The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Chinese Aesthetics and Philosophy of Art 9781350129764, 9781350129795, 9781350129771

Citation preview

THE BLOOMSBURY RESEARCH HANDBOOK OF CHINESE AESTHETICS AND PHILOSOPHY OF ART

i

Bloomsbury Research Handbooks in Asian Philosophy Series Editors Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad, Lancaster University, UK Sor-hoon Tan, National University of Singapore, Singapore

Editorial Advisory Board Roger Ames, Professor of Philosophy, Peking University, Beijing, China; Doug Berger, Associate Professor of Philosophy, Leiden University, The Netherlands; Carine Defoort, Professor of Philosophy, KU Leuven, Belgium; Owen Flanagan, James B. Duke Professor of Philosophy, Duke University, USA; Jessica Frazier, Lecturer in Religious Studies, University of Kent, UK; Chenyang Li, Professor of Chinese Philosophy, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore; Ronnie Littlejohn, Professor of Philosophy, Director of Asian Studies, Belmont University, USA; Evan Thompson, Professor of Philosophy, University of British Columbia, Canada Bringing together established academics and rising stars, Bloomsbury Research Handbooks in Asian Philosophy survey philosophical topics across all the main schools of Asian thought. Each volume focuses on the history and development of a core subject in a single tradition, asking how the field has changed, highlighting current disputes, anticipating new directions of study, illustrating the Western philosophical significance of a subject, and demonstrating why a topic is important for understanding Asian thought. From knowledge, being, gender, and ethics, to methodology, language, and art, these research handbooks provide up-to-date and authoritative overviews of Asian philosophy in the twenty-first century. Available Titles The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Chinese Philosophy and Gender, edited by Ann A. Pang White The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Chinese Philosophy Methodologies, edited by Sor-hoon Tan The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Contemporary Japanese Philosophy, edited by Michiko Yusa The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Early Chinese Ethics and Political Philosophy, edited by Alexus McLeod The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Emotions in Classical Indian Philosophy, edited by Maria Heim, Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad, and Roy Tzohar The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Indian Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art, edited by Arindam Chakrabarti The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Indian Ethics, edited by Shyam Ranganathan The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Indian Philosophy and Gender, edited by Veena R. Howard The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Indian Philosophy of Language, edited by Alessandro Graheli The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Ved¯anta, edited by Ayon Maharaj ii

THE BLOOMSBURY RESEARCH HANDBOOK OF CHINESE AESTHETICS AND PHILOSOPHY OF ART Edited by Marcello Ghilardi and Hans-Georg Moeller

iii

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2021 Copyright © Marcello Ghilardi, Hans-Georg Moeller and Contributors, 2021 Marcello Ghilardi and Hans-Georg Moeller have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. xiv constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Cover image © All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: ePDF: eBook:

978-1-3501-2976-4 978-1-3501-2977-1 978-1-3501-2978-8

Series: Bloomsbury Research Handbooks in Asian Philosophy Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

iv

In memory of Stefano Zacchetti (1968–2020),Yehan Numata Professor of Buddhist Studies and Professorial Fellow at Balliol College, University of Oxford

v

vi

CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Introduction: On Art, Philosophy, and Aesthetics in the Chinese Context Marcello Ghilardi

x xiv

1

Part One: Aesthetic Theories Editors’ Introduction to Part One Marcello Ghilardi

17

1 A Sketch of Chinese Aesthetics Wang Keping

19

2 Beauty Lies in the Image: Endowing Fundamental Theories of Aesthetics with Chinese Characteristics Ye Lang

51

3 A Cosmological Aestheticism: The Interpretive Context for Confucian Role Ethics. Roger T. Ames

63

4 “Living and Dead Rules”: The Role of Rules in Chinese Aesthetics Karl-Heinz Pohl

79 vii

viii

CONTENTS

Part Two: Aesthetic Concepts Editors’ Introduction to Part Two Marcello Ghilardi

103

5 Defining Mindscape (yijing ᜿ຳ): Extension, Intension, and Beyond Peng Feng

105

6 On the Notion of Xiang 䊑 (“Image-Phenomenon”) in Landscape Ink Painting Marcello Ghilardi

121

7 Nature as Not-yet-existing Beauty: Infra-thin Poetic Art of Enchorial-topia Xia Kejun

137

8 Some Aesthetic and Artistic Categories in Chinese Painting and Calligraphy Yolaine Escande

155

9 What is “The Aestheticization of Everyday Life”? Zhou Xian

183

Part Three: Aesthetic Practices and Excercises Editors’ Introduction to Part Three Marcello Ghilardi

199

10 The Aesthetics of Music in the Ethical Discussion in Early China Elisa Levi Sabattini

201

11 The Mechanics of Change: The Aesthetics of Chinese Ceramics in the Northern Song (960–1127) and Early Jin (1127–1234) Dynasties Sabrina Rastelli 12 New Theater and New Drama: Chinese Aesthetic Modernity Through the Drama Activities in the Early Twentieth Century Li Kelin

213

241

CONTENTS

ix

13 The Aesthetics of the Grotesque in Modern Chinese Narrative Nicoletta Pesaro

261

14 The Role of Stone in the Chinese Rock Garden Graham Parkes

277

15 Aesthetics in Asian Martial Arts Barry Allen

301

GLOSSARY

311

ANNOTATED ESSENTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

317

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

321

INDEX

325

FIGURES

CHAPTER 6 6.1

Shitao, Lonely Mountain (1707) (Alamy).

126

6.2

Shitao, Not Far From Mount Huang, the Buffalo in the Rice Field (1707) (Alamy).

130

CHAPTER 8 8.1

8.2

8.3

8.4

x

Zhang Xu (ca. 675-ca. 749), Four Poems in Ancient Styles (Siti shushi), ink on paper, 29.5 x 195.2 cm, Shenyang, Liaoning Provincial Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

161

Huaisu (725–785), Autobiography (Zixu tie), ink on paper, 28.3 x 755 cm., Taipei, Taiwan National Palace Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

161

Gaoxian (ninth century), Ten Thousand Characters in Cursive Script (Caoshu qianziwen), ink on paper, 30.8 x 331.3 cm, Shanghai, Shanghai Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

165

Zhao Mengfu (1254–1322), Record of the Miaoyan Monastery in Huzhou (Huzhou Miaoyansi ji), ink on paper, 34.2 x 364.5 cm, Princeton University Art Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

166

FIGURES

8.5

8.6 8.7

8.8

8.9

xi

Yan Zhenqing (709–785), Altar for the Immortal Magu (Maguxian tan ji), each leaf 12.7 x 26.7 cm, Song dynasty ink rubbing (Wikimedia Commons).

