Barbara Pollack Art and China’s Revolution September 5, 2008–January 11, 2009 Asia Society, New York rt and China’s Revolution, curated by Melissa Chiu and Zheng Shengtian, presents a history of art during the first four decades of the People’s Republic of China (PRC), a Aperiod in which culture came under the increasing control of political leaders. The show attempts to trace the story of Mao Zedong’s use of art as a tool for persuasion and dissemination of ideology. But, it also asks viewers to look at the works—all products of a massive propaganda machine—as art and to appreciate them for their aesthetic power. This is a complicated task, made even more challengingly when presenting this work to American audiences who, on the one hand, harbour many stereotypes about this period left over from a time before the U.S. had diplomatic relations with China and, on the other hand, have little knowledge of the details of events depicted in the works on view. The exhibition, therefore, has to provide enough historic information to bring viewers up to understanding the material on display without feeding into negative impressions they may have towards China as an autocratic society. In order to achieve this goal, the exhibition features a timeline of events from 1949 to 1979 illuminating the tangled history of art and politics surrounding Mao’s regime. It demonstrates that from the outset of the PRC, art faculties were asked to produce paintings commemorating important moments in Mao’s life, and art workers’ associations were formed to advance the overriding political agenda. Soviet-trained educators were brought into China and, overnight, socialist realism replaced ink-and-brush painting as the country’s most respected art form. The idea that culture is intrinsic to political reform was not only directed at intellectuals, but was inherent in the program for reaching the masses of Chinese people. Therefore, not only fine art, but all forms of mass production—from posters and woodcuts to teapots and matchbooks—were platforms for political slogans and emblazoned with depictions of revolutionary heroes and of course, Chairman Mao. The bulk of the exhibition is devoted to the Cultural Revolution, the decade from 1966 to 1976 when Chinese society underwent one of the most ruthless state-enforced transformations in the twentieth century and art was used a primary tool to evoke this change. Fundamental to this movement was the power of Mao, nearly deified by several key works on view including Chairman Mao Inspects the Guangdong Countryside (1972), by Chen Yanning, and Strive Forward in Winds and Tides (1972), by Tang Xiaohe. The latter depicts the Chairman, dressed in a white bathrobe, standing on a barge surrounded by appreciative spectators, on the occasion of his historic swim in the Yangtze river to prove his continuing vigour even as an aging political leader. Far more fascinating is the story behind another hero-worshiping work, Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan (1969), commemorating the leader’s 1921 visit to the Anyuan coal mine. An accompanying video interview with its artist, Liu Chunhua, explains how the painting was chosen to be a “model work,” reproduced as posters more than two billion times. Many consider the woodblock prints produced during this period to be far superior to the kitschy paintings. Here, the intricacy and subtlety of technique can be found in works such as Jiang 82 Left: Liu Chunhua, Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan, 1969, poster, 95.2 x 76 cm. Collection of Yan Shanchun. Photo: Howard Ursuliak. Right: Tang Xiaohe, Strive Forward in Winds and Tides, 1971, oil on canvas, 172.5 x 294.5 cm. Collection of T. Z. Chang. Photo: Eddie C. Y. Lam, Image Art Studio. Tiefeng’s Using Mao Thought to Fight with the Storm (1973–­­74). The rise of the Red Guards is depicted in Zhang Songnan’s four panel work in charcoal, Youth (1972). But the masterpiece of this era is the Rent Collection Courtyard, a tableau of one hundred and fourteen life-sized figures originally created in 1965 at the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute illustrating the evils of a greedy landlord and the injustices inflicted on his peasants. To convey its power, the work is best seen in its entirety in a massive room of its own. In Asia Society’s cramped galleries, the sculptures felt shoved in a corner, depriving viewers of their full impact. 