Tag Archives: by Ningyi Xi

Miao Zhe: a Multifaceted Art Historian

Interview and profile

In a society obsessed with specialization, Miao Zhe steers a course through multiple disciplines. A writer, translator, and art historian, he is currently the Director of Art and Archaeology Research Center at Zhejiang University, overseeing the new art history program as well as the school’s teaching art museum, the first of its kind in China. Despite these weighty titles, Miao is very approachable – he found time from his busy schedule to accept my last-minute interview request.

Miao gave an insightful and articulate answer to each of my questions. This is perhaps a natural result of his mastery of language and experience in the fields of art history and museum studies. His speech reflects the same kind of logic and clarity found in his writing. He spoke unhurriedly, taking the time to formulate his responses, and articulated his thoughts in a coherent way with very few filler words. During our conversation, which was in Chinese, he would occasionally use an English word to express a concept that has no real equivalent in Chinese.

At a time when every dabbler self-brands as “expert” or “genius”, Miao attributes most of what he has done to curiosity and serendipity. He commented on his transition from one profession to the next saying that “what I am doing today is not really a result of planning… Back in our time,” he continued, “everything was handled by the state, what you studied in school, what job you would be assigned to, so we developed this habit of not planning for ourselves and only moving along depending on occasions.” One thing, however, has remained constant. “I just always like reading, not for any particular purpose, just for the pleasure of reading.”

Although Miao spoke modestly about himself and his works, many of his observations and insights are wonderfully astute and illuminating, and I find myself ruminating on them as I navigate through my art history coursework. For example, he listed some reasons why training in art history can be useful even for people who are not going to pursue it as a scholarly interest. First, it trains your ability to observe things closely; second, it develops your skills in turning non-linguistic observation and visual thinking into language, a difficult task, and one that takes practice.

Asked about the importance of material culture, Miao emphasized that both documents and objects are indispensible to a comprehensive understanding of a civilization.  Documents are important, he said, but they record things selectively and often don’t talk about the manufacturing of objects, so unless we study material culture alongside documents, our knowledge of a civilization will be incomplete. At the same time, in order to understand an object becomingly, we need to be able to imagine living in that era and have a common sense of the object’s context, and documents are instrumental in providing this kind of vicarious experience.

While his research focuses on early Chinese art, Miao approaches the discipline of art history as an ardent proponent of multiculturalism. He pointed out that most Chinese museums do not seek to collect objects from outside China, which is “not a healthy phenomenon” and reveals a lack of interest and curiosity in other cultures. Miao believes that there isn’t “a fixed, static Chinese tradition from the beginning of time.” The shapes and characteristics of civilizations, he said, are always changing as a result of contact with other civilizations: “If we want to keep the dynamism, we should keep the tradition of contact and exchange.” In fact, the museum at Zhejiang University, the brainchild of Miao and his colleagues, will be the first in China to have a major collection of objects from a multitude of cultures, and the university’s new art history program will seek to bring in perspectives and methodologies from abroad. Or maybe we should stop constructing a rigid line between Chinese and non-Chinese, between foreign and native, and stop being paranoid about who will dominate the conversation. As Miao pointed out, different methods and opinions resulting from different cultural backgrounds do not entail competition between nations. Research in art history is and should remain a matter of scholarly interest.

 

 

Edited Transcript

Via Skype. Tuesday, May 5th, 2015, EDT.

In Chinese. Translation by Ningyi Xi.

 

Ningyi: I’ve heard a lot of people raving about the art museum under construction in Zhejiang University which will use an entire system of art history pedagogy from western institutions. In the meantime, I feel that, in China, a lot of resurgence of interest in Chinese art and culture involves nationalistic sentiments. I am curious why, under the wave of nationalism in China, Zhejiang University decided to open an art history department and art museum adopting a western model?

Miao Zhe: There are people who have a nationalistic point of view, but there are also advocates of multiculturalism. Different people make different choices. As for Zhejiang University’s program, first, we respect traditional Chinese culture, even more than the nationalists. It’s just our point of view is different. We think that the Chinese tradition is dynamic. There isn’t a fixed, static Chinese tradition from the beginning of time. The shape and characteristics of the tradition are always changing as a result of contact with other civilizations. If we want to keep the dynamism, we should keep the tradition of contact and exchange. We respect traditional Chinese cultures. We are just nationalists.

