Jonathan Goodman Mao Yan at Pace Gallery March 6–April 4, 2015

he place of contemporary figurative in mainland China is, to the Western viewer, easy to regard as academic—often it is based Ton technical achievement and indebted to Western historical . The training of painters in China’s art schools relies heavily on studies of the model, much in the manner of a nineteenth-century art academy. Unlike in America, where currently the conceptual is often valued at the expense of training and skill, the figurative movement in China reminds us that the occidental tradition of representation lives on—indeed, thrives—in the hands of young, ambitious artists. While there has been a patriotic return to ink art in China, the persistence of figurative art done in oils shows us that Chinese artists have built a legacy of their own by maintaining an interest in a medium that, to the Asian artist, must still seem fresh and relatively new, even after its existence in for two or three generations. There is also a strong interest in figuration in the U.S., often to inform the artist’s audience of identity or political issues. In a similar way, representational art enables the Chinese artist to comment on social changes that have been happening since the 1970s, most especially the espousal of capitalism, which has brought to China wealth, but also the concomitant problems of materialism and an attachment to money alone.

Mao Yan’s solo show at Pace Gallery in New York’s Chelsea district, his first in the U.S., focused on portraits and nudes and not the landscape or cityscape. Born in 1968 in Hunan province, Mao Yan studied at the Central Academy of Fine , graduating in 1991. Since then, he has become among the best-known and most critically acclaimed traditional figurative painters on the mainland and has won several major national prizes in China. The Chinese sensibility takes a strong interest in these evocative portraits of both Westerners and Chinese, which emphasize the character of the sitter while maintaining accuracy of detail. Some of the women appear overweight, inviting comparisons to the figures of Lucien Freud; although the likeness between the two artists is not strong, both men are eager to render flesh, its heft among the most striking visual attributes of their subjects. At the same time, reading Mao Yan’s visual focus makes us understand that the artist is also given to studies of character, in which eyes and facial expressions are accentuated.

In his essay for the catalogue, noted New York critic Donald Kuspit asserts that Mao Yan’s women “intensely stare at us, as though to confront, even intimidate us, accuse the gazing male of some guilty crime against them and all women.”1 But this seems to be something of an exaggeration; the women

72 Vol. 14 No. 5 don’t appear overtly angry, and the intensity of their gaze may mean that they simply feel vulnerable without clothes, or that Mao Yan has chosen individuals whose energy and personality tend toward a vehement intensity. While open to the portrayal of character in his sitters, Mao Yan doesn’t especially address psychological insight in his output. Rather, he seems to be searching for a way of seeing. The are not so much surveys of personality as they are expressions of content, and my reading is that the artist wishes to convey the sense of the person, his or her authority as an individual. Mao Yan remains aware that each of us carries our own specific energies, which must be addressed if the painting is to communicate the sitter’s integrity. Painting this way brings the personality of the sitter into high relief; the character of each person is communicated by Mao Yan’s intention to capture the essential nature of what he sees in them. He sticks to a palette of blacks, whites, and greys, limiting it to both intensify and offset the character of the person he paints.

Left: Mao Yan, Leah with Glasses, 2014, oil on canvas. Right: Mao Yan, Leah, 2014, oil on canvas. Photo: Kerry Ryan McFate. © Mao Yan. Courtesy of Pace Gallery, New York.

Mathieu Borysevicz’s excellent essay on Mao Yan, written for a show at Pace Beijing in 2013,2 places him within a mostly Western sphere of influence, citing the artist’s visit to New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art in the 1990s, in which a small Rembrandt portrait made a major impression upon him, as well as proposing Edvard Munch, Francisco de Goya, and Albrecht Dürer as Western forebears whose creativity Mao Yan found sympathy with. Certainly, Mao Yan’s style and materials reflect a genuine familiarity with ; in addition, the drama in his work feels essentially psychological in a Western sense. Indeed, one wonders to what extent a tie can be made between his well-articulated painterly insights into the representation of individuals—including a long, continuing relationship with Thomas Rochenwald, a German man who developed a friendship with Mao Yan in China and has been a subject of his paintings for years—and a Chinese understanding of character. On one level, Mao Yan’s paintings could be considered purely formal studies, works that demonstrate an interest in physiognomy and flesh; on another, they are portraits of specific people whose physical characteristics differ from person to person. They project little beyond an internalization of themselves and convey no real

Vol. 14 No. 5 73 social awareness or issues that are reflective of Chinese society. In this sense, these pictures are distinct from the Cynical and Political Pop that preceded him in the 1990s.

