Landscape Photography: An International Symposium and a memorial for Wang Wusheng

by Shenzhan 申展

Wang Wusheng （1945 - 2018)

Huangshan A104, 1984

Taken at Lion Peak, Mount Huang

Inkjet print

on view at China Institute Gallery in New York until February 17, 2018

I didn’t know that Mr. Wang Wusheng (汪芜生）had passed away in April until I attended the International Symposium: Photography and China at China Institute on Sep. 22, 2018. Wang’s landscape photography is a big part of the exhibition, Art of the Mountain: Through the Chinese Photographer’s Lens at the China Institute Gallery in New York from February 9, 2018 – February 17, 2019. In a sense, the symposium was truly a memorial for the late photographer.

With his great works in the gallery next door, no memorial could serve Mr. Wang better than a symposium with speakers including his close friends, scholars, photographers, and packed with a group of audience genuinely interested in China and photography. Having lived overseas in Japan and U.S. since 1980s before moving back to Shanghai in 2010, Wang is better known outside of China with his black and white “landscape photography”, poetically and artistically depicting Mount Huang (in Anhui, Wang’s home province in China),  in an aesthetic form resonant with traditional Chinese landscape ink painting. Such connection is easy to establish with the juxtaposition below:

Wang Wusheng (1945-2018)

Huangshan W34, 1984

Taken at Lion Peak, Xihai area, Mount Huang

Inkjet print

on view at China Institute Gallery in New York until February 17, 2018

Shi Yizhi (17th century)

Tiandu peak in the yellow mountains (黄山天都峰 )

Presented by Prof. Joseph Chang at the symposium

Dr. Jonathan Chaves (齐皎瀚）, a good friend of Wang and Professor of Chinese Literature at the George Washington University, pointed out, Wang’s work captures the nature and its spirit in a way rooted in the very ancient Chinese cosmological philosophy, Taiji, with yin and yang as a force-and-antiforce pair that forms the source of energy in the universe. Oddly it reminds me of Stephen Hawking’s theory on quantum physics that everything in the universe comes from the energy released from the particles and the anti-particles at the quantum level, which, in my view, fundamentally very Taoism.

In a dialogue on “Black and White Landscape Photography” between Wang and Xia Zhongyi (夏中义）, professor at China Academy of Art and Vice President of the Chinese Association of Literature and Art Theory, who flew to New York for the symposium, the feeling of awe regarding the universe is in the center. Wang talked about the moments when he was trembling in awe at his first visit to Mount Huang in 1974. He subsequently went back numerous times to capture the right moments and develop his own artistic language with his camera to articulate such emotion, and transcend others. It took him over 30 years to mature his “language” with a unique style and technique, with which he meticulously applied a pitch darkness to the body of the mountain in order to create a sharp contrast to and a powerful tension with the cloud.

Wang Wusheng (1945-2018)

Huangshan W25, 1991

Taken at Lion Peak, Mount Huang

Inkjet print

on view at China Institute Gallery in New York until February 17, 2018

To me, Wang’s photography perfectly represents how the essence of Chinese culture is expressed through a non-Chinese technology. The lens may be the product of the West, the eyes and heart behind the lens are undoubtedly Chinese. Wang was not the first Chinese photographer who successfully made such reputation internationally known. Dr. Mia Yinxing Liu, Assistant Professor in Visual Studies at the California College of the Arts, gave a rather thorough academic account on Lang Jingshan （郎静山, 1892 - 1995）, who is considered to be the first (and greatest!) professional photographer in China in 1920s and created “composite photography” (集锦摄影), a collage technique to precisely express Chinese aestheticism through photography.

Lang Jingshan (1892-1995)

A Panoramic Embrace of Landscape, 1993

unknown source online

It’s not difficult to see the similarities between Wang and Lang’s work. And it is certainly not a coincidence that while their photography is deeply rooted in Chinese tradition and culture, their work is celebrated internationally. Lang, “Father of Asian Photography", was named one of the top 10 master photographers by the Photographic Society of America in 1980. For Wang, while it is yet to know whether he would enjoy wider posthumous recognition in China, his favorite photography works are permanent collection in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, one of the top three museums in Europe. According to Prof. Xia, after passing away quite unexpectedly, Wang left behind some twenty thousand negatives in his refrigerator to be sorted out, selected and printed. Those are his “children” yet to be brought to light, literally.

A memorial without mourning would be incomplete. Indeed there was a silent mourning before the symposium started. A touching moment came when Prof. Chaves read a poem he composed for Wang, “Mourning for the Master Photographic Artist Wang Wusheng”, in Chinese Ballad form (古体诗), which I record below in traditional Chinese characters and its English translation to conclude this article:

吊攝影大師汪蕪生 diào shè yǐng dà shī wāng wú shēng

兼示子寧老友 jiàn shì zǐ níng lǎo yǒu

齊皎瀚 qí jiǎo hàn

漸江升天半千崩 jiàn jiāng shēng tiān bàn qiān bēng

蕪生世間作品稱 wú shēng shì jiān zuò pǐn chēng

今日訃告淚雙垂 jīn rì fù gào lèi shuāng chuí

無再攝影千裡鵬 wú zài shè yǐng qiān lǐ péng

知音此世萬有一 zhī yīn cǐ shì wàn yǒu yī

汪公唯實吾心朋 wāng gōng wéi shí wú xīn péng

高士宇宙作行者 gāo shì yǔ zhòu zuò xíng zhě

黃山輸於天堂登 huáng shān shū yú tiān táng dēng

Mourning for the Master Photographic Artist Wang Wusheng

--also sent to old friend Zining (Joseph Chang who introduced us)

Jonathan Chaves

Jianjiang has ascended the skies, Banqian has expired;

In this world, Wusheng’s works have matched those of these men.