Ningyi: I also sense some nationalistic sentiments in some media’s coverage of the conference you organized on paintings from Song Dynasty. Some lamented that, out of the twelve presenters, seven work in institutions outside China, and the conversation on paintings of Song Dynasty might one day be dominated by foreigners.

Miao Zhe: If you think of Art history as a subject, it is a German invention. The Chinese have our opinions and methods, but as a modern intellectual discipline, art history started in Germany. Art history as an academic subject first established itself in the West and came to China very late. The first people to use academic methods to study Chinese art were Western scholars. Since paintings from Song Dynasty have a symbolic status in Chinese art history, many concentrate their studies on this period, much like Renaissance in Western art history. Many people do research in this field, including Professor Wen Fong. Their achievement in this field is a result of history. Whereas in China there haven’t been so many studies, and museums do not provide convenient services to scholars, so the status of research is not as advanced. It is a result of history. For sure, the status quo is not ideal, because after all the civilization was produced in China, and Chinese scholars should have stronger expertise. So it is not a question of who dominates the conversation. It is something that Chinese should feel embarrassed about. In China, in the past few years, people started to realize the importance of these paintings, and more people are entering the field.

I think competition between scholars does not involve competition on the national level. It doesn’t matter if you are from the US or from Japan. You are an individual scholar.

Ningyi: So it should all be intellectual debate, not competition between nations?

Miao Zhe: Yes, at least that’s my view and my colleagues. Of course, due to different cultural backgrounds, the methods will be different. But that doesn’t mean there is competition between nations. It’s all up to individual scholars. This is our view. Some people might not think so.

 

Ningyi: About the method of teaching art using real objects, I feel that it is not just art education is that is lacking direct engagement with objects, but also in subjects like history and other domains.

Miao Zhe: Yes, I think so. When we talk about history and heritage of civilizations, there are two kinds. One is written documents recording activities. The other is objects, the actual products of the activities, cities, architecture, decoration, paintings. In Chinese universities, not so many people are aware that material culture is a big component of civilisation.  So when we teach, we teach more with the written documents. Then how do you obtain a comprehensive understanding of the civilization? Without the actual objects, it is hard to do. That’s the major goal of this museum, to make the studies of material culture more comprehensive and more accurate, to fill the missing half. Of course, this approach is relatively new.

Western institutions are better at this. Just look at their textbooks. Art history, needless to say, is all about objects. History, too, is different from our approach.

Ningyi: Yes this I feel a lot. History class in the US is very big on primary sources. In China, it’s always just a summary of events in a few sentences.

Miao Zhe: Right. Documents are important. Without documents, we wouldn’t be able to build a framework for historical narratives. But they are not all, because things are recorded selectively. And most of the time documents do not record the manufacturing of objects.

 

Ningyi: With the museum there is also a new art history program. Even in the US where there is big emphasis on liberal arts education, enrollment in art history is declining. In China where the education has an even bigger focus on the practicality of things, how do you envision the student body of art history?

Miao Zhe: We are building the art history department for the teaching of art history. The department teaches art history, and the museum is a tool to teach it. As for the recipients of the education, most of the students will be those who are not going to pursue art history as their subject of study. It’s part of the liberal arts education for undergraduate students at Zhejiang University. At the same time, we also need to train future scholars of the field, so we will recruit art history majors as well. Probably not that many, perhaps a dozen a year. Many courses will be intro-level courses for those who will go on to be engineers, doctors, bankers, to offer them a liberal arts education. Practicality is not our concern here. We don’t expect too many people to choose art history as a major. There aren’t many jobs for art history majors.

Ningyi: (laugh) My art history professor always says that art history is a useful major. (laugh) The skills can be applied anywhere.