167

Liu Gongquan (778–865), Mystery Pagoda (Xuanmita bei), 841, Song dynasty ink rubbing (Wikimedia Commons).

168

Yan Zhenqing (709–785), Draft of the Eulogy to My Nephew (Jizhiwen gao), 758, ink on paper, 28.2 x 72.3 cm, Taipei, Taiwan National Palace Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

169

Chu Suiliang (596–658), Preface to the Holy Teachings of the Wild Goose Great Pagoda (Da yanta shengjiao xu), Song dynasty ink rubbing (Wikimedia Commons).

172

Ouyang Xun (557–641), Source of the Nine Times Perfected Palace Inscription (Jiuchenggong Liquan ming), Song dynasty ink rubbing (Wikimedia Commons).

173

8.10 Yan Zhenqing (709–785), Gratitude to the Many Treasures Pagoda (Duobaota ganying bei), Song dynasty ink rubbing (Wikimedia Commons).

174

8.11 Li Bo (701–762), The Ascension of the Yang Terrace (Shang Yangtai tie) manuscript, ink on paper, 28.5 x 38.1 cm, Peking, Palace Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

175

8.12 Attributed to Chu Suiliang, Song dynasty copy, Yinfu Classic in Great Characters (Dazi yinfu jing), ink on paper, 21 x 394 cm, San Francisco, Asian Art Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

176

8.13 Attributed to Chu Suiliang, Song dynasty fake, Ode to Ni Kuan (Ni Kuan zan), ink on paper, 24.6 x 170.1 cm, Taipei, Taiwan National Palace Museum (Wikimedia Commons).

177

CHAPTER 11 11.1 Bowl decorated with large peony spray. Stoneware with blue-green glaze, Yaozhou ware, Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), excavated at the Yaozhou kiln site, Yaouzhou Museum (photograph by the author).

217

xii

FIGURES

11.2 Hump mold with large peony spray. Stoneware, Yaozhou kiln, Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), excavated at the Yaozhou kiln site. Yaouzhou Museum (photograph by the author).

220

11.3 Drawing of upside-up firing (left) and upside-down firing (right) adopted at the Ding kilns. From Huang Xin, “Dingyao wai gua youqi zhuangshi fangfa tanxi”, in Zhongguo Dingyao, ed., Beijing Yishu Bowuguan (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), 293.

221

11.4 Fragment of Ding ware showing the motif of a metal vase from the Bogutu. From Mu Qing, “Dingyao baici zhuangshi jifa ji dingshengqi de dianxing wenyang”, in Zhongguo Dingyao, ed., Beijing Yishu Bowuguan (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), 290. 226 11.5 Fragment of a ding-shaped vase with decorations imitating those on ancient bronze vessels. Porcelain, Ding ware, excavated in 2009 at the Ding kiln site in Quyang. Hebei Cultural Relics Institute (photograph by the author).

227

11.6 Fang hui-shaped vase, stoneware with blue-green glaze, Ru ware. Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), excavated at the Qingliangsi kiln site. From Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo, Baofeng Qingliangsi Ruyao zhi (Zhengzhou: Daxiang chubanshe, 2008, color plate 160).

229

CHAPTER 14 14.1 Yuan Jiang, Penglai Island (1708). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Chinese_garden#/media/File:YuanJiang-Penglai_Island.jpg (public domain)

282

14.2 Guo Xu, Mi Fu Bowing to a Rock (1503). Telling Images of China. Exhibit, Chester Beatty Library, Dublin, 2010 (public domain)

284

14.3 Guo Xi, Early Spring (1072), detail. https://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Guo_Xi#/media/File:Guo_Xi_-_Early_Spring_(large).jpg (public domain)

286

14.4 Mountain peak rock (photo by the author)

290

14.5 Taihu rock (photo by the author)

292

FIGURES

xiii

CHAPTER 15 15.1 Bruce Lee. Note the fingers (author’s photograph) 15.2 Chinese opera orchid pose, Mei Lanfang (1917). https://kknews.cc/history/zgxz5q3.html (public domain) 15.3 Wrist hold (incorrect, weaker) (author’s photograph) 15.4 Wrist hold (correct, stronger) (author’s photograph)

305 306 306 307

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A work of intellect such as a book is always, in certain ways, a collective work where different paths converge and intertwine. The present volume is the result of the efforts of a multiplicity of scholars, schools of thought, traditions, and perspectives. In general, gratitude is owed to all the contributors, and beyond them to the teachers and models who instructed all of us and led us on the path of aesthetics and philosophy. The editors are indebted to two most competent collaborators, Daniel Sarafinas and Robbert Zandbergen, for their instrumental and meticulous proofreading of all submitted drafts. We owe a special thanks to Colleen Coalter and Becky Holland at Bloomsbury Academic: they both strongly believed in the project from its very beginning and provided very kind, professional, and sensitive guidance. We are grateful for financial support received from the University of Macau (MYRG2018-00002-FAH and MYRG2016-00013-FAH). Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material in this book. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

xiv

Introduction On Art, Philosophy, and Aesthetics in the Chinese Context MARCELLO GHILARDI and HANS-GEORG MOELLER

1. A philosopher’s task is, among many others, to shed light on the categories and the notions we use in order to avoid misunderstandings, deluding ambuiguities, or fallacies. When we inattentively apply categories that developed out of a specific cultural context to a different tradition, or more specifically when we delve into the fascinating and yet dangerous practice of translation, we must be aware of some risks. At the same time, we know that translating and dealing with other frameworks or conceptual patterns is the only way to gain entry to the possibility of a diverse way of thinking. To prevent, on the one hand, a trivial relativism and, on the other hand, a subtle form of cultural colonialism, we should proceed step by step, with a sequential approach, multiple inquiries, different perspectives, through a patient and never-ending assimilation of those frameworks and ideas, digging ourselves out of our preconceived ideas. In other words, we need to be prepared to undergo changes and a certain intellectual and personal transformation. Concerning the Western tradition, the notion of “art” stems from the Latin ars, a term that—just as the Greek word techne—meant basically “skill, ability, technique, mastery,” and was employed mostly in the domain of crafts. From the eighteenth century, the notion of “fine arts” spread all over Europe, then all over the world, and now it seems that the modern meaning of “art” has a worldwide validity, while its history is a complex and articulated one.1 In the ancient Chinese culture, the character yi 㰍 did not apply to painting or calligraphy, but to the six activities believed to contribute to the 1