But now arrives his obituary -- tears fall in two streams,

No longer flies the 1000-mile Roc of photographic art!

Those who “know our music” in this life?

One out of thousands,

Master Wang indeed has been a bosom friend of mine.

The noble one is still a pilgrim in the universe:

The Yellow Mountains yielding now to the peaks of Heaven.

Astoria, New York

9/22/2018

THE LOG: February, 27 ~ March 5, 2017

THE LOG is a periodical series about daily encounters giving inspirations for thinking and writing.

“THE LOG” 的中文版本为 近处 . 

“There Will Be Pie In The Sky When I Die!”

I was amused reading this line on the W train to work in the morning. The train was packed as usual in peak hours, but I was lucky to get lost in readings as sitting through from the first stop until getting off at Rector Street near my office in downtown Manhattan. Thinking of how close this is to a Chinese saying “天上掉馅饼!”, I was smiling, or even laughing out loud at my iPhone, which of course, is completely normal on the subway in NY, or any cities on planet earth where subways and iPhones have “colonized”.

I was reading China Hands: The Adventures and Ordeals of the American Journalists Who Joined Forces with the Great Chinese Revolution, a book of stories on western journalists who were searching and reporting their own stories of China in the early twentieth century. I was immediately drawn to the book by the beautiful writing of Peter Rand, a professor at the Boston University. The first chapter of China Hands is about Rayna Phrome and her revolutionary journalist friends (including Mikhail Borodin)  in China, around the time when Chiang Kai-shek broke up with the revolution by killing workers and communists in 1925 Shanghai.  A young American woman with striking red hair and a passionate revolutionary dream to be sought after in China, and obviously very attractive, in both appearance and character, Rayna was one of the only two western women left in Wuhan when workers in Shanghai were massacred and the optimistic atmosphere of Chinese revolution went downhill. At the time, with her journalist friends, equally passionate about Chinese revolution, they were singing "There Will Be Pie in The Sky When I Die!" together.

In fact, the line came from "The Preacher and the Slave", a song written by Joe Hill in 1911 for the Industrial Workers of the World, a labor's union started in Chicago, U.S. There is a very good chance that the Chinese version indeed came from this line, as "Pie in the Sky" became so famous and often replaced the real title of this song. 

On a NY subway, reading Rayna and the Russians, Americans, and Chinese in the story, it truly feels globalization is not just a recent trend at all!

March, 2017

Astoria, New York

A Cat Lover's Last Words to Her Cat

SZ @ New York

View fullsize

Drawing of Chino, December 2, 2016 by Shenzhan Liao

I loved Chino.

I will always love Chino.

There is a soft spot in my heart for cats. Walking in my neighborhood in Astoria, Queens, New York, I would stop any time when I spot a stray cat crossing the backyard, sitting on a stoop next to the sidewalk, or jumping from the top of one car to another in the small garage across from my living room window. I took a lot of pictures of cats in Istanbul, where the streets were full of them, in various colors, shapes, attitudes, ages…I draw cats too. I haven’t had any good models yet, not even Chino. Instead, I followed some cat drawings or pictures of Chino to get the most of the shape right first, and went on my own way.

I love to see their faces, furry bodies, elegant moves, investigating eyes, pointed ears, paws, tails…I quickly got so used to Chino after he was handed to me from my downstairs neighbor George. He was probably only a little over 6 months at the time, a playful kitten. A regular tabby cat adopted originally from a shelter, without any “noble” or expensive blood, Chino instantly took my heart, with his perfect stripes, two piercing yellowish eyes, and black paws. Perhaps the fact that he was a cat was enough. He could have been in any color, shape or pattern. He walked up and brushed against me the first time George brought him to my apartment, while keeping her distance from me most of the time. But I quickly got used to him, expecting him behind the door asking for food when I came back home from work, jumping up to the sofa arm and sitting next to me for a while, making his “cookie-dough” steps and purring and touching my face with one of his paws to wake me up in the morning, finding his way up to the dinner table when I ate chicken, beef, seafood, or, almost anything (He loved ice cream, and cheese too!), meowing for attention if I read or played piano or drew for too long…Chino was not a lap cat and I respected him for that. After almost 6 years, I sometimes felt we became so much alike and our profiles started to look alike. I am a version of Chino without hair and whiskers.

There was a cat Callie, in my life before Chino, from my old landlord in East Hampton, Long Island. The first impression she made on ANYONE was “She is GIANT!” It was not exaggerating that Callie was HUGE. She was almost 9 years old when I met her, with a big furry belly that made her head disproportionately small. She had to pause to gather momentum (big time!) before she could jump on the little table for food. Even today it still puzzles me how she could manage to jump on my bed. We spent a lot of time together, especially during the quiet winter in East Hampton. But technically Callie was not my cat. I didn’t feel too bad about leaving Callie when I moved back to New York. Still, I shed tears when I heard that she died of jaw cancer a few years later.