Miao Zhe: The training is useful for sure. But there is a job market out there, and we don’t know how you will do with a degree in art history in the market. It trains your ability to observe, because you need to observe things closely. And second, it develops your ability of thinking. What does that mean? If you study philosophy, you will know that objects are non-linguistic. To turn your observation into language is difficult. To process written documents is less work, because words already contain thoughts. To translate your reaction to words into words is not that difficult. But to turn your observation and visual thinking into language is difficult, because it involves a shift, a jump between different cognitive systems. So art history is good training on your observation skills and your ability to express non-linguistic things that are difficult to convey. As for the job market, who knows.

 

Ningyi: (laugh) Right. Are there museums in China that you think are doing well? How do museums in China compare to those outside China?

Miao Zhe: Most museums in China are more or less similar. Some are better than others. The biggest characteristic is that they only have objects of Chinese civilization, from the Palace Museum to Shanghai Museum to smaller local museums. That is not good. If you go to Japan, you will see that Japanese museums are so much more multicultural. The Palace Museum is starting to collect non-Chinese Asian art. But in general, in mainland China, from museums to collectors, no one is really interested in non-Chinese art. That’s not a healthy phenomenon, and it also shows that the mentality in China has a few problems.

If we are not talking about the scope and interest of the collection, Shanghai Museum does a good job. They are more professional at administration and exhibition.

Chinese museums have two shortcomings, one is that their interest is solely on China. Second, there is not much research behind exhibitions. They organize exhibitions according to occasions, but they don’t dig deep into the collection or update scholarly research.

Ningyi: The problematic mentality you are talking about, is it the kind of nativist and isolationist mentality?

Miao Zhe: Yes, but it’s different from the total isolation in Qing Dynasty. Now they are interested in foreign business and commerce, but not so much in learning about other cultures. There isn’t much curiosity in other cultures.

We’re actually the first museum in China to collect objects of a multitude of cultures.

 

Ningyi: Richard Barnhart said that when he saw Song paintings the first time he decided to go into the field, were there any artworks that touched you so deeply?

Miao Zhe: No (laugh). My interest in art history is more from a historical perspective, not aesthetic.

Ningyi: Do you still start with documents when you do research?

Miao Zhe: Not start with documents. We’re dealing with objects after all. But I always think that, in order to understand an object produced in a specific period of time, to understand it becomingly, you need to be able to imagine the time period, as if you lived then. And then you can develop an accurate understanding of the objects in order to analyze or critique it. How do we imagine the time period as if we lived then? Apart from looking at objects to get the feeling, you also need to rely on the written documents and the activities they describe and understand them really thoroughly. Then you will know what is possible, what is impossible back then, and develop a common sense of the era. Only documents can enable you to get a sense of that, because they record how people felt back then, how they thought, how they reacted to the surroundings. If you can get a grasp of that knowledge, you are no longer an outsider to the artwork and its world. You will understand it as if you lived in the era.

That’s where the significance of documents lies. They don’t necessarily have any direct links to the objects we are talking about. There are very few of those, especially in early period.

 

Ningyi: I read your other interview where you said that you ended up doing many things by accident. Was there anything that you planned? Or anything planned for the future?

Miao Zhe: A lot planned for the future. The past was a completely different time from now. You guys have so much more freedom. You can plan for the future. Back in our time, everything was handled by the state, what you studied in school, what job you would be assigned to. So we developed this habit of not planning for ourselves, and only move along depending on occasions (laugh). It’s very different from today. So what I am doing today is not really a result of planning. I just always like reading, not for any particular purpose, just for the pleasure of reading. I do have some plans for the future, to build the museum, start the art history department, develop the library, and I have some research projects. Many things depend on opportunities.

Yuan Ming Yuan: a Monument to Nationalism

Book or movie review

“Imagine some inexpressible construction, something like a lunar building, and you will have the Summer Palace. Build a dream with marble, jade, bronze and porcelain, frame it with cedar wood, cover it with precious stones, drape it with silk, make it here a sanctuary, there a harem, elsewhere a citadel, put gods there, and monsters, varnish it, enamel it, gild it, paint it…”

Jin Tiemu’s documentary Yuan Ming Yuan (2006) opens with this lyrical description of the titular Summer Palace, penned by Victor Hugo in the nineteenth century. The film illustrates the palace’s life and death, which parallels the destiny of Qing Dynasty, the last imperial dynasty of China. Located in the northwest of Beijing, Yuan Ming Yuan was the brainchild of three generations of emperors in the heyday of the Qing Empire. It is said to have been the apogee of Chinese architecture and landscape, encompassing not only architectural elements from all around China but also from the West. While a token of pride, Yuan Ming Yuan is also remembered as a symbol of humiliation in Chinese history. The palace was looted and destroyed by the Anglo-French Allied Forces in 1860, as the Qing Empire declined in the face of peasant uprisings and foreign invasion.