2

INTRODUCTION

literati’s education: rituals, music, writing, horseback riding, archery, and arithmetic. Literature, poetry, and painting did exist, but they were not yet considered as arts. It is not by accident, in fact, that there are no specific texts on painting or calligraphy before the Han dinasty (206 BCE–220 CE). Yi does not eminently designate a technical expertise. Etymologically, it presumably refers to the act of “planting,” or “cultivating,” because at the top it shows the radical of the “grass” (㢩 or 㢨). It can therefore suggest an assonance with the Latin verb col˘e re, “to cultivate” (from which the word “culture” derives). Subsequently, yi came to indicate in a broad sense the “self-cultivation,” where the “self ” does not allude to a psychological dimension, but to the “formless self ” that harmoniously connects the singularity to a global process. In the late Song (960–1279), the term yi underwent an important change in the Chinese treatises, and its meaning began to include poetry, music, calligraphy, and painting. In this light, when Western essays on art and aesthetics began to be translated into Chinese in the second half of the nineteenth century, the notion was ready to be adopted—and adapted—to receive the modern European meaning. In the same period, mainly through the mediation of Japanese translations, the term meixue 㖾ᆖ was introduced to convey the meaning of “aesthetics,” focusing on the idea of beautiful (mei). Given that “aesthetics” in the Western context can mean different approaches—not only a study on beauty, but also a theory of perception or a philosophy of artistic experience—in Japan and China the term included all possible meanings of the discipline, even if it seemed to be centered on the character mei. Along the neologisms adopted in Japanese and Chinese in those decades, it is worthwhile to mention also the term “philosophy,” zhexue ଢᆖ, that eventually became one of the numerous concepts that were inculturated in the East Asian countries at the turn of the century. These short remarks, with a philological flavor, appear to be necessary to introduce a book on Chinese aesthetics and philosophy of art. If aesthetic experience appears to be a universal dimension, and art as a human practice can be testified in all cultures (taking into account all the possible definitions of “art”), it is no less true that in the centuries-long tradition of treatises on poetry, calligraphy, and painting, the Chinese scholars almost never used the category of “beauty” or “aesthetics” to describe an accomplished work of art. Thus, the modern scholars’ choice to use a term such as “study of beauty” (meixue) to read retrospectively their own artistic tradition gains an interesting, and quite odd, character. This can be a positive, heuristic move, that allows a Western reader, too, to get an orientation and an opportunity to approach a historical process or conceptual systems that are distant in time and space. Given that a translation is necessary when we want to grasp

MARCELLO GHILARDI AND HANS-GEORG MOELLER

3

different structures of meaning, it is not only acceptable, but also profitable, to widen and adjust the meaning of “art,” “aesthetics,” and “philosophy” and use those words to explore a different cultural framework (moreover, those words underwent important changes in meaning also in the West during the last two millennia). To avoid the risk of an implicit or unconscious “hermeneutic colonization,” the basic assumption of which we must be fully aware is that language is not a neutral medium, a sort of postman that conveys meaning already structured and framed, in an out-of-language imaginary place or mind. Being aware of the significance or, we would say, the thickness of the words we use can help us to avoid the risk of neutralizing “otherness,” inscribing it in our regime of meaning and linguistic identity. In the midst of two extremes—inescapable difference and forced assimilation, or exotic alienation on one hand and Eurocentric obsession on the other—a patient and difficult work of interpretation opens up, and this is a truly philosophical, not only linguistic, experience. 2. The risk, a particularly insidious one at that, of bringing Chinese otherness back to the possibilities and specificities of Western thought occurs every time an attempt is made to reduce such otherness by bringing its forms of intelligibility back into those of the West without a patient work of conceptual mediation. But the problem is that, in order to make them clear, we often end up assimilating them. François Jullien has already warned against this danger, starting from the example of aesthetics.2 But intercultural thought strives to foster the understanding of the inter-connectedness and the reciprocal influences between different cultures, and at the same time tries to transform the notion of “culture” itself. From a static notion that thinks about cultures in terms of identity and essence, conceivable as autonomous or also complete in themselves, to intercultural thought according to which one attempts to recognize that cultures are processes and resources that continuously mingle and intertwine with each other. The more a culture is alive, the more it undergoes dynamics of change and hybridization; the more it is static and fixed, the more it appears to be dead. This attitude or mentality is absolutely not to be seen as a systematic thought. It is not an attempt to formulate a new form of comprehensive ideology sublating the previous ideologies; it rather suggests that we should detach from the place we wrongly consider obvious, from which we say “us” thereby immediately distinguishing ourselves from “others.” The forms of thought and life-worlds that developed out of Europe are indeed interesting and fascinating, but for a long time they have been supposed not to bear any philosophical insight. They can be the object of ethnological or anthropological studies, or even literary and religious

4

INTRODUCTION

research, but ultimately they do not produce any questioning or “disquiet” in the Western speculation. On the contrary, philosophizing in an intercultural perspective can undercover the local, situated dimension of every form of thought, and at the same time can enhance a mutual fertilization, beyond a mutual understanding of cultural paradigms.3 In taking on an intercultural attitude one does not aim to a mishmash of categories or conceptual frames, but rather to bestow new opportunities to consider the notions of culture and identity, and their turning from permanent conditions to processes, dynamic forces in a constant process of negotiation and metamorphosis. Considering cultures from the perspective of possible resources of the human intelligence instead of static identities offers the opportunity not only to explore analogies and differences between philosophical traditions and avoid the idea of monolithic systems of thought, but also to improve the value of an existential dialogue (not only a rhetorical one) in a continuous intertwining of ideas and practices of writing, speaking, and thinking. According to Chinese classical thought, the world lies and spreads out between Heaven and Earth (tiandi zhi jian ཙൠѻ䰤). Human intelligence and mutual understanding also deploy between: between languages, cultures, thoughts, forms of writing. The Chinese character jian 䰤 can be translated not only as “between,” “space,” “distance,” or “interval,” but also as “rhythm,” and life is what develops itself in the rhythm of beings, among them, according to their confrontation, dialogue, harmony, but also conflict and disruption. In a philosophical inquiry between languages, artistic experiences, and cultures, the dimension of translation obtains a central role. As Sandra Bermann writes: If we must translate in order to emancipate and preserve cultural pasts and to build linguistic bridges for present understandings and future thought, we must do so while attempting to respond ethically to each language’s contexts, intertexts, and intrinsic alterity. This dual responsibility may well describe an ethics of translation or, more modestly, the ethical at work in translation. It can at least provide a moment of reflection in which an ethical relationship to others and to the self, to language and its international dissemination and transformation, might be conceived.4 More than a final solution to different perspectives, in a dialogue we should be able to re-frame our questions, to shape more complex worldviews and accept the other’s provoking character. A book like this, with all the plurality of perpectives and frames it proposes and fosters, carries not only the intention to extend the reader’s knowldege about a culturally situated tradition of artistic practices and reflections, but also to be a useful tool for