So Chino was really my first cat. And since I had him almost 6 years ago, my strong affection towards cats only has grown. There were more “cats” in my apartment: cat chopstick holders, cat plate, cat soap holder, even a toilet brush holder in cat shape…I started a research project to learn more about the history of cats, and learned a great deal of their glorious days 5,000 years ago in Egypt and how their images turned dark in Medieval time. I bought “The Cat in Art” by Stefano Zuffi (Abrams, New York, 2005), a really heavy book collecting cats in great arts throughout the ( (mostly Western) history. I truly don’t know what magic cats have to turn a human like me so obsessive with them.

Katze und Vogel (Cat and Bird), 1928

By Paul Klee (1879-1940)

And Chino was really the only living companion I had for the past 6 years. There were men coming and going, none staying long enough for Chino (or for me) to grow real attachment. But Chino tolerated all of them. He might have liked some more than others, for he would come over for some, and just hide himself somewhere for others. After they left, he would come to me, in his quiet, non-demanding way. And I always felt happy when it was time for us enjoying each other's company.

Living in New York as a (somewhat still?) young, professional, independent person with a cat like Chino, I completely forgot the down side of this relationship: that Chino could leave me forever and I would be heartbroken.

On December 1, 2016, when I took Chino to the emergency hospital to treat what I thought perhaps a cold or stomach problem, I had to fill out forms listing me as the “owner”. “Owner” sounds carrying a lot of the “ownership” and assurance. If I “own” a pet, how can I loose him/her if I don’t choose to “disown” him/her? Unlike a relationship with a human, who can change his/her mind or heart, a pet hardly turns away from a loving owner. And you can’t really claim on paper that you “own” another person no matter how much you love each other. That evening, as Chino’s owner, I felt completely powerless when the doctor told me the worst news: It was an aggressive cancer and Chino was in a lot of pain and the doctor couldn’t do much and I had to make the decision right there whether to put him to sleep.

I took Chino in around 1pm that day. The ASPCA hospital on 91st street and 1st Ave. in Manhattan had its waiting room packed with pet owners. “Find a seat,” the nice front desk girl paused for a second, “if you can.” There were three rows of silver metal chairs in the waiting area. I found a corner close to an EXIT and two vending machines. An owner with his bulldog was sitting in the chair next to the EXIT, apparently trying to stay as far as possible from anyone else as the dog would jump and growl furiously at anyone near him. In the middle of the afternoon, the waiting room got even busier, with more dogs and cats brought in and out. Gradually, as the day winding down, people were leaving, with their pets, carrying medications and instructions, or paying the last visit to their pets staying over night. By the time Dr. Glass emerged from behind the door separating the waiting and treating areas, there were only me and a big black woman in a wheelchair with her cat in a carrier. I started crying as Dr. Glass spoke. The woman looked at me and murmured to herself, or her cat,

“Oh she is so sad. Oh she is really upset.”

I asked for staying with Chino alone and found myself in a small room with dim lights and a shining silver metal table in the middle. Chino was brought in by Dr. Glass in a red towel. We found us in this room after 7 hours separated from each other, the longest time ever I felt since from a long time ago. He didn’t look miserable or stressed, even with a piece of his fur in his belly shaved for the medical exams. I could only imagine how hard it was for him to go through all of these, as he has never left my apartment for almost 6 years. His most outdoor time was stepping out to the balcony and scratching his back on the floor with his belly up. But he didn’t say anything. He was quiet, moving slightly more slowly than usual, turning his head towards my chest for a minute when I held him in my arm, while I was crying uncontrollably.

Oddly, it reminded me of the afternoon more than 14 years ago when I found my boyfriend then had liked another girl. I was crying so helplessly, knowing something was broken but couldn’t do anything about it. I guess I loved Chino as my first love, without any reservation. I was so not prepared for Chino’s death, just as I was shocked to know that a person in love could change his/her heart. Both were first-time experiences.

I went home empty-handed that night around 10:30pm, and sent an email to friends about the sad news late night. I didn’t go to work the next day, and refused to take any calls from friends. For the following two days, I stayed as long as I could to be away from the apartment, where pieces of memories of Chino were everywhere. Three days later I went back to office for one day, and jumped on a plane to China for a month-long business trip.

While I was in China, where I found myself constantly in meetings, with friends and families, I would occasionally think how scary it would be when I return New York this time. For the past 5 years, the first thing I did once stepping back in my New York apartment was putting my arms around Chino, who apparently missed me terribly. I wept one night in a hotel in Shanghai, thinking of Chino. In fact, at the moment, I didn’t feel sorry for Chino, nor for myself. I just suddenly got caught in the middle of a deep sorrow, and cried. Then I felt better.

Goodbye, Chino. I hope you had a good time with me.

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With Chino, 2014

12/23/2016

Rongchang, Chongqing, China

Personal Notes: In a Time of Chaos

SZ @ China Institute

Art in the Time of Chaos, China Institute Gallery, 2016

Photo credit: Perry Hu

“What a shock to wake up one morning and find armed men, who spoke no language you knew and looked like no people you’d ever seen, roaming the streets of your city.” With these words, Holland Cotter, the Asian art critic of New York Times, opens his review on China Institute’s fall 2016 exhibition, Art in a Time of Chaos: Masterworks of Six Dynasties China, 3rd to 6th Centuries. (Chinese History, Writ in Stunning Stone, 11/17/2016).