The film’s digital reconstruction of the Summer Palace is mind-blowing both in scale and in detail, and the reenactment of historical characters allows the viewer a vicarious experience of life inside the imperial palace. But as the Chinese saying goes, the documentary flowers but bears no fruit, hua er bu shi.  Despite its beautiful images, Yuan Ming Yuan does not encourage serious reflection on the past. Instead, it’s little more than a superficial portrayal of historical events that omits many important details and taps into anti-Western and China-resurgence mentalities.

To use Victor Hugo’s words, aesthetically Jin’s team did “build a dream” with the documentary, which took more than six years and a million dollars to make. Thirty-five minutes of the total running time is allotted to digital reconstruction of Yuan Ming Yuan’s landscape and architecture. Exquisite visual effects, such as the lustre of the famous bronze animal sculptures and the panorama of the entire complex of gardens and palaces at sunset, are indeed a feast for the eyes.

Digitally Reconstructed Palaces
Digitally Reconstructed Palaces

Even better, the film does not stop at Yuan Ming Yuan’s aesthetic splendor but provides a glimpse into the life of people who lived there, giving history a human quality. Part of the film is narrated by three European missionaries who work for the royal court and explore the palace with curiosity and admiration. They tell anecdotes of court life, which transform historical figures into lively individuals with whom the audience can empathize. For example, there is a mock town inside the palace where eunuchs play the roles of vendors, magistrates, craftsmen, and even thieves, so that the royal family can get a taste of an ordinary person’s life by visiting the mock market, bargaining with merchants, witnessing theft, and even participating in mock courts to interrogate thieves.

Unfortunately, this level of detail is not carried over when the film transitions to the decline of Yuan Ming Yuan in the hands of foreign invaders. The second part of the film sets up a dichotomy of innocent but close-minded Chinese with primitive weapons against evil-minded aggressive Western imperialists with advanced weapons. Without any in-depth analysis, the documentary is only a fancy repetition of my elementary school history lesson on Yuan Ming Yuan. It tells only a partial truth that aims to promote nationalistic sentiments among its audience, most of whom are Chinese.

Instead of anatomizing France’s and England’s imperialism and examining the root causes for the invasion, the film focuses on visualizing the Qing court’s lack of militarism and the calamity it suffers as a result. We hear the narrator lamenting about the absence of development in Chinese weapons and see repeated scenes of brutally wounded Chinese soldiers falling from their horses. In other words, Yuan Ming Yuan aims not to make the viewers understand why the tragedy took place but only to leave them gnashing their teeth in anger because foreign invaders destroyed this other-worldly beauty in China. The film plays into the larger trend of nationalistic narrative of history: China was bullied by Western powers because it was weak, and now it must reemerge as a strong power so as not to be bullied again.

The documentary also completely demonizes the English and French soldiers. From their first appearance, the soldiers all look vicious and frantic, walking with hunched backs and sinister smiles. Both the French and the English commanders look like your typical comic book villains, one with a poker-face, the other with an evil grin. Yes, in a way, they were demons for having destroyed such a treasure of human history. But at the same time, it should not be forgotten that they, too, were ordinary human beings who couldn’t resist the temptation of carrying off war trophies that later turned into a looting frenzy. It is simply unnecessary and dishonest to take all human qualities out of them for dramatic effects.