MARCELLO GHILARDI AND HANS-GEORG MOELLER

5

intercultural thought. It provides an opportunity to be open to what has not yet been thought, through a common intelligence. An intercultural horizon aims to enhance this claim for universal participation, but we cannot consider it a priori. It should become an opportunity to improve the exercise to translate and share also the mental frames from which we formulate our opinions and appreciations. Thus we can work to promote a sort of “communicability”—in Kantian terms an allgemeine Mittelbarkeit—to establish, more than merely a fictitious common taste, but the terrain of a “polylogue” of evaluations, recognizing at the same time the need of for mutual recognition and a plurality of appraisals. In this way, we can forsake the pretense to find the truth, beauty, or aesthetic supervenience only in the limited area of English, or more generally in the Western languages. Given that the aesthetic dimension holds a great importance in contemporary society and in the cultural debate, and it almost seems one of the anthropological characteristics that constitute the present time, a widening of our categories and possibilities of aesthetic appraisal is definitely helpful. Also in the economic field there exists the category of aesthetics from the perspective of consumer goods, because commerce deals with goods, whose appearance is essential to their value and also produces enjoyment, a definite feature of the aesthetic object. Studying the aesthetic dimension in different cultural contexts also implies working out its issues, so that it can escape from a mere emotionalism and from a perception without any intelligent elaboration. Aesthetics should improve a form of self-reflection among different cultures, and is decisive in all that concerns the scope of a vita activa (active life) in the contemporary human society. In fact, art is not a neutral space, an irenic place of exchange and confrontation between cultures. There is not a universal meaning for art, or even something like “art” that is recognized everywhere. Working off of such a notion, and on the frames and patterns from which it stems, boosts a practice of cultural interference, i.e., a movement that activates plural opportunities of acknowledgment, exploiting differential and cultural gaps. In optics, in the physics of waves, interference is the superposition of waves that produce an intensification, a decrease, or a destruction. According to biologists, an interference is produced by exogenous substances that adulterate the functionality of an endocrine system. In the field of intercultural philosophy, we can call interference the movement that activates processes of plural recognitions by a cross-cultural dialogue. Cultures can be considered as spaces of manifestation of interference: they are never “pure objects” for thought, because we can only think from the inside of a culture, and all the foreign cultures or systems of thought are seen through culturally and

6

INTRODUCTION

linguistically definite lenses. By paying attention to the aspect of interference, we can underline the active determination and the originally dynamic character of all the cultural realities, so we can avoid the trap of their hypostatization. Inter-ference is, above all, a strategy of considering the “inbetween” (inter-), a way to foster transformations. Aesthetic and artistic practices can be seen as specific, efficient, fertile “zones of interference”; they are crossing movements that produce connections, fecundations, percussions, rebounds. Interference impels us to discuss and question all the borders, when they are rigid and blocking instead of being occasions of contact and meeting. It leads us to think about borders in a very new way, turning them into thresholds, a way of communication and passage. 3. In the light of what has been said so far, this collection of essays is an attempt to point out the multiplicity and the manifold character of ancient, modern, and contemporary approaches to Chinese art, art theories, and aesthetic values. The book is divided into three sections. The first, “Aesthetic Theories,” deals mainly with general frames and the theoretical treatises, or art theories, developed during the long history of Chinese thought. In the first chapter, Wang Keping sketches an introduction to Chinese aesthetics in a historical sequence, approaching the matter from the classical (before the interaction with the West) and the modern perspectives. These two horizons are distinguished in terms of theoretical categories, but they are interlinked in various ways with regard to their connection with the Chinese cultural heritage and the three pillars of Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism. This chapter exposes some fundamental features of the classical horizon, and presents some of the most influential theories in modern Chinese aesthetics that have been developed out of the classical horizon. In the second chapter, Ye Lang explores the traditional Chinese aesthetic spirit from four persepctives. First, the perspective of ontology in classical Chinese aesthetics introduces the intrinsic quality of beauty that refers to “mind-image” (yixiang); this means that the ontology of beauty cannot be separated from aesthetic practice and the creative activity of the human mind. Second, from the perspective of pursuing a good life, the aestheticization of daily life is accounted for, which plays an important part in traditional Chinese aesthetics. The common people as well as the literati tried to construct a beautiful living atmosphere. Third, from the perspective of appreciating the beauty of nature, the author deals with the relation between human beings and nature to foster an ecological awareness. Last but not least, the spiritual realm is seen as essential in Chinese aesthetics as a sacred and permanent value. Ye Lang suggests that the traditional Chinese aesthetic spirit has both academic value and practical significance in contemporary contexts.

MARCELLO GHILARDI AND HANS-GEORG MOELLER

7

Roger Ames writes about the early Chinese cosmology and the Great Tradition commentary on the Yijing (the Book of (Ex)changes), presenting it as an aestheticism that serves as the interpretive context for the Confucian philosophical tradition. What makes this Confucian cosmology an aesthetic order rather than reductionistic rational order is that it is holistic, unbounded, inclusive, and resolutely anarchic. In the patterned order of the cosmos, in which no single privileged order predominates, all things—or better, “events”—are without exception not only participants in the production of the contrapuntal harmony of the social, natural, and world orders, but also have their own unique role in collaborating with their environing others to generate everything else. Confucian role ethics as a corollary to this cosmology is a philosophical aestheticism that registers all of the relationships that collaborate in constituting each person as being relevant in degree to the totality of the effect achieved as that person’s persisting yet evolving identity. This vision of the moral life appeals to the holistic and nested nature of vital relationships, and a holographic conception of persons as they are defined in focus-field rather than part–whole terms. Karl-Heinz Pohl then displays and analyzes the role of rules, starting from the evidence that traditional Chinese poetics and art theory give weight to two seemingly contradictory notions: to naturalness (ziran) and regularity (fa). Central to this topic is the question of “rule/method” (fa) in poetry and art. As all literature and art has a relationship to philosophy and language, the discussion on the role of fa, or rules, has both linguistic and ideological roots. The chapter traces these two roots in detail, that is, in terms of philosophy, to the teachings of Legalism, Daoism, and Buddhism. Chinese literary and art theorists, throughout history and with a particular inspiration from Daoism, have stressed the notion that a work of art both follows and transcends rules. They also spoke of “living rules” (huo fa) as opposed to “dead rules” (si fa). Hence, the unity of naturalness and regularity (or rule)— that is the notion of “living rules” or that of “no rule,” described by the painter Shitao at the beginning of the eighteenth century—appears to be of utmost importance for an understanding of Chinese aesthetics, if not for Chinese culture in general. Opening Part Two, titled “Aesthetic Concepts,” Peng Feng analyzes one of the most important concepts in traditional Chinese aesthetics, yijing. Despite the fact that this notion is alive in the Chinese discourse from the beginning of the twentieth century down to the present day, it did not become a topic in English-speaking aesthetics, literary theory, or art history. Peng argues that keeping the concept open is better than trying to define it once and for all because what we should get from artworks such as paintings and poems is not knowledge but experience.