It’s New York on November 17, 2016. I can’t help but think Cotter does not just refer to the nearly four hundred-year division and chaos in China more than 1,500 years ago.

Standing next to “Art in a Time of Chaos: Masterworks of Six Dynasties China, 3rd to 6th Centuries” written in burning red letters against a deep blue background, I often tell visitors before entering the gallery, “There are 115 objects from 3 museums in China in this gallery behind me, and the youngest is from fourteen hundred years ago.”

I would pause for a few seconds to let the historical distance sink in before silently push the heavy glass door open. Walking into a tiny room with all four walls in dark purple, everyone would suddenly face a small group of Celadon musician figurines from 3rd A.D.

Each figurine is less than 3 inches tall, some playing Qin (an instrument associated with cultured elites from ancient time China till today), some just standing or sitting with folding or open arms. They all share similar facial features with almond-shaped eyes, round cheek and hair tied up on top of the head with a stick.

Except for one.

He is notably shorter, standing with his right foot stepping forward, arms missing. His nose is pointier, cheekbones higher, and most unusually, he wears a triangle-shaped pointed hat. Art historians like Annette Juliano, guest curator of the exhibition and professor of Asian art history at Rutgers University, would immediately identify him as a huren, a non-Han (or non-Chinese), from a nomadic tribe in northern China.

Six Dynasties were in chaos precisely because China back then was divided into southern dynasties with Chinese courts ruled by Han, and northern dynasties controlled by mainly Xianbei, among many other northern nomads. It was a period of almost 400 years of political division, wars and murders, and frequent social upheavals. While politically defeated and yet with an obvious sense of privilege of the Han culture, Chinese, or hanren (汉人), referred to their northern neighbors “huren” (胡人), often with a derogative connotation. In fact, the term “Six Dynasties” is Han-centric in itself as it refers to only the dynasties with capitals in Jiankang (today’s Nanjing), the center of the Han power in southern dynasties. While some hanren during Six Dynasties would strongly resist huren influence (and some are still insisting even today), there is plenty of evidence from Chinese history, as examples in this exhibition, that hanren, after this chaotic 400-year cultural integration with northern huren, and foreigners from Central Asia, Indian, or regions even further in the west, were no longer the same hanren in Han Dynasty, the big, powerful, united empire lasting about four hundred years prior to Six Dynasties.

Besides the celadon musicians from the south (unearthed near Nanjing), I often would point to the visitors a yellowish celadon flask discovered in the north. On its body are two sitting lions, with a slim male figure with deep eyes and curly beard in between, presumably training the two lions for entertainment. “Sogdians and Sasanians from Central Asia were very active along the Silk Road, traveling, trading, and exchanging religions, arts and skills wherever they went.” For someone who didn’t know much of Central Asia history in 3rd A.D. before studying for this exhibition, I would enjoy secretly the little pleasure for being able to talk about Sogdians and Sasanians at all. Morris Rossabi, a renowned scholar on Inner Asian and East Asian history at Columbia University, and working with China Institute for years, gave a 3-hour lecture to K-12 educators on Six Dynasties one Saturday and spent a good amount of time talking about these two groups, unknown to many Americans and Chinese. The figure on the flask, probably a Sassanian, together with a silver plate depicting a Persian prince hunting three boars (according to stories from Zoroastrianism, the state religion of the Persian Empire), and the stone panels and mural from the sarcophagus belonging to Yu Hong, a Sogdian and elite official in the court of Northern Qi, a later northern dynasty, collectively present a time when people, cultures, and objects flew in and out of China.

Picturing the world map during China’s Six Dynasties is fascinating too. In the West, a powerful empire established by Constantine was rising after the Roman Empire came to its end. Byzantine Empire, with its peak around 5th and 6th A.D., would “watch” from afar its contemporary Chinese dynasties trying to figure out in what shape they would come out of the chaos. In Central Asia, the Sassanian would have just risen into power around 3rd A.D. in southern Iran as the last powerful Persian Empire. By 6th A.D., before China came together in one piece again (as this was not the first time China was divided, neither the last time), the Sasanian Empire would have been weakened by conflicts with Byzantine Empire and lost their battles with the Arab armies of Islam. Their rulers would seek asylum in China, probably the Northern Zhou, or Northern Qi (the last two northern dynasties). Meanwhile, in the Indian subcontinent, a good part of this period witnessed the rising and falling of the Gupta Empire, which, according to Wikipedia (“the source of all knowledge” as I would joke these days), was the “Golden Age of India” when extensive innovations in science and developments in arts, religions, literature, philosophy, and all aspects of human life imaginable at that time period, flourished. 

That probably explains the flourish of Buddhism in China during the Six Dynasties. My favorite of all pieces in this entire exhibition is a sandstone head of a Bodhisattva from around 550 C.E. from Northern Qi Dynasty (today’s north-eastern region in China including Shandong, Henan, Hebei, etc.). In a feminine image with plump round cheek and eyes gently closed, the Bodhisattva, radiating peace and calm in a quiet corner on a tall stand against the brick-red wall, would instantly yet quietly shed the noise most visitors carry, vocally, or in their minds.

