Far and Away: Reporting from the Brink of Change

The closing of the exhibition paralyzed Chinese artists; they were discussing the next step when the June 4 massacre took place. Artists and idealists realized that they had no influence on their country’s future. The critic Liao Wen, who is Lao Li’s girlfriend, has written, “Today, surrounded by the ruins of bankrupt idealism, people have finally come to an unavoidable conclusion: extreme resistance proves only just how powerful one’s opponent is and how easily one can be hurt. Humor and irony, on the other hand, may be a more effective corrosive agent. Idealism has given way to ironic playfulness since 1989. It is hardly an atmosphere conducive to the serious discussion of art, culture and the human condition. People these days find all that stuff irrelevant.”

Some artists emigrated pre-’89; many others, immediately afterward. Most of the great figures of the old avant-garde have fled the country. Only one member of the Stars group remains in Beijing. Yet the idea of “No U-turn” goes on. Dozens go to Lao Li’s house every evening without fail.

Purposeful Purposelessness

Lao Li has defined six categories for contemporary Chinese art, some of which are more widely accepted than others. Artists complain that his categories are artificial, but the Chinese impulse to order things remains strong, and it is difficult to know how to begin to approach the variety of Chinese art without categorization. His taste extends more readily to painting than to performance, conceptual work, or installation. Of the categories of painting that he has defined, the two that are most discussed, debated, and, in the end, accepted are Cynical Realism and Political Pop.

Cynical Realism is very much a post-’89 style. Its primary exponents, Fang Lijun and Liu Wei, and its other practitioners, including Wang Jinsong and Zhao Bandi (who doesn’t like to be called a Cynical Realist), all have high-level academic training and are accomplished in photo-perfect figurative painting. The work, brightly colored and highly detailed, shows people strangely alienated from one another. Fang Lijun paints men without hair caught in disconnected proximity: one is in the middle of an enormous yawn; one grins at nothing; black-and-white swimmers float in a blank sea. The characters are always idle, sitting or swimming or walking around purposelessly. Using sophisticated composition and exquisite technique, Fang depicts an absence of activity that seems hardly worth depicting. The result is often funny, lyrical, and sad, a poignant representation of what he calls “the absurd, the mundane and the meaningless events of everyday life.”

Liu Wei and Fang Lijun are always grouped together artistically and socially. They went to the same academy and have been friends for years. They have a confrontational air: in Fang Lijun this seems like a front, but in Liu Wei it is an authentic streak of hooliganism. Liu Wei is the son of a high-level general in the Red Army, and he usually paints his parents. In the eyes of most Chinese, highly placed army officials live well and are happy; Liu Wei portrays “the helplessness and awkwardness of my family and of all Chinese people” in hilarious and grotesque pictures. “In 1989, I was a student,” he said. “I joined the democracy movement, like everyone, but didn’t have an important part of it. After June fourth, I despaired. Now I have accepted that I cannot change society: I can only portray our situation. Since I cannot exhibit in China, my work cannot be an inspiration here, but painting helps to relieve my own sense of helplessness and awkwardness.”

Wang Jinsong conveys this scathing message with almost plastic smoothness. Zhao Bandi’s work is subtle, slightly twisted, a series of meticulous and beautifully colored monumental images of people imprisoned and alone. The Cynical Realist movement is not entirely cynical; the idealism of these artists lies in their portraying a cynicism their society would deny. These works are like cries for help, but they are also playful and roguish, presenting humor and insight as empowering defenses. “I want my paintings to be like a thunderstorm,” Fang Lijun said, “to make such a powerful impression when you see them and to leave you wondering afterwards about how and why.”