There is nothing wrong with steering clear of social commentary. But doing so tends to isolate Mao Yan’s work from previous demonstrations of social description in the in mainland China. It might be said that art of his kind takes refuge in pure reportage—yet the introductory quote, presumably Mao Yan’s, in Borysevicz’s essay, reads: “I am not a realist painter.” If we take the artist at his word, then what kind of artist is he? Is there a metaphysical underpinning to his work? Are these portraits renditions of mental states? It is hard to say. But it is clear that the artist is suggesting that his art accounts for more than mere description, and the question remains whether his renderings can be read as something fundamentally different from the traditions he borrows. As a portrait painter, his inclination is very clearly defined. If the art is intended to encompass more than that, it must mean that the image is detailing something beyond mere representation; perhaps the image becomes a matter of spirituality, or a comment on character. Again, it is hard to say. Of course, there are excellent examples of portraiture in the history of Chinese art, most especially in the last two hundred years, but Mao Yan has made it clear that he wants distance between himself and the particular weight of that tradition.

Left: Mao Yan, Portrait of Thomas on a Black Background No. 2, oil on canvas. Right: Mao Yan, Oval Portrait of Thomas No. 1, oil on canvas. Photo: Kerry Ryan McFate. © Mao Yan. Courtesy of Pace Gallery, New York.

Perhaps it is more productive to place the work somewhere between the West and China. The choice to use Western materials is self-evident; the paint is handled in such a way as to bring up the memory of a painting style begun in Europe more than one hundred years ago. Thus, in addition to the immediate context of Chinese figurative art produced in the last forty years, beginning with the academic influences derived from Socialist Realism, there is also the recognition that Western influences come into play. This would explain the eccentric but deep focus, both formal and psychological, that Mao Yan brings to his faces and figures; it would also illuminate the fact that he balances his

74 Vol. 14 No. 5 context in order to paint something new, at least for Chinese portrait artists working today: the presentation of a self in portraits determined by, but greater than, the realism he uses. Graduating from Beijing’s Central Academy of Fine Arts in 1991, Mao Yan experienced the crushing of the democracy movement at that time. Likely this affected him, although we don’t know from his paintings’ content in what way that it did. Still, his denial of being a realist painter puts an emphasis on some other issue or theme. The realism conveyed in these paintings intimates a self-sufficiency and poise on Mao Yan’s part, which indicates a new version of self, adumbrated by the painter’s apparent wish to capture a new emotional reality in his art.

The real question facing a Western appreciation of and judgment on Mao Yan’s achievement in figurative art is skewed by the different historical timing of such a genre in America and in mainland China. Of course, Western figurative art goes back hundreds of years, being most profoundly realized during the Renaissance. But in China, the figurative tradition in oils extends only a bit more than one hundred years. This suggests that China has some catching up to do, but, more important, it means that a Chinese artist working figuratively can be seen as a truly contemporary artist, while in the West, figurative art is based within a more or less historical continuum that includes many different kinds of art. So when Westerners look at such work from mainland China, or when Western critics write their appraisal of its achievements, the context in which the Chinese imagery is appreciated is as something familiar, even traditional, rather than progressive or radical. Additionally, one must remember that figurative art in China is often used as a way of satirizing social realities in a way that doesn’t equate much with Westerners’ use of the genre. In any case, Mao Yan is not a satirical painter; he prefers to concentrate on the physiognomy and formal aspects of his sitters.

The practice of figuration in China carries a prestige that invests the genre with a social acceptability that is hard to fully understand today in the West. Mao Yan’s art does not seem very original by Western standards; indeed, he can be considered within a group of Chinese artists whose accomplishments are appraised primarily as social and political statements rather than for their formal aesthetic qualities. While he differs from those Political Pop and Cynical Realist painters—he is only slightly younger than they are—Mao Yan will inevitably be appraised as working within their influence. Mao Yan certainly has no discernible political stance in this show at Pace Gallery; as has been stated, his work consists of more or less conventional studies of people, in portraits and full-figure presentation. If anything, the exhibition supports the view that Chinese figurative art is a traditional re-exploration of pictorial values Westerners worked through many years ago. But this does not make it less important within the Chinese context, where the medium is still seen as essentially new and its potential not fully realized. In fact, even acknowledging the current interest in ink painting in China, we can see that its long history constrains the ink practitioner in both a formal and social sense. This is in contrast to figurative art, whose relative newness invests it with real topicality. Mao Yan may be a traditionalist in one way, but in another he is seen as someone at the progressive edge of contemporary painting.

Vol. 14 No. 5 75 Mao Yan, Xiao Dai, 2013–14, oil on canvas, 130 x 90 cm. Photo: Kerry Ryan McFate. © Mao Yan. Courtesy of Pace Gallery, New York.

Mao Yan, Plump Lady, 2013, oil on canvas, 330 x 200 cm. Photo: Kerry Ryan McFate. © Mao Yan. Courtesy of Pace Gallery, New York.

76 Vol. 14 No. 5 Mao Yan, Portrait of Thomas No. 2, 2014, oil on canvas, 70 x 55 cm. © Mao Yan. Photo: Kerry Ryan McFate. Courtesy of Pace Gallery, New York.