Don’t get me wrong. Chinese culture with its core established by hanren was still predominant and thriving. Wang Xizhi, the Sage of Calligraphy, and the legendary “Preface of the Orchid Pavilion”, were from this period. His original writing of the Orchid Pavilion might be lost in the tomb of a Tang Dynasty emperor, though the running and cursive style of calligraphy he started and the true artistic spirit his works expressed, were set to be followed by generations of Chinese calligraphers, artists, and in general, all well educated Chinese. The same spirit is also exampled by the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, who appeared on the rubbings of a tomb mural and four panels of the brick mural itself. Whatever the history books say about these sages, I would tell people they were the fashion leaders of the day. They were philosophers, musicians, artists, poets, and wine lovers.  The so called “Neo-Daoism” escaping from the suffering reality for an idealistic peaceful world closer to the nature, was best represented by their life style and tales (as recorded in the “New Tales of the World” 《世说新语》by Liu Yiqing), and preserved on the mural for the visitors in New York 1,500 years later to admire, and surprisingly, to resonate. Cotter mentions one particular sage, Liu Ling, who is most known as a wine lover and legendarily hired a servant carrying a shovel following him around, with a standing order to bury Liu immediately on the spot if he drops dead. Liu Ling ended up retreating from the court and passed away peacefully at home. However, not all of the seven sages were so lucky. Ji Kang (嵇康), the most famous one, was in fact sentenced to death after losing a political battle. Regardless, thousands of years later, they were still in the mural, sitting under ginkgo trees in loose robes, drinking, playing music, and probably enjoying their “witty conversations” that would make them forget about the chaotic reality for a moment.

Drinking is not a recommended alternative of the chaotic world. Art and literature are. On the evening of Nov. 9, a public lecture on literature in Six Dynasties was given by Mr. Ben Wang, Senior Lecturer on Humanities at China Institute for over 30 years. As usual, I opened the evening with a brief introduction of Mr. Wang, and also said,  “Thank God we have art and literature to turn to in a world of chaos.” It was the day after the election. To many New Yorkers, it was still a shock to wake up in a world with Trump as the President-elect. The audience didn’t say anything, but smiled and continued to listen to Mr. Ben Wang’s lecture, on Returning Home (《归去来辞》)，by Tao Yuanming (陶渊明), who’s known to many Chinese since middle school with his “Peach Blossom Spring” （《桃花源记》）, describing a fictional world secluded from the real world and thus enjoying peace undisturbed by wars and sufferings for generations.

A forever-peaceful “Peach Blossom Spring” could only exist in Tao Yuanming’s poem. However, I could truly enjoy a peaceful moment by standing in front my favorite Bodhisattva in the gallery for a few minutes, ignoring the busy work in office just next door, or other visitors walking around (which are not many anyway).

At China Institute, people have joked that next time, Willow Weilan Hai, Director of China Institute Gallery and the curator of this exhibition, MUST select a much more peaceful and serene theme, given how accurately this exhibition predicts what’s happening now in the world.

11/27/2016

Astoria, New York

---

Related links:

A resource collection on the exhibition: http://china360online.org/?property=introduction-to-dark-ages-in-china-220-581

A Day in New York: Chinese Contemporary Poetry and Subway

SZ @ China Institute

R Train in Rector Street, New York City

Of course a story about New York has to have something to do with the subway.

Recently I am reading a book “ Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York” (not that I’m thinking of leaving New York, or am I?), and almost every single one of the 28 writers talks about New York subway ----how old, cramped, smelly, and unbearably frustrating it is----and yet, it has became so quintessentially New York, even a story on a day about poetry can’t avoid it.

It was October 22, Saturday. I went to China Institute for the first seminar of a series: Expanding the Boundaries of Chinese Poetry, given by Yibing Huang, known by his pen name Mai Mang (麦芒) , who established himself as a poet in China in the 1980s and came to U.S. in the 90s.

……

告诫我的不是一个人，而是

两个人、三个人……

先微笑，然后是沉默和迷惘

在数着星星的过程中

也许会忘记了自己眉毛底下

两颗最有人性的眸子

它们离我一样遥不可即

而我多么疲惫，多么恍惚

就像白昼一个未结疤的

伤口，有着腐败的肉和新鲜

的血，无人用嘴吮吸

手指，手指在跳动，仿佛

弹着一根并不存在的琴弦

我的诗啊，请埋进浓重的黑暗

不要为谁而唱，也不要为我

你只需叹息，像一场梦

你只需存在，哪怕被毁灭

这一切已经足够幸福了

就不要再追求什么不朽

—— 麦芒，1990年4月1日，《今夜的火花今夜就会熄灭》

English Translation by Mai Mang

…
Not just one person warned me
But two, three…
First smiling, then silent and lost
 
In the process of counting stars
Perhaps will forget beneath one’s own eyebrows
Two most human pupils
They are as far and unapproachable as the stars

And how fatigued, how unfocused am I
Just like an unhealed wound
Of the day, having rotten flesh and fresh
Blood, no one would suck it by mouth

Fingers, fingers are jumping
As if plucking a non-existent string
Oh my poetry, please bury yourself into the thick darkness
Don’t sing for anyone, not even for me

You only need to sigh, like a dream
You only need to exist, even if perish
All this would already be enough to be happy
Then please pursue no more so-called immortality

(Tonight's Sparks Will Die Out Tonight, by Mai Mang, April 1, 1990)

A faculty at the Connecticut College now, Mai Mang, a middle-aged man with long hair in a style surprisingly similar to mine, had to drive to a station in Connecticut to catch a Metro-North train, and switch to a New York subway to get to China Institute in order to give this lecture to a dozen participants (and who knows how they got there on a Saturday afternoon!).

