The Soldier and the Citadel
Listen up! Avant-garde artist Zhu Wei has captured an
army of fans in Asia. Now he's set to take on New York.
Does Zhu care? Not a bit By
CRYSTYL MO / Hong Kong
ALSO LG
Goes For 3G: Next-generation services
could trip LG Telecom
Wei Leng Tay for Asiaweek. Punky Hailed in Hong Kong and
Singapore, political pop artist Zhu has no idea why
people like his art.
Stephen McGuinness was bored stiff. For hours he had been perusing
row after monotonous row of traditional bird and flower scrolls
at the China Art Expo in Guangzhou. He had all but given up
hope of finding any compelling work for his Hong Kong and Singapore
galleries. Then McGuinness stumbled upon the stall of a little-known
Beijing painter. With his baggy pants, unlaced combat boots
and shaven head, the former People's Liberation Army soldier
looked more like a punk than an artist - but that didn't diminish
the force of his paintings. They were both political and social,
almost eerie, tragi-comic portraits of life in China. Thrilled,
McGuinness bought all the pieces for about $150 each. "I was
so excited I couldn't stop talking about him," he says. That
was seven years ago.
These days the punk, 34-year-old Zhu Wei, is rapidly becoming
one of the most famous of China's hot young avant-garde artists.
At Zhu's 2000 exhibition for McGuinness' Plum Blossoms gallery
in Hong Kong, paintings nearly flew off the walls at $40,000
for the largest works. Buyers have sometimes almost come to
blows over the right to own his colorful images of alienation
in China. Now, Zhu and his patron are taking on the world's
most vibrant art market, New York. Plum Blossoms is due to open
a branch on West 25th Street by April - a reaction to burgeoning
demands for contemporary Chinese art - and Zhu will be a leader
among the gallery's featured artists. "These {Chinese} artists
are going through the same things the Americans were going through
at the beginning of the century: economic change, political
change," says Howard Farber, president of China Avant-Garde,
a New York Internet gallery and art advisor for serious collectors.
"{In art,} the 20th century belonged to the U.S. The 21st is
going to belong to China."
Over the past decade, a wave of avant-garde Chinese artists
has made fortunes from art works that are often highly political.
Their images satirize China's socialist rituals, corrupt officials
and the deification of Mao Zedong. Zhu's work, too, plays with
socialist themes: in one series, for example, rows of alienated
men in Mao suits, staring into oblivion, march past an open
window. The avant-garde works, often referred to as Political
Pop, have sparked a debate in the art world: Is it great art
or just political gimmickry? Says Christina Chu, chief curator
of the Hong Kong Museum of Art: "We are really outgrowing our
curiosity about the Political Pop movement."
Zhu, however, insists his art isn't about politics - and it's
definitely not about selling paintings. In fact, he's totally
surprised by his own popularity. "I don't have a clue why people
like my art," he says. "The first time I saw the prices being
paid, I couldn't believe it." Stubborn and independent, he admits
to being pleased that people enjoy his work. But he refuses
to be influenced by collectors' tastes. "I don't create art
to gain the admiration of patrons," he says. "I think that kind
of artist is a fraud." Showing up at the Hong Kong gallery for
Asiaweek's photographer in old sweatpants and a T-shirt, Zhu
refuses to compromise, even for a camera. "There is nothing
to smile about," he explains. "When I smile I feel uncomfortable.
It's even worse than crying." Though he takes creative inspiration
from such varied sources as Iranian films and the darkly comic
novels of Czech EmigrE Milan Kundera, Zhu feels he's far from
achieving mastery of his subject. "I am not radical enough in
my work," he says. "My inhibitions have made me too passive."
To fans, however, Zhu's work is innovative, provocative and
politically explosive. Zhu's art "{challenges} the cultural
hegemony of the Party with criticism and indifference," wrote
Asian art critic Jeffrey Hantover in 1994. Zhu's early work
combines a traditional inkwash technique with modern subjects,
drawing on the movements of Political Pop and Cynical Realism.
Both styles emerged in the mid-1980s as commentary - often
satirical or ironic - on China's revolutionary political changes
and the sudden rise of consumerism. In Zhu's paintings, soldiers,
political figures and even giant vegetables are painstaking
rendered in an ancient technique that literally translates as
"meticulous brushwork." A frail-looking Deng is portrayed with
closed eyes and an enfeebled expression. Mao grins relentlessly,
also with eyes shut. PLA officers appear frequently, and in
a reworking of a famous Song dynasty painting of children playing,
Zhu substitutes Coca-Cola cans for toys. The poem inscribed
on the original painting is replaced by a Mao propaganda verse,
written during the Great Leap Forward.
Zhu's work seems to reflect the alienation he has experienced
in his own life. Born in 1966, he grew up amid the political
hysteria of the Cultural Revolution. During the frenzy of class
warfare, self-criticism and Mao fanaticism, Zhu's parents, both
doctors, had little time to care for him. At 16, Zhu joined
the army and stayed for a decade. He was demobilized in 1992
after receiving a degree from the PLA Art Academy.