Vol. 14 No. 5 77 A waist-length, oil on canvas portrait that stands out for me is the study Xiao Dai (2013–14), which presents a young man in a dark T-shirt with crossed arms; his hands, with the exception of the thumbs, are stuck into his armpits. One of the strengths of Mao Yan’s art is its specificity—this is a real person we are meeting in the painting. Most of the painting is rendered in dark greys, with the exception of the area around the Xiao Dai’s head, which is lighter in tone. By far, the centre of visual interest rests on the young man’s countenance, which consists of a somber, steady gaze directed forcefully toward the viewer: he has a well-formed nose and narrow face; and a closed mouth that gives no suggestion of either happiness or discontent. Mao Yan has concentrated on the forceful expression of someone confident enough to convey dissatisfaction, although we do not know whether it is personal or political (the chances are that it is personal, given that Mao Yan doesn’t make openly political paintings). In comparison with his other paintings, I see this work as direct and emotionally immediate; the face is self-assured, and the body posture is self-contained, communicating an experience of tension, even of restrained anger. As a study of character, the particularities of Xiao Dai are inspired, moving in the direction of a specificity of personality and physiognomy that is memorable in any culture, let alone recent Chinese figurative art.

If Xiao Dai occupies an emotional space bordering on assertiveness, something similar can be said of another painting entitled Plump Lady (2013), whose dimensions are much larger than those of Xiao Dai. The size of the painting tends to emphasize the weight of the woman, whose voluminous naked body could be described as obese. A Western Caucasian female, she displays massive arms, breasts, and thighs that dwarf her head. Yet her gaze is deeply serious, composed, and directed at her audience. Her arms are folded across her upper torso; the general effect of her demeanor and bearing is that of prodigious dignity, in spite of her perhaps socially unacceptable weight. Like the young Xiao Dai, this woman commands the stage of her presentation; her pose is not theatrical, but the effect of the painting is. Plump Lady shows us that even in contemporary culture, which places value on being physically slim, individuals can both respect themselves and insist upon esteem from others. Indeed, the painting indicates that the woman pictured is someone of considerable force. This is a lot to achieve in a traditional portrait, and it points out that, at his best, Mao Yan can transform conventional figurative art into something demonstrative of ethical import.

The work entitled Portrait of Thomas No. 2 (2014) is a recent example of Mao Yan’s ongoing pictorial treatment of Thomas Rochenwald, mentioned earlier in this text. Rochenwald is light-haired, with deep-set eyes, a thin, protruding nose, and pronounced chin. Seen in profile, his head is tilted sideways, adding to the quietly dramatic atmosphere of the picture. The head takes up the centre of the composition, and only the top part of his shirt is rendered. Here the greys, along with a white aura following the outline of his face, intensify the melancholic mysticism of the portrait. Most of the information that stands out in Mao Yan’s portraits arises from the

78 Vol. 14 No. 5 face; in the case of this portrait, the feeling is indirect, unlike the frank force of Xiao Dai. This feeling is, as happens in the other portraits, based on Mao Yan’s reading of the sitter’s character. Mao Yan is careful to differentiate dispositions; one of the strengths of his work, considered in its entirety, has to do with the different emotions that occur in each portrait. It is clear that Mao Yan’s interest is primarily in recording personality, and while it may not be true that he is a major artist, despite his fame and prominence in mainland Chinese painting circles, it is clear that he is a painter of some distinction, someone who rests on his ability to characterize the particular attributes—physical and psychological—of the people who sit for him.

Mao Yan, Faerie on a Chair, The other works do not quite live 2013, oil on canvas, 330 x 200 cm. Photo: Kerry up to the forcefulness found in the Ryan McFate. © Mao Yan. Courtesy of Pace Gallery, portraits just described. There is New York. one erotic picture, Faerie on a Chair (2014), which presents a young Caucasian woman, nude, with her hair up, wearing a waist-high, transparent stocking. Sitting on a chair, her eyes opened wide, she sits naked in a pose that is openly provocative. The painting shows a different side of Mao Yan, whose other work in this show does not convey this kind of sensuality. Other paintings are relatively pedestrian, being exercises in figuration without much attention being paid to temperament or personality of the sitters. In a way, Mao Yan has restricted the range of his production, limiting to some extent the expansion of his themes and imagery, so that he does not command a full vision of human idiosyncrasies—something a more purposeful painter might take on. Mao Yan is an artist of unusual skill and emotional insight; perhaps he is right to stay close to what he does best, namely, the psychological study of the contemporary person. At the same time, he foregoes the chance to create an iconographic comment, with social implications, on the way people are, which is something that regularly happens in the portraits of an artist like Lucien Freud. So, in a sense, his work tends toward the reinterpretation of a tradition that has already scrutinized most of the terrain associated with the figurative outlook. This does not diminish him as a painter so much as it curbs a gift that could go further.

Notes

1. Donald Kuspit, You, Me, Us: Mao Yan’s Portraits (New York: Pace Gallery, 2015), 6. 2. Mathieu Borysevicz, Mao Yan (Bejing: Pace Gallery, 2013), unpaginated.

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