves the clarity or immediacy of expression he’s after
and in seeking to learn more from the world he begins a degree in
literature - classical Chinese and contemporary Western - this
autumn. “I’m slow to think through ideas, and a slow painter. Often
others come out with things that I would have said myself eventually -
at times, ideas do emerge simultaneously with others. Perhaps that’s
why people draw parallels between my work and others”, “That only
means my language is still weak, that I haven’t yet found the best way
- I’m certainly not satisfied with my painting. That’s why I
decided to study literature. I want to learn more about people but to go
back to an academy would not help me. I have no problem with technique
- I have learned all that academies here have to teach - but people
who write use just a few words to bring a character to life. Their
language is already far more sophisticated than current painting. I want
to learn from them.”
Whatever
Zhu Wei may feel, his paintings are successful because they are so very
much of their time. They evoke both the new tide of life in China and
the mysterious aura of the “olds”, that classical side that was
known to the outside world before China closed her doors. Yet these
paintings hinge on those glimpses of the world within China that China
herself afforded the world in the years of closure. This fascinates us.
Of course, we could simply say that Zhu Wei is technically an
extraordinary artist of singular vision who would produce such images
even if no one was looking as he was before he was first discovered.
-- First published in ASIAN ART NEWS, Volume 6 Number 5, September/October 1996
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