Asiaweek Pictures. Speculative The story of Beijing, No. 25.
But Zhu refuses to be cubbyholed as a political artist. To him,
the images simply reflect the life he knows. He says the PLA
soldiers represent everyman. He insists he is not portraying
some kind of unique, satirical analysis of modern China. "If
you look carefully at Chinese society, you would see my paintings
only reflect reality," Zhu says. Indeed, many paintings appear
to be autobiographical. The shaved head and large lips of many
of his characters recall the artist himself. In his Tightrope
series, a big-headed kid, sometimes with tears in his eyes,
balances on a skinny rope. Zhu reveals that he was taunted for
his big head as a child "My grandmother would push on my forehead
every day before I went to school because all the other kids
teased me," he recalls.
Do Zhu's indirect, nonpolitical comments suggest that he is
afraid of Beijing's censors? "No artist can blame their own
limitations on their environment," he says. "As a matter of
fact, tension and friction in society are actually helpful to
an artist, they provoke you to create." Politics aside, Zhu's
persistent signature theme is the wide, vacant eyes of his figures.
In his world, men, women, children - even fish - bear witness
to their surroundings with a disconcerting, lidless stare. His
foray into fiberglass sculpture last year gave birth to slyly
humorous figures that are a modern play on the Qin dynasty terracotta
warriors. Instead of military garb and proud upright posture,
Zhu's characters sport Mao suits and tilt forward at an angle,
implying a bow of extreme deference. The precarious slant might
also suggest an imminent full-frontal crash-landing. Eminent
Beijing art critic Jia Fangzhou is struck by Zhu's work, but
also by his personal intensity. "His eyes reveal the untamed
recalcitrance of a renegade," Jia wrote in last year's Plum
Blossoms publication, Zhu Wei Diary. In the same book,
fellow critic Hantover gushed that Zhu's paintings were "radiant
with consciousness . . . irreverent and cheeky."
Even critics recognize that Zhu's technique is unusual. His
use of traditional media and his "meticulously colorful landscape
. . . give him a special appeal," says Hong Kong Museum of Art's
Chu. She points in particular to Zhu's early pieces: "There
are some raw sentiments there." And though his new work "has
calmed down a bit," Chu thinks Zhu will be popular for a while
to come. "Many critics feel he has a fetish following," she
says.
At Plum Blossoms, Zhu exhibitions are an eagerly anticipated
event. "As soon as his new works arrive, some clients come in
and buy on the spot," reports marketing manager Mami Shinozaki.
"If the new works are not available because they are being mounted,
sometimes people will buy after just looking at a snapshot."
Owner McGuinness is the first to admit that marketing and public
relations play critical roles in artists' popularity - and
their steadily rising value. The gallery is also convinced that
Zhu will take off in New York, where he has already made some
impact. Next month he will be represented for the fifth consecutive
year at the International Asian Art Fair. Last year three sets
of fiberglass sculptures were sold for $20,000 each. One set
was snapped up by a trustee of the Guggenheim Museum. "This
kind of artist is very unusual because he is constantly evolving,"
says Shinozaki. "He's not a commercial artist. He doesn't do
anything he doesn't want to. He knows what he wants. I think
artists like him are kind of innocent."
Back in Beijing, Zhu remains careless of opinion. His alienating
childhood grew into a solitary adult life. He spends much of
his time painting alone in his apartment with the curtains drawn,
the lights low and the stereo blasting. A die-hard devotee of
rock'n'roll, his favorites include close friend Cui Jian, a
Beijing rock star, and Pink Floyd. "My biggest regret," says
Zhu, "is that I didn't become a rock musician." He adds that
he can't stand to look at his own paintings. His studio walls
are bare.
And New York? Typically, Zhu expresses surprise but not delight
at the news of Plum Blossoms' new branch. "It's not important
to have a lot of Chinese art in the U.S.," he says. "One or
two artists is enough - and only if the art is really good,
really genuine." His latest series is tentatively based on the
Spring Festival. "My art always represents the common people,"
he says. "That is the most important to me. Spring Festival
itself is not important but it becomes meaningful in my art
because it is the most cherished holiday of the common people.
It represents China."
China Avant-Garde's Farber sees few boundaries and fewer obstacles
to a strong U.S. following for Zhu. "I am totally bullish on
the contemporary Chinese art market," he says. "I feel that
it is barely in its infancy. It's a genre that hasn't even seen
the light of day yet." That makes it a risky investment, but
one with no small allure. Yet it's not what Zhu is looking for
at all. "I wish people would see my works as an emotional investment,
not a calculated financial investment," he says. "I place more
importance on spiritual things, so I wish that only people who
find hope and emotional resonance in my work would think of
purchasing them." In the meantime, fans just hope Zhu will keep
painting.
Commentary
2003-12-06
Coming soon to the commentary column--behind the scenes stories of the how the articles are really put together--the difficulty in getting anyone to accept an interview in China, the political sensitivities, the great stuff that got cut because of space, and much more about the joys and frustrations of writing in China
