Asian Beijing Travel and Finest Art Exhibition Tour continue… July 5, 2008
Posted by dodo in : Air Tickets, China, Flight Schedule, Hotels, Restaurant, Sightseeing, Tickets, Tour, Travel Gear , trackbackThe harsh fluorescent light made us blink. Yuhang’s wife, a frail looking girl wearing a floral shirt and black trousers, looked startled. She spoke no English, but shook our hands and smiled shyly. The room was about thirteen feet square. The walls and ceiling were white, the uncovered concrete floor was painted maroon. Opposite, a window stared like an unlidded eye into the night. The window wall was almost entirely occupied by a large double bed with a pink candlewick counterpane. Down the centre of the room was a long table covered with felt, and at one end of this was a collection of paintbrushes and ready-mixed pigments in ceramic jars. Along the wall with the door in it stood an enormous yellow-and-black tartan settee. The fourth wall was filled by a wooden dresser, behind whose sliding glass doors could be seen various personal items — photographs, a spray of plastic flowers and a toy panda. There was just room for a Chinese-sized person to squeeze between the furniture. We sat on the settee. We saw no sign of heating or air conditioning, nor cooking and washing facilities, which we assumed must be communal. Paints on scraps of paper, vibrant with colour and life, brightened the walls.
Yuhang showed us his photograph album.
“Here is my art teacher”: short, sturdy, unsmiling, in a Mao suit and rimless spectacles.
“He is a very famous Chinese artist,” interjected Zhiqiang. It appeared that Yuhang was considered quite a protégé: several photographs were of him and his mentor beside various paintings.
“Here is our wedding.” They were still unsmiling, standing in a for-. mal line before somebody else’s dresser. “We have been married for a year now. Maybe in two years . . . maybe three . ” his voice wished the time away, “we can have our baby.” One child. The focus for all the love, unfulfilled hopes, unrealised ambitions; a great burden for small shoulders.
“These are paintings from my first exhibition.” Many were traditional, in monochrome, but with his individuality clearly showing. Some were more modern, still very “Chinese”.
“These are of Tibet. I went there recently. I am fascinated by the Tibetan women!” One picture caught my attention. A girl’s profile, with an enigmatic eye fixed upon some distant point, but among the dark fronds of her hair a miniature cameo of a moonlit ruin like a Greek temple, with people casting long shadows. The base of her neck blended into a landscape.
“Yes, that is different — an experiment, a kind of fantasy.” He laughed apologetically. “But I sold it, to a Canadian.”
“I should have liked to buy it if you hadn’t,” I said.
Soon the table was covered with his paintings. We all bought one, at a ridiculously low price for work superior to anything else we had found. However, he was obviously delighted, and on a sudden impulse pressed a 50 yuan note (about £10) into his friend’s hand.
Pride was hurt. Anger crackled in the confined space as the older man tried to return the note and, meeting resistance, grabbed hold of Yuhang’s shoulders and shook him, speaking vehemently in Chinese. Yuhang’s wife, who had been seated on the bed, jumped up in alarm. Afraid that their dispute would become really physical, I caught their arms.
“Please don’t fight, it will spoil a wonderful evening!”
“No — don’t fight.” They backed off, anger simmering.
Later, as we walked back, carrying our paintings wrapped carefully in the China Daily, Yuhang explained.
“You see, my friend is a talented photographic designer, but he works for a State Company, for a low wage. I wanted to share my good fortune with him. Friendship is more important than money, would you agree?” I hoped that the anger between them was short- lived, and that he found some more diplomatic way to share his largesse. We stopped a hundred yards from the floodlit tower of our hotel.
“Come inside. We will buy you a drink.” They declined reluctantly. “No, we cannot enter tourist hotels. If we come in with you, very soon someone, maybe a policeman, would come over. He would not be polite.” He made his voice rough. “‘What is your business here?’ He would take our names and addresses, and we would know that if we did not leave immediately things may be difficult for us in the days ahead.” I asked him why. He shrugged.
“I think they believe if we fraternise too much with western people we may want to be like them. We may even try to leave and go to the West.” His smile was ironic beneath the street lamp. “Did you not notice? There are not enough people in China!”
As we parted, he handed something to Mary. “You were looking for this, I think.” It was a small padlock.
Back in the Jinling we treated ourselves to a nightcap in the Revolving Restaurant. A band played an up-tempo version of You are my Sunshine and a few couples bobbed primly on the dance floor. A group of Japanese men pursued the serious business of getting communally drunk. Outside, Nanjing completed a slow revolution, serpents of sodium orange among vertical columns of lighted apartment windows, and above all the random geometry of the stars and a crescent moon. Behind one of those windows an artist may be working. Thank you for our look into your China.
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