My story of getting to China Institute was a typical New York subway story, that is, a frustrating one. I was planning to take the  #7 train from Queens into Manhattan after having lunch with a friend. The lunch was pleasant, which made me stay longer than I probably should. Only after swiping into the station, I found out the Manhattan direction platform was blocked (obviously no train went to Manhattan from that station). I could either take #7 to the next station OPPOSITE direction of Manhattan and switch back, or…… there were really no other options without alternative subway lines around. Instead, I stood around the corner of Sunny Side and Bliss Street for 20 minutes waiting for an Uber, which somehow didn’t show up and yet charged me $5 cancellation fee, and finally got myself into a green cab to 59th and Lexington Ave., only to get stuck in the traffic on Queens Borough Bridge. After getting off, I submerged to #4 train, the express line (and hence the most time-saving to get to China Institute on a NORMAL day), which, didn’t fail to disappoint me this time by only running to 42nd Street. It was only the beginning of a chain of switching trains underground from #4 to #6 (a local line taking twice as much time to get downtown) then to R, which finally went to Rector Street, a station closest to my office. Like most (if not all) New Yorkers, I particularly hate the walk from #6 to R at Canal Street. The connecting tunnels are as filthy as others and exceptionally long. Among all the semi-relaxing locals going out on weekends and confusing tourists who typically move slowly even when trains are running smoothly, I knew I appeared to be uncharacteristically impatient for a Saturday. Well, who cares?

I lost track of time. The mission of the day seemed not about the poetry seminar anymore, but to overcome all the barriers in the subway system between Queens and downtown Manhattan.

And of course, it was a rainy and windy Saturday. After an oddly warm and beautiful week, New York finally felt like late fall on this VERY Saturday, with falling yellow leaves, dreary rains, and almost everyone in black, depressing.

Thirty-minutes before the two-hour poetry seminar ended, I finally walked into China Institute. I dropped my two bags (did I mention that I was carrying two big bags all this time?) in my office, changed my flats to high heels, and stepped quietly into the library with beautiful traditional yet sleek Chinese design and walls of books (some from over 100 years ago) surrounding Mai Mang and the audience.

啊，亲爱的，让我们

再看看外面的世界吧

看看傍晚时分的烟酒店

雨水打湿的街道，车辆和情人

再看看起风的时候，城市多么荒凉

没有果实的树，又多么孤单

你就会感到： 我们应当在一起

我和你在一起的时间

就是家庭的时间

你就会停止在玻璃窗上写字

再不沉默，再不犹豫

也再不看我，就扑回我的怀中……

—— 多多，1973 - 1980, 《感情的时间》

Translation by Gregory Lee:

Oh my love, let's

look once again at the world outside the window

look at the wine and tobacco shop as night draws in

the street wet with rain, the traffic and lovers

look once again as the wind gets up, the town is so

desolate

fruitless trees, and how alone

you can just feel: we are meant to be together

our time together

is a homely time

you can stop and write (or "stop writing"? - by Shenzhan) words on the window pane

never again silent, never again hesitant

and never again looking at me, just throwing your arms

around me (or "throwing into my arms"? -- Shenzhan)...

Duoduo, born in 1951 and considered to be one of the most important contemporary poets in China's poets' circle, was the topic of the seminar.  When I walked in, Mai Mang was reading this poem in Chinese (and it was an amazing performance). An audience followed to read its translation in English. Was Duoduo talking about ONLY Beijing? The corner deli for cigarettes and drinks; the streets in the rain with cars and lovers (are they walking down the street holding hands? with an umbrella? Or riding a second-hand bike in yellow rain ponchos? ); the trees with leaves falling in October and soon to become bare branches……all were so charmingly familiar to me not only because of my 7-year life in Beijing prior to New York, but its surprising  resonance to the life in New York, even a hectic one I just had.

Did Duoduo ever live in New York? If yes, there must have been at least one day like mine he would have gone through. How would it appear in his poem? What would be included? The eyes and faces of confusing passengers packed on the platform? The headlight of the R train finally inching into the Canal Street Station after a long wait? The mumbles from the radio in the train announcing yet another route change “due to planned construction”? The filthy tunnel filled with bright white light that hurts eyes and gives headache?

There is really a poem in everything. My favorite Chinese writer, Wang Xiaobo, referring to Nietzsche, once wrote,

“一个人只有今生今世是不够的，他还应当有诗意的世界。” (It’s not enough for one to just have this life and this world. One shall own a poetic world.” - translated by Shenzhan)

你已经迟了

久等的地铁缓缓驶进站台

好像在嘲讽

——你忍气吞声

迫不及待地

扑进张开的门

—— 廖申展，10/2016, 《诗与纽约地铁》

BTW: next seminar by Mai Mang will be about Wang Xiaobo.

