Read Online 33 Artists in 3 Acts by Sarah Thornton - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Thornton
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the bohemian tang of his studio, I surmise that he means that, when the Bordeaux starts flowing, it can get a little wild in here.
Expert craftsmanship—not to mention evidence of time-consuming labor—remains a driving force in Chinese art. However, Zeng is careful to position himself as an artist. “Craftsmen don’t put their emotions into what they make,” he says with a wave in the direction of the photo of Picasso. “Picasso’s ‘periods’ reflect his feelings at different points in his lifetime. Picasso isn’t my favorite painter but I admire his changes of style. Bacon . . . I never get tired of Bacon.”
One of the strengths of Zeng’s oeuvre is that, unlike a lot of Chinese painters, he hasn’t become stuck in a single, monotonous, signature style. “I summarize myself into four periods,” he says, explaining that these correspond to the production of his “Hospital” paintings (1989–93), “Masks” (1994–2004), “Portraits” (1999–present), and “Landscapes” (2002–present). His mask paintings are his most celebrated and coveted. In these brightly colored works, the masks either hide the characters’ emotions or represent truthful feelings that social etiquette and political circumstances prevent them from revealing.
Zeng tells me that he chose to be an artist in order to escape mundane routines imposed by others. His mother was in charge of entertainment at the worker’s union; his father he describes as simply a worker. “When you graduate from university, you are usually assigned a job,” he explains. “I chose to be an independent artist because I wanted the freedom to paint what I liked without restrictions.”
The spontaneous reference to artistic freedom is intriguing, given the Chinese government’s policing of so many aspects of culture. What about self-censorship, I ask. “I paint out of enjoyment,” he replies. “Itmay not be beautiful for the common people.” Something has been lost—I suspect intentionally—in translation. I decide to test Zeng, asking him about a taboo subject, the government-ordered massacre of several hundred young pro-democracy campaigners in Tiananmen Square on June 4, 1989. One of his staff immediately interjects with a quick, vehement lecture to him in Chinese. Even so, he is willing to speak to me about it, and does so—but only off the record.
In the past few days, I have spoken to ten or so Chinese artists, all of whom invoked their superlative personal freedoms, which they see as completely different from political liberties. Attitudes toward Ai Weiwei are varied but lean toward the negative. One artist who has known him since they both lived in New York says that he is a “bully with little tolerance for differences of opinion and an egotist with a dictatorial style that mirrors the methods of the Communist Party.” Another deplores him as a “politician in the art world and an artist in a political context.” By contrast, Zeng is much more circumspect. About Ai Weiwei, he says, “No matter what he did . . . it is not right to put him in jail. It will be very sad if he is not released soon.”
Throughout our conversation, my eyes are repeatedly drawn to the extravagant self-portrait in which Zeng wears the vivid red robe of a Buddhist monk with bare feet and extra-large hands. Unlike the earlier self-portrait, in which the artist’s eyes are downcast, here he looks directly at the viewer with bluish, rather than brown, eyes. His face is slimmer and paler than in real life. In one hand, he holds a thin paintbrush from which a long wisp of enchanted smoke curves upward into a dark gray sky. This carefully painted character brings verve to a vague, bleak, lifeless landscape. I point at the painting. Your definition of an artist? I half ask, half state. Zeng looks at the canvas for a few seconds. “Yes, an artist is a solitary philosopher,” he replies. Although the artist is depicted alone, his stare acknowledges an
Expert craftsmanship—not to mention evidence of time-consuming labor—remains a driving force in Chinese art. However, Zeng is careful to position himself as an artist. “Craftsmen don’t put their emotions into what they make,” he says with a wave in the direction of the photo of Picasso. “Picasso’s ‘periods’ reflect his feelings at different points in his lifetime. Picasso isn’t my favorite painter but I admire his changes of style. Bacon . . . I never get tired of Bacon.”
One of the strengths of Zeng’s oeuvre is that, unlike a lot of Chinese painters, he hasn’t become stuck in a single, monotonous, signature style. “I summarize myself into four periods,” he says, explaining that these correspond to the production of his “Hospital” paintings (1989–93), “Masks” (1994–2004), “Portraits” (1999–present), and “Landscapes” (2002–present). His mask paintings are his most celebrated and coveted. In these brightly colored works, the masks either hide the characters’ emotions or represent truthful feelings that social etiquette and political circumstances prevent them from revealing.
Zeng tells me that he chose to be an artist in order to escape mundane routines imposed by others. His mother was in charge of entertainment at the worker’s union; his father he describes as simply a worker. “When you graduate from university, you are usually assigned a job,” he explains. “I chose to be an independent artist because I wanted the freedom to paint what I liked without restrictions.”
The spontaneous reference to artistic freedom is intriguing, given the Chinese government’s policing of so many aspects of culture. What about self-censorship, I ask. “I paint out of enjoyment,” he replies. “Itmay not be beautiful for the common people.” Something has been lost—I suspect intentionally—in translation. I decide to test Zeng, asking him about a taboo subject, the government-ordered massacre of several hundred young pro-democracy campaigners in Tiananmen Square on June 4, 1989. One of his staff immediately interjects with a quick, vehement lecture to him in Chinese. Even so, he is willing to speak to me about it, and does so—but only off the record.
In the past few days, I have spoken to ten or so Chinese artists, all of whom invoked their superlative personal freedoms, which they see as completely different from political liberties. Attitudes toward Ai Weiwei are varied but lean toward the negative. One artist who has known him since they both lived in New York says that he is a “bully with little tolerance for differences of opinion and an egotist with a dictatorial style that mirrors the methods of the Communist Party.” Another deplores him as a “politician in the art world and an artist in a political context.” By contrast, Zeng is much more circumspect. About Ai Weiwei, he says, “No matter what he did . . . it is not right to put him in jail. It will be very sad if he is not released soon.”
Throughout our conversation, my eyes are repeatedly drawn to the extravagant self-portrait in which Zeng wears the vivid red robe of a Buddhist monk with bare feet and extra-large hands. Unlike the earlier self-portrait, in which the artist’s eyes are downcast, here he looks directly at the viewer with bluish, rather than brown, eyes. His face is slimmer and paler than in real life. In one hand, he holds a thin paintbrush from which a long wisp of enchanted smoke curves upward into a dark gray sky. This carefully painted character brings verve to a vague, bleak, lifeless landscape. I point at the painting. Your definition of an artist? I half ask, half state. Zeng looks at the canvas for a few seconds. “Yes, an artist is a solitary philosopher,” he replies. Although the artist is depicted alone, his stare acknowledges an
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