8

INTRODUCTION

In the following chapter, Marcello Ghilardi reflects on the notion of xiang (“image,” or “phenomenon”). While in the European history of philosophy and art the two domains—the so-called “real” things (phainomena, in Greek) and their images (eidola)—have been strongly distinguished and separated, from an ontological point of view in Chinese painting we can find the idea that a unique atmosphere, or vital energy, circles and enlivens both phenomena and pictures, the painted landscape and the ink on paper. The artist’s vocabulary is indeed a good pathway to understand what is at stake in a work of art. Through the examinaton of some crucial notions linked to that of image/phenomenon, such as “modification-transformation” (zaohua) or “spiritual resonance” (qiyun), in comparison with some Western key notions such as “creation,” “author,” or “representation,” a general understanding of Chinese art of ink painting is presented. Xia Kejun takes into account some poems from the literary tradition, and like Ye Lang he focuses on the relationship between the human dimension and nature. In particular Xia shows a peculiar aspect of what we can call “beauty,” i.e.. a specific event that stems out from nature in its encounter with human expression, thought, and language. Following T.W. Adorno, according to whom “art is a cipher of the not-yet-existing” (die Chiffre des noch nicht Seienden), the author argues that we can foster new meanings for aesthetics if we reconsider, along with Chinese landscape painting, a notion of nature as an inchoative process, as ziran—a spontaneous process and lively dynamism, between aesthetic gesture and an ethical “posture.” In her chapter, Yolaine Escande deals particularly with Chinese painting and calligraphy where the qualities describing a calligraphy or a brushstroke (fat, thin, vulgar, free, etc.) are seemingly to be applied to a human being rather than to a graphic description. In fact, since ancient times calligraphers and painters have embodied a kind of moral guaranty to the ruling authorities, and formal changes in arts, especially in calligraphy, symbolize political changes. However, before being a political image, calligraphy is an image of human beings: some artists are seen as “models” and it is believed their human qualities are expressed in their artworks. The political appropriation of artistic and ethical qualities contributes to legitimize the validity of a power, and the propagation of a specific style means to assert specific moral values. The vocabulary of the Chinese artistic tradition is examined through physiological or bodily descriptive terms and through character-type descriptive terms; thus, the aesthetic and artistic categories help in understanding the emphasis put on the artist instead of the artwork. Zhou Xian’s chapter is focused on the “aestheticization” of everyday life in the post-revolutionary era as an interesting, yet complex, cultural phenomenon. It is not possible to give positive or negative appraisal to this

MARCELLO GHILARDI AND HANS-GEORG MOELLER

9

kind of general aestheticization by employing the traditional aesthetic values, so our task seems to be adopting new ideas or perspectives. Today taste, and the ability to make choices involving taste itself, need a cultivating process: they are products of a certain education, and they are closely connected with a cultural capital in the sociological sense. Aesthetics, therefore, appears nowadays as a means of counteracting the restrictions of daily life. Part Three is devoted to “Aesthetic Practices and Exercises.” It mainly concerns concrete practices of art and embodied experiences. In the first chapter of this last section, Elisa Levi Sabattini plunges into the aesthetic of music, which played a crucial role within ethical discussions in early China. The idea of music and its aesthetic power over the people became an instrument for good government, especially in the Confucian tradition, and was considered the complementary part of ritual (li). Given that ritual was the foundation of an orderly society, the aesthetics of music was deeply connected to ethical thought. Music was an “aesthetic practice” able to transform the bodily (social) part and the psychological (behavior) one; it could be considered as a sort of “therapy of instincts.” By guiding the people’s heart, the ruler was able to control the people’s behavior and habits. Sabrina Rastelli’s chapter is concerned with the aesthetics of ceramics. Starting from the second half of the fourteenth century, writings on antiques, including ceramics, began to be published in increasing numbers. Therefore we can have a good overall understanding of the admiration for ancient wares from that time onwards. However, Ming, Qing, and Republican period sources tend to present earlier ceramics in a rather idealized and romanticized manner, which does not necessarily coincide with the perception of Ding, Yaozhou, Ru, or Jian wares (just to mention a few) at the time of their manufacture. For this reason the first part of this chapter is devoted to the understanding of Song ceramics in the context in which they were produced and enjoyed, while the second focuses on the taste of later connoisseurs (mainly Ming and Qing dynasties). To complete this exploration, the concluding section converges on their appreciation in the West through the study of early scholarly publications on the subject and the formation of great collections at the beginning of the twentieth century up to today’s museum displays. Museum display is in fact an important aspect of the appreciation of artifacts in today’s world, therefore it is interesting to compare the methods applied in China and in the West. In the following chapter, Li Kelin presents a study of early huaju, a new genre of drama that may provide an illuminating perspective on the shifting nature of aesthetic experience in the China of this era. Her essay reflects on huaju by drawing together various elements that contributed to its artistic and intellectual fermentation, the enlightenment movement in China which