(Thanks to Mai Mang to provide poems and translations on Duo Duo and Mai Mang.)

10/23/16

60 Beans, Astoria, New York

Hamilton: In a Re-imagined World

SZ @ New York

“Hey, Yo, I’m just like my country. I’m young, scrappy and hungry, and I’m not throwing away my shot.” (quote from Hamilton)

By 6:30pm in front of the Richard Rodgers theatre, there were already two lines: one for ticket holders, the other for hopeful Hamilton goers waiting for last-minute tickets. At the end of the lines, two tickets brokers, male, middle-aged, whispered to everyone passing by the crowded narrow sidewalk,

“Extra tickets for sale?”

I was waiting for my friend M with a long skinny box covered with Chinese embroider, a gift from a Chinese school visiting New York the very afternoon. Long skinny boxes are probably not a very good idea for Hamilton: the doorman was suspicious, taking extra time for examination.

The show started.

Here was Hamilton. Played by Lin-Manuel Marianda, the creator of the entire show himself, Hamilton stood right there, singing and dancing with his historical friends and enemies (not too many, mostly just a jealous Aaron Burr, who took Hamilton’s life in a duel).

A genius with plural talents! As a recipient of the 2015 MacArthur “Genius” Award (still can’t wrap my mind around the name of this award, prestigious as it is, apparently!), Marianda certainly is forever labeled as a Genius. Indeed, the feeling in the theatre was real. The audience started applauding enthusiastically when Hamilton first appeared on the stage.

The stage was turning swiftly; the hip-hop music was vibrant; the dancing was energetic and naturally embedded with the story (like, dancing and getting dressed on the stage). And you have a black Marquis de Lafayette played by Daveed Diggs (also played Thomas Jefferson) rapping 6.3 words per second (the fastest in the history of the genre); you got a George Washington played by Christopher Jackson who looks nothing like the white guy with a fake wig in history books; you got Schuyler sisters played by Phillipa Soo, Renee Elise Goldsberry and Alysha Deslorieus, an apparent ethnically mixed group, so natural together and no one was asking for a fact check: WAIT, how come they were all in different colors, back in 18th century? King George III remained to be white, though an absolutely refreshed image with his ridiculously funny Britpop. After the first act, he would actually trigger laughter just by appearing on the stage, before he even uttered a word.

Creativity can’t be forced. It just flows, with the pace of the heartbeat of the audience.

So you laughed, giggled, sighed, and perhaps, like me, teared up when the Hamilton’s lost their only son.

Our seats were in the front, on the side, but good enough to see the entire stage close up. The theatre was fully packed, giving absolutely no hope for anyone waiting outside in the last-minute ticket line. Miraculously, two more-centered seats next to us were empty. There was some happy seat-swift in the end.

Drinks were expensive at the bar, $11 for a red wine. The perk was you also got a spilt - proof cup with a Hamilton logo so you could take it inside. It’s presumably attractive if you plan to drink through the show. Also you could get asked about Hamilton the next day when you used it for water, or coffee.

OH, YES, it’s THAT good.

January 31, 2016

New York

A New Era for an Old Institute

Author: Shenzhan/申展

An old plate of China Institute ready to be packed, August, 2015

Photo by Shenzhan Liao

The summer of 2015 is marked as unusual for everyone working at China Institute, a non-profit organization in New York founded in 1926 to promote a deeper understanding of China. With early founders including renowned Chinese and American scholars like Hu Shi, Kuo Pingwen, John Dewey and Paul Monroe, the institute today has about 35 staff members, American and Chinese, who vary in their services from over 30 years to less than a year. What makes 2015 different is that this 90-year-old institute is moving out of its Upper East Side townhouse after 71 years of residence to the Wall Street area in downtown Manhattan, at the corner of Washington and Rector Street.

All had to be left behind: the signature red door of the townhouse at East 65th Street; its sophisticated cast-iron staircases climbing inside the old building; the serene traditional Scholar Garden in the backyard, where a turtle and a goldfish tribe have happily lived together in a pond surrounded by bamboos…… except for the two stone lions guarding the entrance. One male, and the other female, the lions were easily packed and taken downtown. Donated to China Institute in 1944 by Dr. Henry R. Luce, the 4-story institute was once affectionately called the “China House”, exhibiting the best Chinese fine art exhibitions in the U.S., and welcoming the most famous Chinese artists, authors, scholars, and other intellectuals to speak or perform. The earliest Chinese language and cultural studies courses for the public in the U.S. were also pioneered here.

The move had been planned for a few years. However, the seed may have been planted long ago. Dr. Paul Chih Meng, the 2nd President of the China Institute (1930-1967), wrote in his autobiography Chinese American Understanding in 1981 that the trustees regretted that they had not taken Henry Luce’s other offer of a larger house as the space for the institute 2 years after moving into the townhouse, as needs grew immediately. Mr. Meng held his wedding ceremony in the “China House”.

Over the years, that regret only grew larger accompanied by the American public’s soaring interest in China, due in part to its stunning economic growth over the past 30 years. A China with over 5,000 years of history and tradition, together with unprecedented rapid economic and social changes besides revolutions, fueled by ever-growing globalization (and further fueled by social media), has captured the public imagination in every aspect. Not only have the programs outgrown the old China House but “China” as a topic seems to outgrow China Institute: there are an increasingly large number of cultural organizations, museums, schools, and universities in New York, that are bringing their understanding of China to the American public (and whoever turns to their online channels, i.e., websites, Facebook pages, Twitter, Instagram……you name it!)