Comic Book Villain Lord Elgin
Comic Book Villain Lord Elgin

Worse, the film deliberately omits an important fact that contributed to the destruction of the palace: the Qing government kidnapped and tortured members of the Anglo-French Forces’ negotiation team. Twenty-one out of the thirty-nine kidnapped men died in prison, including Thomas Bowlby, a reporter of the Times of London and a close friend of the English commander Lord Elgin. Shocked by the death of his good friend and the other men and worried about his reputation if he were to do nothing to avenge their murder, Elgin ordered his men to destroy the palace as retribution against the Qing government, despite objections from the French side. The atrocity by the Qing court in no way justified Elgin’s ruthless decision, but, at least, he was certainly not the capricious and lunatic character in the documentary who decides to destroy the palace out of the blue and with unanimous support from the Anglo-French Forces.

Yuan Ming Yuan takes the easy path of presenting the tragedy as a tale of mindless savages from the West plundering Chinese civilization, when the real story was much more complicated. If the Summer Palace is going to be turned into a monument to anything, it should not be one to nationalism. Instead, memories of Yuan Ming Yuan should stand as a reminder of human beings’ capacity both to create extraordinary beauty with their wisdom and to destroy such beauty under the spell of morbid ideologies.

Letter to the Editor

Letter to the editor

Re: “A Tragedy that Highlights Kids’ Plight” (04/03/2015) by Xiao Lixin

Xiao Lixin’s Op-Ed identifies the plight of Chinese children and urges teachers and parents to relieve their pressure. But he fails to see that, while the enormous pressure from school is the underlying problem, the major cause for this particular tragedy was the adults’ disregard for the child’s emotional needs.

Most Chinese parents are used to scolding, taunting, and making fun of their kids without even thinking that these actions can traumatize the young minds. Adults seem to forget that when they were children they too wanted to be respected and understood. Once people become old enough to have authority over the younger generation, they start to depersonalize children, doing just as their elders did to them. Even at school, where educators should know better than parents, berating and public shaming still remain in the repertoire of teachers who want to make their students behave.

I wonder what the 11 year-old was feeling when the teacher asked her parents to bring her home to finish homework. The headmaster said that no one thought the girl would take any drastic action, since the teacher and the parents “communicated in a friendly manner.” But the young girl’s emotional state was not mentioned. Nor would the adults have paid any attention. To them, she was simply being difficult.

Chinese adults must break this habit if they want to prevent more tragedies from happening. They should actively seek to recognize and understand children’s emotional needs instead of treating them as non-existent. The tragedy in Hangzhou will hopefully serve as a reminder to all teachers and parents that children’s minds are not computer disks that can be formatted again and again after being hurt. Their delicate hearts should be treated with respect and care.

Let’s Learn to Argue

Op-Ed

What would you say to someone with whom you disagree?

Here is what Chinese netizens said:

“Shameless rat!”

“Shut your dirty mouth!”

“You are no expert on this. You’re only a dumbass!”

“Your talk is as disgusting as your looks!”

“Go to hell!”

“Bullshit!”

“You think you are an expert? F*** all you experts!”

Why they became so angry is a long story.

A month ago, the former Chinese TV reporter Chai Jing released Under the Dome, an independent documentary on the inconvenient truth of China’s devastating pollution. The documentary went viral on the Internet and sparked heated conversations about environmental protection across the country.

A response by Wan Zhanxiang to Chai’s documentary also went viral. Wan is a senior engineer and administrator of China National Petroleum Corporation (CNPC), a state-owned enterprise that the documentary identifies as one of the major contributors to the pollution. Wan attempts to refute many of Chai’s arguments. He claims that low-quality fuel produced by CNPC isn’t a major cause of pollution and that, without CNPC’s monopoly of the oil market, the quality of fuel will only drop. He concludes that “there aren’t many good points” in the documentary, perhaps because Chai “does not have enough brain power, or she doesn’t have enough knowledge or insights”.

Wan’s article was met with angry comments from Chinese Internet users who have rallied to Chai’s defense. Only one or two comments, out of the hundreds, actually use statistics or pertinent arguments to refute Wan’s points. Even on the censored websites that have probably deleted the most extreme comments, most pages are filled with angry squawks.

Whether or not Wan’s arguments make sense is a separate issue, but even if his arguments are ridiculous, irrational personal attacks are an even more ridiculous means of response. Chinese netizens should steer away from blind mob attacks and learn to think critically and argue in a rational way.