83 Long March Project—A Walking Visual Display, installation at Asia Society. Photo: Eileen Costa. Courtesy of Asia Society. Rent Collection Courtyard installed at Asia Society Museum, 1974, fiberglass, dimensions variable. Collection of Art Museum of Sichuan Fine Arts Institute. Photo: Eileen Costa. Courtesy of Asia Society. In fact, the exhibition and its excellent accompanying catalogue gets into some fairly subtle issues, perhaps too much given the limited gallery space. The show includes works by blacklisted artists— literally called black paintings—many as inoffensive as traditional ink-and-brush paintings. Small watercolours by members of the No Name group are also included, showing by their modest scale and sensitivity how far the Red Guards would go to hunt down “bourgeois” works of art. Li Keran’s Sunset on the Pass (1964) blends the political icons with ink painting, inserting tiny soldiers and red flags into a traditional mountain landscape. Of course, one of the curators—Zheng Shengtian, managing editor of Yishu—knows only too well the penalties of not cooperating with the majority position during this period. He was detained when he criticized the treatment of fellow faculty members at the Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts and demoted to painting backgrounds on works that others finished. Which raises the question: Can any of the works in this exhibition truly be read as “art” given that they were not made under the optimum conditions of free will? In fact, most of the works of this period carry the opposite message, elevating the needs of the collective above the ideas of an individual and liberating art from such bourgeois notions as genius and originality. If all of this art was made by force, it would be hard to appreciate it for its aesthetic power, because that would in effect give credence to a totalitarian regime. But if you can argue that some of the art was made as an individual response to historic circumstances rather than forced labour, then it may be more permissible to enjoy its aesthetics. That is the dilemma at the heart of this show, which makes the case that, at least for some artists, the Cultural Revolution was a positive experience. Millions of students were sent to the countryside to work beside farmers and peasants as reeducation, and for artists, according to the exhibition, this led to relative freedom to sketch and paint away from the pressures of academia. Several significant artists are included in this section of the exhibition, including Chen Yifei, who is represented by the realistic oil painting Eulogy of the Yellow River (1972). Internationally recognized artist Xu Bing contributes several drawings and a calligraphy practice notebook, tellingly related to his later work. Zhang Hongtu’s series of eleven portraits completed while he lived in the countryside speak more movingly of the worries and depression of the era as seen on the faces of his subjects. The Cultural Revolution influenced intellectuals around the globe, coinciding as it did with the youth movements in the U.S. and France. “The personal is political” and other leftist slogans of the time were inspired more, rather than less, by the revolutionary tactics in China, laid forth in Mao’s Little Red Book. This issue, presented only in the slim guide to the exhibition accompanying the show, is worthy of its own exhibition. Equally worthy would be a show about the legacy of 84 Li Keran, Sunset on the Pass, 1964, hanging scroll; Chinese ink and colour on paper, 111.8 x 137.2 cm. Courtesy of Take a Step Back Collection. Chen Yifei, Eulogy of the Yellow River, 1972, oil on canvas, 143.5 x 297 cm. Courtesy of Taikang Life Insurance. the Cultural Revolution in China’s contemporary art circles. Rather than pair some easy matches, such as Wang Guangyi or, worse yet, the Luo Brothers, with the art of this period, the curators made the choice to feature the Long March Project as representative of current trends. The Long March Project, founded in 2002 by Lu Jie, began as a public art engagement along the route of Mao’s historic retreat in the 1930s. Many significant artists have since been involved with the organization, now running as a commercial gallery branch in Beijing, including most recently Cai Guo-Qiang, who participated in a forum on art education in 2006. While completely worthy of attention—its Great Survey of Cut Paper in Yanchuan County is nothing short of brilliant—the display at the museum cannot convey the wit and irony of most of its projects. But getting beyond the limitations of this particular venue, the catalogue brilliantly demonstrates the value of research on this vital topic. In addition to essays about art-making practices during this period and political repercussions, there are the timeline and array of historic documents. It is all undeniably fascinating, making it abundantly clear that rather than an isolated incident, the amalgam of art and politics that took place in China had worldwide implications. It is easy to also appreciate this material from the perspective of China’s development over the past thirty years and how far it has come. But then one is reminded that the Chinese government blocked important loans to this exhibition, and you realize that this period of government control has not quite ended.