Nevertheless, the move finally came after 71 years. On Aug 17, 2015, the Institute’s staff walked into the lobby of 100 Washington Street, swiped themselves through the automatic bars at the entrance (the two lions really won’t take cards), and entered the 2nd floor. The first stage of a 2-staged renovation project of the new space, the institute now has a clean-cut reception area behind a glass door and a minimal-style office area with grey carpet, green chairs, and many glass doors. With a few public areas still undergoing some final touches, the new Institute is getting ready to open its doors in late August.

For most of the people working at the institute, me being one of them, moving into an overall 50,000 SF new space from a 9,000 SF townhouse is exciting, although inevitably mixed with some nostalgic melancholy. If it was a “hidden jewel” on the Upper East Side, the Institute is now a newborn that awaits the downtown neighborhood to discover, or, rediscover. It will open its doors with its language classes for both adults and children, as well as a series of public lectures, author talks, film screenings, and corporate events throughout the coming fall. The institute’s most proud China Gallery will have its first show in the fall of 2016 when the ground floor is completed and a Grand Opening can finally unveil the whole Institute.

Nothing could be more obvious to signal the changes that are yet to come than physically moving to a new neighborhood. For the Institute, whose staff will still be unpacking their boxes in the coming weeks, the ability to adapt and yet maintain its spirit that many members and long-time friends have held so dearly to their hearts, perhaps is most critical. Just before the move, on a Thursday afternoon, a small celebration was held in the Scholar Garden for a well-beloved senior lecturer, Mr. Ben Wang, for his 30th anniversary with the Institute. Only present and former staff, Mr. Wang’s students and followers, a handful of scholars, Institute members, and long-time friends were present. While speaking with Dr. Annette Juliano, an art historian, and curator of China Institute’s art exhibitions several times, I discovered that Dr. Juliano became involved with China Institute while still in graduate school. “I was first here as an intern,” Dr. Juliano said, sipping a cocktail in the Scholar Garden. While looking forward to the new place, the Honoree, Mr. Wang, whose lectures on Chinese classical literature, art, and language have won admirers for years, was dressed elegantly with his silver hair, his stylish jacket, and his red-belted watch to match his burgundy leather shoes, said he will certainly miss the old institute, like many of the people at the Scholar Garden will do.

There is a lot to reflect on its past. Indeed, an astonishing amount of files, books, and most importantly, artworks have resurfaced through the packing process from many hidden closets in the old building. The new space is as vast and blank as any new place. Its history has to be carried on and will continue to be written here. One would think that a 90-year-old institute with its generations of people who were involved with its mission, there must be something that transcends the past into the future. In the past, people could feel it as they walked through the red doors. Now, with glass doors, sleek walls, and a newly reinvented logo, the Institute has to demonstrate its strength in its completely new space where the construction is halfway through.

And, the turtle and fish moved into a tank with a pump in the new space.

8/21/15

Astoria, New York

A Dialogue on the Alchemist

SZ @ New York

Old Chase Building in Financial District, New York

A little over a year ago, I was reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. Since English is not my native language, I don’t read many English novels as I am always frustrated with the feeling not being able to capture nuances.

However, I was deeply moved by The Alchemist. There is one paragraph in the preface so powerful, that I wrote it down in my note book (a real one made of paper), translated it into Chinese and shared with my best friend, a professional editor for a publishing house in Beijing.

The paragraph goes like this:

In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life. Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight. We start to live with enthusiasm and pleasure. Intense, unexpected sufferings pass more quickly than suffering that is apparently bearable; the latter goes on for years and, without our noticing, eats away at our soul, until, one day, we are no longer able to free ourselves from the bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives.

My  translation goes like below:

静谧的内心深处，我们深知 自己必得证明不枉这生命的奇迹。每一天，每一个小时，都是这场卓绝战斗的一部分。我们的生命始于激情与欢愉。强烈而意外的痛苦远比可以轻易容忍的痛苦消逝 得迅速；后者延续多年，在不知不觉间蚕噬我们灵魂，直至有一天，我们再无可能从这痛苦中解脱——它将伴随我们的余生。

One day, I came across a surprising discovery while I was randomly looking through an old manuscript of a novel, titled “Departure from Afar”(《从远方出发》), that I started years ago and still yet to finish. It opens with the following:

“没有比在最平凡的生活中看到意义更重要的事情了。并不是所有的人都能遭遇伟大的时刻，抵抗自然的突然来袭，与无人想象的困难作斗争——无人想象的困难在每一天的沉默中：在这里，存在如此轻而易举，其意义却如此渺茫，折磨着时时思考意义的人们。

Nothing is more important than seeking meanings through the most ordinary life. Not everyone encounters great moments, fights against an unexpected disaster imposed by nature, or struggles with unimaginable challenges. For most people, unimaginable challenges only exist silently in daily lives. There, the existence itself is easy, while the meaning fades every day, which troubles people with a burning quest seeking the meaning of life. ”

A dialogue completed, which explains why I was so moved by The Alchemist. (BTW: Did I mention it was translated into English from Portuguese?).

3/5/16
Astoria, NY