There are good reasons for being angry about Wan’s criticism of the documentary. Although he states that the article represents only his personal opinion, it is quite obvious that he is the unofficial mouthpiece of CNPC and the government, since his article was immediately circulated by all major news outlets. Naturally, his opinion reflects a strong bias, and with the powerful institutions as his backstage supporter, Wan sounds arrogant throughout the article by constantly using !! and ?? and calling Chai immature, which irritated a large number of her fans. To add fuel to the fire, the government decided to take down the documentary from the Internet. Many see this act as a reflection of the government’s reluctance to take serious measures against pollution and one more attempt to deprive the public of their right to information. And here came Wan saying that it is just a mediocre documentary without much value. No wonder he became the target of attacks.

But just because the crowd’s anger is justified, doesn’t mean that anger will contribute to the conversation in any way. If the point is to condemn Wan for trying to obfuscate the issues and lead public opinion astray, the best thing to do is examine his arguments, pinpoint the flaws in his logic, and present solid statistics to prove him wrong. Verbal abuse, in however large quantity, from ten thousand people, or even ten million people, does not do any of these. Some commenters also took the occasion to vent their anger at the government for trying to shut down the discussion by deleting the documentary. They didn’t realize that these curses and insults will only close off the conversation more tightly. Even worse, it completely betrays the purpose of Chai’s search for a comprehensive and scientific explanation of the pollution. As a work of investigative journalism, the documentary is not immune to errors or oversights. Only when these faults are spotted can the documentary maximize its accuracy and value. Consecrating the documentary and denouncing any criticism as if it were blasphemy does not do credit to the film or the filmmaker. It only denies Chai and the public opportunities to understand more about the pollution in China.

This is not an isolated case of mob attacks. They are rampant on Chinese websites and social media. Of course, to call this a Chinese phenomenon is overestimating the originality of the Chinese, although many are very good at turning all debates, intellectual or not, into verbal fights. It can at least partially be attributed to an endemic lack of critical thinking in education as well as in the society. Parents, schools, and other forms of authority dictate what is right or wrong, and children are never encouraged to challenge popular opinion. Most Chinese people don’t learn that truth only emerges as a result of constant debates. Nor are many aware that different opinions can coexist at the same time.

What’s worse, the Chinese tend to link a person’s beliefs directly to his or her moral standing. To have a dissenting opinion often leads to evaluations of one’s character as uninformed or unwise at best, unscrupulous at worst. Many Chinese people believe that whatever they deem to be correct is the absolute truth and that anyone who attempts to question that truth is to be shouted down or punished. Therefore, when a belief is challenged, the immediate reaction is not to argue back with logic or evidence, but to get angry. This mentality penetrates all levels of discourse. At home, in public, on the Internet, from pro-government rallies to anti-government sentiments, anything can be turned into a shouting match.

Should Chinese netizens refrain from getting angry then? Of course not. No human is completely rational, and societies wouldn’t evolve if humans weren’t driven by indignation, pride, and the desire to press for change. But there is a difference between being motivated by passion to accomplish things in a rational way and letting passion override the rational mind. Chai Jing did a praise-worthy job pursuing the former. It is now up to the netizens to crawl out of the abyss of irrationality and learn to argue.

The Magic of Dali

Report on a cultural event

Two summers ago, I visited Dali with a friend to breathe the fresh air of this small town in southwestern China. I had long heard of Cangshan Mountain wreathed in mist, Erhai Lake decorated with bright flowers and cacti, and the stone walls and stone-paved roads of the ancient town. I had also learned of Dali’s reputation as a bohemian hub that attracts artists, poets, vagabonds, and hippies from in and outside China. But being a natural skeptic, I had some reservations. I wondered if “the bohemian air” was limited to the circle of self-branded hippies who lived there, and the rest of it was just another block in building a fantasy for tourists and one more way to attract business.

I found that Dali has lived up to its reputation.

Upon arrival I was in fact quite disappointed by the town. It was raining, and on the streets there weren’t many people but a lot of litter carried over by the winds. Pools of rain water reflected fake-old architecture and chintzy lights from shops that seemed to be selling cheap, inauthentic souvenirs. Full of grievances, we ducked into a small restaurant on the side of the road.