10

INTRODUCTION

includes the New Culture movement and the May 4th Movement, reformation in folk drama starting from the late Qing, the advance of new stage technologies and new architectural theaters, and problems of visuality and self-identity. By exploring the interrelations and intersections among these elements, Li’s study attempts to reconsider the rise and fall of this genre of modern drama. Moreover, she aims to show how the performance of huaju is inseparable from a larger reshaping of subjectivity in the process of modernization. Indeed, the continuity between the past and the present makes it more urgent to examine the organization of aesthetic experience in the early twentieth century. Nicoletta Pesaro writes about literary aesthetics, dealing especially with two main tendencies, or two paths, that have shaped the Chinese novel in the last one hundred years: Lu Xun’s path, based on a satirical and engaged approach to reality, and Lao She’s path, imbued with humor and a sentimental sense of life. Pesaro argues that this twofold approach is not only to be seen in the contrast between the comic and the satirical, but that a development of two different traditions can be traced also in terms of aesthetics of narrative in contemporary Chinese fiction, focusing on some authors whose reflection contributed to shape a modern Chinese concept of representation. Contemporary writers such as Yan Lianke, Yu Hua, and Mo Yan are taken into account because they perform an aestheticization of the absurd in their works. Authors such as Lao She, Wang Anyi, and Ge Fei unearth a more poetic tone out of tragic human existence, drawing from the Chinese tradition of the “lyrical novel.” Graham Parkes offers an insight into the role of stone in the rock garden. Few cultures have revered unhewn stone as much as the Chinese, and this reverence is most evident in the classical garden, where rocks constitute its basic framework as well as the major focal points. As long as we regard stone as inanimate matter we fail to appreciate the role it plays in the Chinese garden, which is a place not only for social interaction but also for aesthetic contemplation and the restoration of one’s vital energies. But if we make the conceptual shift from rocks as “lumps of matter” to “configurations of energy” (qi), this makes possible a perceptual transformation that unlocks the meanings of the classical garden and enriches the aesthetic experience. Drawing from relevant Daoist ideas, theories from fengshui, and aesthetic notions from poetry and painting, this chapter provides historical and philosophical background for a better understanding of the unique cultural— and lithocultural—construction that is the Chinese rock garden. The last chapter of the book is signed off by Barry Allen, who discusses the presence and role of aesthetics in Asian martial arts, analyzing the genesis of aesthetic qualities, including forcefulness and elegance. He distinguishes the

MARCELLO GHILARDI AND HANS-GEORG MOELLER

11

aesthetic quality of these movements—a by-product of their combative effectiveness—from their imitations in martial arts cinema. The orchestrated martial arts of cinema imitate, but do not replicate, this combative effectiveness. Cinematic martial arts are a different kind of movement, produced by different training, for purposes extraneous to the actual practice of the martial arts they imitate. The slippage between actual practice and its cinematic mimesis makes these movies mockeries of the very arts they pretend to honor. The volume is completed with a glossary of the Chinese aesthetic notions, mentioned in the previous chapters, written in Chinese characters, pinyin transliterations, and their English translations and meanings, along with an essential bibliography—a short list of the most influential texts about Chinese aesthetics. In regard to the range of topics and the general articulation of the chapters, this text is the result of a fruitful exchange between the editors and the authors of the essays, starting from the basic idea that multiple approaches, forms of knowledge, and competences are necessary in order to penetrate the vast and complex world of Chinese art and aesthetics. While privileging an eminently philosophical vision of aesthetic issues, the volume is in fact composed and intertwined with historical, anthropological, philological, literary, and also sociological perspectives and methodologies. If this complex set of disciplines, more or less explicitly summoned in the pages of the chapters, can give the impression of an all too varied set, the intimate conviction of the editors is that precisely the plurality of approaches can offer an elaborate and convincing picture. For this reason the topics range from an aesthetic consideration of the Book of Changes—the fundamental book of Chinese civilization—to modern and contemporary art, touching on popular culture as well; or from specific artistic expressions such as painting, ceramics, music, or theater to the widespread diffusion of aesthetics in nature and everyday life. Evidently, the goal is not to exhaust themes and problems related to art and aesthetics in Chinese culture, as this task could not be really fulfilled even by an encyclopedic set of volumes. Rather, the intent is both more basic and more ambitious. On the one hand, the editors and authors wanted to offer some critical tools and guidelines to help the reader navigate the complex world of Chinese aesthetics; on the other, they wanted to present and deal with some specific concepts in a philosophical engagement. Through different angles and intersections, each new chapter can be regarded as opening a new perspective, able to change the approach not only to Chinese aesthetics, but to aesthetics in its whole meaning, and thus offer multiple facets and possibilities for its development. In fact, the fundamental orientation that led to the work of weaving the various chapters also tried to account for another need: connecting Chinese

12

INTRODUCTION

aesthetics—in its most varied and plural meanings—to recent trends in philosophical aesthetics. These trends show increasing attention to the forms of aesthetic experience that are not merely linked to the artistic practice. The artworld is a subset, however decisive and exemplary, of the human aesthetic experience. It is an area that deserves to be studied with attention and with specific conceptual tools. However, aesthetic experience extends beyond the artistic experience. Works of art are not the only places where human beings experience a possible intensification of their perceptual possibilities and a corresponding expansion of their knowledge about themselves and the world. At the same time, publishing in English a text that is intended mainly for a Western audience means trying to make a significant contribution to the philosophy of art, paying attention to the fact that when we are supposed to speak about it, we are always using a particular natural language, and of course we are supposed to translate terms, notions, and categories from Chinese into English. So, we did not just want to compare and intertwine issues, concepts, and problems that are typical of the European and American lexicon with issues, concepts, and problems that belong to the Chinese cultural world. We have tried to produce repercussions, backlashes, in order to generate a sort of self-reflection of philosophy from its basic options, and to expose its notions to the exteriority and specificity of Chinese thought and arts. In François Jullien’s words: In fact, to gain entry to the possibility of a way of thinking, could we proceed in any other way than through gradual assimilation (along with the disassimilation of our own terms and assumptions), given that every continuous discourse is imprisoned in its tautology and becomes impervious to the work of difference? More than exposition or explanation, what is needed is a certain process and a certain journey, unfolding as organized detours.5 In traveling through Chinese aesthetic ideas, we wanted to shed light on different coherences and different patterns of thought—not only to widen our conceptual maps, but also to create new intertwinings, itineraries, and possibilities for a fertile intercultural dialogue.

NOTES 1. See Wladislaw Tatarkiewicz, A History of Six Ideas. An Essay in Aesthetics (New York: Springer, 1980), pp. 11–49. 2. François Jullien and Thierry Marchaisse, Penser d’un dehors (la Chine) (Paris: Seuil, 2000), pp. 156–167.

MARCELLO GHILARDI AND HANS-GEORG MOELLER

13

3. See François Jullien, L’écart et l’entre (Paris: Galilée, 2012), pp. 15–21. See also Wu Xiaoming, Cong wai bujiegou? Yu faguo hanxuejia/zhexuejia Zhulian duihua Ӿཆ䜘㔃ᶴ"䈝⌅ഭ≹ᆖᇦଢᆖᇦ⨐䬮ሩ䈍 [A deconstruction from the outside? A dialogue with French sinologist/philosopher Francois Jullien], in Fang Weigui (ed.), Sixiang yu fangfa. Quanqiuhua shidai zhongxi duihua de kenengxing ᙍᜣᆷᯩ⌅‫ॆ⨳ޘ‬ᰦԓѝഭ㾯ሩ䈍Ⲵਟ㜭ᙗ [Ideas and Methods. Possibilities of a Chinese-Western Dialogue in a Globalized Age] (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2014), pp. 136–167; and R. Panikkar, Myth, Faith and Hermeneutics (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), pp. 232–256. 4. S. Bermann and M. Wood (eds.), Nation, Language, and the Ethics of Translation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), pp. 5–7. 5. F. Jullien, The Great Image Has No Form, or On the Nonobject through Painting, trans. Jane Marie Todd (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2009), p. xvii.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Berman, Sarah and Michael Wood (eds.), Nation, Language, and the Ethics of Translation, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005. Jullien, François, The Great Image Has No Form, or On the Nonobject through Painting, trans. Jane Marie Todd, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2009. Jullien, François, L’écart et l’entre, Paris: Galilée, 2012. Jullien, François and Thierry Marchaisse, Penser d’un dehors (la Chine), Paris: Seuil, 2000. Panikkar, Raimon, Myth, Faith and Hermeneutics, New York: Paulist Press, 1979. Sze, Arthur, The Silk Dragon: Translations from the Chinese, Washington DC : Copper Canyon Press, 2013. Tatarkiewicz, Wladislaw, A History of Six Ideas: An Essay in Aesthetics, New York: Springer, 1980. Wu, Xiaoming, Cong wai bujiegou? Yu faguo hanxuejia/zhexuejia Zhulian duihua Ӿཆ䜘㔃ᶴ"䈝⌅ഭ≹ᆖᇦଢᆖᇦ⨐䬮ሩ䈍 [A deconstruction from the outside? A dialogue with French sinologist/philosopher Francois Jullien], in Fang Weigui (ed.), Sixiang yu fangfa: Quanqiuhua shidai zhongxi duihua de kenengxing ᙍᜣᆷᯩ⌅‫ॆ⨳ޘ‬ᰦԓѝഭ㾯ሩ䈍Ⲵਟ㜭ᙗ [Ideas and Methods. Possibilities of a Chinese-Western Dialogue in a Globalized Age], Beijing: Peking University Press, 2014.

14

PART ONE

Aesthetic Theories

15

16

Editors’ Introduction to Part One MARCELLO GHILARDI

This section contains four contributions, which aim to illuminate some basic questions of Chinese aesthetics by going back to the theoretical frameworks that organize Chinese thought as a whole. In the first chapter, Wang Keping outlines a general introduction to Chinese aesthetics by crossing the main philosophical-religious currents of China, thus highlighting the strong ties that the artistic experience has bound with the whole of the cultural heritage. Confucianism, Daoism, Mohism, and Buddhism are the particular traditions that innervate the arts and constitute a common thread between the artistic practice and the constitution of society. It is possible to trace these developments up to the contemporary age, which is indebted in several ways to the Western conceptual apparatus. Moving from this problematic horizon, Ye Lang points out the identification of some difficulties he already found when he tried to define some basic lines of Chinese aesthetics in order to account for it in its breadth and complexity. In his chapter the intercultural dialogue is made explicit and builds a network of connections to follow between Western categories and Chinese characteristics, and he describes and understands the role and the importance of the arts and aesthetic reflection in the Chinese world, especially during the transition to modernity. The contributions of the two authoritative Western scholars who have signed the third and fourth chapters, Roger T. Ames and Karl-Heinz Pohl respectively, show a sort of genealogical excavation of the themes and characteristics of Chinese aesthetics in relation to cosmology and Confucian ethics, with references to two main pillars of Chinese civilization, namely the Book of Changes and Confucius’ thought. 17

18

EDITORS’ INTRODUCTION TO PART ONE

Therefore, the first section displays a great coherence in the exercise of genealogical excavation to bring out how the basic traits of Chinese culture have been made visible and clear through careful analysis. But the section also shows how artistic practices and aesthetic perspectives have always been informed, modulated, and molded by the great categories which distinguish Chinese thought (i.e., the Chinese-speaking thought which has been expressed by the Chinese language and form of writing) from its origins, even in its internal variations and differences.

CHAPTER ONE

A Sketch of Chinese Aesthetics WANG KEPING

This opening section offers a brief account of some highlights of Chinese aesthetics from the past to the present. It keeps its focus on the mainstream of Chinese heritage, a mainstream that comprises such leading schools of thought as Confucianism, Daoism (Taoism), Mohism, and Chan Buddhism, among others. In regard to the rise of modern Chinese aesthetics in the twentieth century, it then proceeds to explore two new theories concerning the poetic state par excellence and art as sedimentation from a transcultural perspective.

1. THE CONFUCIAN WAY Confucianism is usually thought of as Confucian humanism. This is mainly because Confucius (551–479 BCE) himself and his successors throughout Chinese history remain preoccupied with the idea of ren ӱ (jen) as humaneness or humanity, etc. Humaneness tends to be identified with compassion, reciprocal kindness and benevolence, whereas humanity tends to be identified with human nature nurtured by human culture and moral civilization. In fact, both of them are intended to enhance inward cultivation in order to make the human individual become an ideal personality. The Becoming of the Ideal Personality This ideal personality for Confucianism is called the “sage-saint.” Secularly he shares the emotions, desires, and the needs of ordinary people. What 19