The owner/chef/waiter, DaHai, seated us, told us what ingredients he had that day and asked us how we would like the food prepared, before going into the kitchen to cook. He came out with two bowls of delicious fried rice, sat down at our table and started talking to us.

Learning that it was our first day in town, he recommended a list of food, sites, and other fun things that we should try. While we were eating, two friends of his came in to practice singing before their debut performance at a pub later that evening. DaHai brought out his guitar too, and as the sun began to set, we all started singing along in the small courtyard filled with delicious smells.

The two hours at DaHai’s restaurant completely flipped my first impression of Dali. And unlike in most cities in China, where such precious moments are rare cases of serendipity, in Dali they happen on a regular basis. I soon learned that, despite the encroachment of cheap souvenirs, the town is still filled with quality shops, bookstores, restaurants, and pubs, all with a hip twist. Most people, residents and visitors alike, are so friendly that it’s astonishingly easy to start conversations and make friends.

Every evening, the town’s main street turns into a marketplace with dozens of little stalls on the sidewalks. Among the vendors are local craftsmen, artists who have moved here, travelers who sell trinkets to fund future trips. People walk up and down the street, looking for good stuff and good chats. At first I was a bit reluctant to talk to the vendors, clinging to my big-city mentality that conversation often serves as the best sales strategy, but I soon realized that it was ok if I wasn’t going to buy anything, as long as I had a genuine interest in hearing the vendors’ and fellow shoppers’ stories and sharing my own. In one evening, I probably talked to more strangers than I would have in a whole month in my hometown, a city of eight million.

Walking past the night market, my friend and I ran into a street performance. There were about five or six musicians, including two white guys. With one guitar, one bass, two drums, one accordion, and many voices, they were belting out folk songs. A guitar case was laid open in front of them, as is the norm for all street performances, but they seemed too into the music to care about how much money was in there. Behind them, a row of listeners sat on the stone platform, most with a beer in hand, some singing along, others using their phones or cameras to record the performance. We sat down too, and joined the ensemble. The performers and listeners were always exchanging glances, smiling and nodding at each other as if they had been friends for a long time. Several times, one naughty singer replaced the lyrics with his own improvisation, which evoked a hearty laugh in the group. It seemed to me that the awkwardness common among strangers vanished in the air, and everyone sang along like old friends.

 

DSC04254
Street Performance in Dali

To say that Dali is a paradise on earth is romanticizing it. My initial disappointment, although later outweighed by my affection for Dali, still reflects the troublesome reality: the ancient town is bit by bit commercialized and waves of tourists are putting pressure on the local traditions as well as the bohemian way of life. A hippie couple we befriended told us that they were planning to move away soon because Dali was losing the charm that had attracted them in the first place.

But Dali does have a kind of magic that softens people and “opens the door to their hearts”, as the Chinese expression goes. Of course, the resident artist community in Dali is a self-selected group with bohemian spirits. But haven’t most of the visitors, like I have, been conditioned to be on our guard against everyone else? The country’s recent history definitely contributed to the low level of trust: the Cultural Revolution that praised liars and informers, the lack of market regulations that led to an explosion of selling schemes and counterfeit goods, not to mention all the abduction and fraud cases rampant in local and national news. Having grown up with the maxim “don’t talk to strangers”, why were we able to shed our habitual vigilance so quickly?

It occurred to me that perhaps people come to Dali to let go of their constant alertness, to feel the geniality of this place and also to be part of it. As much as we normally avoid talking to strangers and consider those who do so suspicious, deep down there is still a desire for serendipitous encounters as well as sincere and agreeable conversations with strangers.

I’m glad that there is a place like Dali, where communication is not something to be wary of but to be longed for, where I can wander aimlessly, knowing that somewhere around the corner there will be a group of strangers who will talk, laugh, and sing with me.

It’s Not Just the Bag

Blog post on a cultural experience

AP English Class. Saint Johnsbury, VT. Friday Afternoon.

This time was always the highlight of the week, when everyone brought in snacks to share with the class and talked about the books they were reading.

I brought Tie Guan Yin, Iron Bodhisattva, one of my favorite kinds of oolong tea for my friends to enjoy. I tore open the vacuum-packed bag, tipped the pearl-shaped tea beads into a teapot, filled it with boiling water, let it brew for a few minutes, and poured it into everyone’s mug. As the tea beads uncurled in the heat, turning the water into an olivine color and sending forth the sweet aroma typical of oolong tea, someone held up a tea leaf she’d picked out of her mug and asked, “Is it spinach?”

I convinced her to take a sip, which in turn convinced her it was not spinach. Many classmates told me that the tea was amazingly delicious, but I also noticed that some hesitated before they drank from the mug with those spinach-looking leaves.

I didn’t feel offended or anything like that, because it was not the first time that I’d had to “defend” loose-leaf tea and demonstrate its worth outside China. Tea has always been a big part of my life. I grew up in Hangzhou, where one of the best kinds of green tea, Long Jing, or Dragon Well, is produced. Before going to Vermont for the last two years of high school, I filled my suitcases with my favorite kinds of tea, knowing that quality Chinese tea would be difficult to find there, as Americans haven’t been big on tea since the Boston Tea Party.

But I didn’t prepare myself for the fact that, even among those who enjoy drinking tea, not only do many accept tea bags as the norm, but they also think of loose-leaf tea as something bizarre. I have come across various reactions to the tea leaves in my mug or thermos, from stares and gasps to “this is like a cow eating grass”.

I was told that a tea bag makes life so much easier. You steep it in a mug, or a plastic cup, and throw it away after a couple of minutes before adding milk or sugar or honey to the tea. Only when you are feeling hip do you shop for “loose-leaf tea” and probably for an infuser or strainer, too, so that a stray tea leaf doesn’t end up in your mouth.

This is not the case in China. In fact, the term “loose-leaf tea” is redundant in Chinese. (Cha, the Chinese word for tea, automatically means loose-leaf tea.) In a tea shop or at the market, tea is sold by weight, and the clerks will offer you different samples until you find one kind that pleases you. “Bagged tea” is what you need to specify if you prioritize its convenience. Most Chinese people don’t think highly of bagged tea, because it lacks the subtle, mellow taste of “real tea”.

But does a bag really make such a big difference?

In fact, it’s not just the bag. The difference between loose-leaf tea and bagged tea lies in the production process and, consequently, the flavor.

Quality loose-leaf tea is made from hand-picked buds or whole leaves of tea trees. Not so with tea bags. I was startled to learn that the content of most tea bags consists of leaves and stems picked from tea plants regardless of their qualities, and then homogenized to maintain a standard for the final product. As if that weren’t bad enough, the tea leaves are shredded for the purpose of fast brewing and therefore turn bitter and puckery if steeped in hot water for too long.

Loose-leaf tea preserves the subtle flavor so much better. A handful of tea leaves can be re-steeped again and again and yield multiple cups without getting bland. The majority of leaves eventually sink to the bottom after a while, and a few stray leaves won’t choke you or fill your mouth with chewy bits. (Most Chinese tea, made from tender buds or leaves, is edible.)

Long Jing (Dragon Well), one of the best kinds of green tea

To me, tea drinking is not about consumption of caffeine but is an experience. I love watching the movement of tea leaves in the water, a ballet that tea in a bag will never be able to perform. Each kind of tea is different in shape, in color, and in the way it dances in the water. The tea buds of Yin Zhen, Silver Needle, float vertically when they first come into contact with the water. There is a kind of hand-crafted tea which blossoms in steaming water just like a flower bud opening in the warm spring air.

Even though now I don’t have exquisite tea sets with me at college, I still follow certain procedures: always boiling water in a kettle, preheating cups with hot water, brewing black tea and oolong tea with boiling water and green tea with water slightly cooler. Never milk. Never sugar. Only the pure fragrance and flavor.

Although conversion of the western frame of mind on tea seems like a long shot, I think I have succeeded in changing at least some of my friends’ attitude towards loose-leaf tea by preaching at them about its superiority and hounding them until they tasted my tea. After all, life is too short to waste on bad tea!