20

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

makes him a “sage” is his moral power and what makes him a “saint” is his transcendence over this-worldly values and his utmost union with the universe. In terms of his achievements, he is able to “benefit the people through his instructions” and in terms of his inner personality, he is characterized by the ability to “follow the desires of the heart without overstepping the bounds of what is appropriate.” In effect, he “wanders in the arts” and is “perfected in music.”1 All this may elicit one to arrive at the conclusion that the ideal personality grows out of music and the arts. How is it possible to fulfill the teleological pursuit? As observed in the Confucian Analects, such virtues as humaneness, filialness, reverence, universal love, righteousness, and so forth all originate from human emotions. These emotions are considered to be the ultimate basis of humaneness in one sense, and in the other, the starting point of Confucian humanism and its conception of human nature with innate goodwill.2 This is because both the Confucian preoccupation and the Chinese tradition focus on channeling human emotions into actual interpersonal relationships and even artistic creations. Ostensibly, the best-loved subjects in Chinese arts and letters are human affections amid human relationships of all conceivable kinds under varied life circumstances. Thus, to the extent of cultivating such emotions in order to accomplish the ideal personality, proposed are two approaches to education in which the arts play a crucial part. The two approaches include “wandering in the arts” and “being perfected in music,” both drawn from the following two statements: “Set your intention upon the Dao, rely on its virtue, lean on humanness, and wander in the arts”3 and “Be awakened by poetry, be established by rites, and be perfected by music.”4 As indicated in the first statement, the Dao is the objective law, its virtue the foundation, and humaneness the pillar. The arts are free play in rites, music, archery, charioteering, reading-writing, and arithmetic. Ranked alongside the Dao, virtue, and humaneness, “wandering in the arts” implies a sound mastery of practical skills, thus involving both a good understanding and the capacity of making use of nature’s lawfulness. Based on this mastery, freedom is experienced as the outcome of free play in the arts. “This sense of freedom is directly related to artistic creativity and to the experience of creativity in other endeavors. It is essentially an experience of that aesthetic freedom in which purposiveness is united with lawfulness.”5 More significantly, this sense of freedom denotes an overall maturity of the personality through a complete mastery and appropriate use of practical crafts and objective laws. It hereby displays a pragmatic wisdom of the personality, serves as a sort of free willpower, and assists a person to willingly and firmly “set [his/her] intention upon the Dao, rely on its virtue, and lean on humaneness” at any rate.

WANG KEPING

21

Parallel to “wandering in the arts” is “being perfected in music” in regard to the becoming of the ideal personality. In Confucian thought, humaneness is near to music, and music is the direct shaping of the emotional psyche. As noticed in the second statement mentioned above, poetry is the stimulus to motivate human individuals for becoming better, rites or ritual ceremonials are the codes of conduct to remold and establish the gentlemanlike patterns of behavior, and music is the supreme art to help accomplish the perfection of human personality. In comparison, poetry inspires or enlightens a person mainly by using poetic images and sentiments that tend to evoke human emotions, feelings, and concerns about certain events expressed in poetry through simile, metaphor, and allegory, among other figurative devices. Rites as codes of conduct or social mores coerce human individuals to comply in everyday life. Music directly affects, nourishes, improves, and sublimates the human temperament and spirituality. On this account, “being perfected in music” is above both the function of poetry and that of rites altogether because music as such cultivates from within the inner spirit of a person. In other words, music for education is delicate, deliberate, and self-conscious as it works down straight into the mind-heart and helps build a complete or whole character. On this account, what is noteworthy follows: “wandering in arts” and “being perfected in music” do share something in common as both of them facilitate the pleasure of freedom, but their consequences turn out to be distinct in some way. That is, the pleasure of freedom experienced in “wandering in the arts” is attained through the mastery of objective laws at large, and the pleasure of freedom experienced in “being perfected in music” is directly related to inner spirituality of human individuals. This being the case, there are two sides to the coin in regard to the pleasure of freedom after all. This pleasure is multifaceted in kind. It is a natural human psychological emotion, a spiritual realization, and a freedom to live, in which human wisdom and virtuous behaviors are sedimented and transformed into a psychological noumenon that transcends its foundation of wisdom and morality. Having attained this pleasure of freedom, a person is prone to realize the ideal personality, thus enabling him to scorn riches, stay content with poverty, defy brute force, and behave freely and naturally toward others. It is about life, and also about aesthetics. And it also constitutes the highest level of “humaneness.”6 A Further Enhancement of the Ideal Along this line of thought, Mencius carried on the Confucian tradition. He therefore pushed further the ideal personality by proposing a set of high criteria. In his portrayal of “a good man” and “a true man” we read:

22

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

The desirable is called good; to have it within oneself is to be true. Fullness is called beautiful; to be filled and shine forth is called great. To be great and transform is to be a sage; to be a sage and unknowable is called divine.7 This portrayal reveals a ladder of ideal personality made up of six levels, including the good, the true, the beautiful, the great, the sage, and the divine. Noticeably, the level of “beautiful” is not only distinguished from but also placed above the levels of “good” and “true.” “Good” is accompanied with what is “desirable,” meaning whatever one does and seeks is in accord with the principles of humaneness and righteousness. “True” is equated with “having it within oneself,” meaning whatever actions one takes follow at any rate the principles of humaneness and righteousness as part of one’s own nature. “Beautiful” is identified with “fullness,” meaning that one acts naturally and constantly upon the principles of humaneness and righteousness as a result of having absorbed these principles into his personality and selfconsciousness. “Great” is tantamount to “being filled and shining forth,” meaning something brilliant, magnificent, and beautiful that well illuminates the power of the principles. “Sage” is “great” and able to “transform,” meaning an exemplary model of conduct for generations upon generations because of its powerful influence that guides and transforms people into moral and decent beings. “Divine” is the same as being “a sage and unknowable,” meaning the attainment of sageliness without making apparent endeavors due to the mystical and unknown potentials. Interestingly, what is meant by “beautiful” is, to Mencius’ mind, based on “good” and “true” such that it includes and goes beyond these two aspects. Meanwhile, the level of “beautiful” in the ladder serves as a mediated agency to move up to the upper levels of “great,” “sage,” and “divine,” because it is related to them one after another in an upward sequence. All these levels are not simply moral or ethical, but also aesthetic and teleological. They work together to demonstrate the step-by-step perfection of the ideal personality per se. To my mind, the ideal personality in the eyes of the Confucians carries with it a multifold mission in light of their teleological pursuits. For instance, it is expected in a moral sense to have such a perfected personality for the sake of modeling behavior with regard to others. It is assumed in a social sense to promote it for the improvement of human relations and the harmony of social community. It is supposed in a political sense to “govern the state well and pacify all under heaven” for the sake of world order and peace. It is also claimed in an aesthetic sense to develop good taste not only for the appreciation of arts, but also for the artistization of life or living experiences. As formulated above, the becoming of the ideal personality is closely allied

WANG KEPING

23

with the fundamental root of human emotions. This root is apt to grow into something either positive or negative. It therefore underlies the possibility of the ideal personality. For this reason, there arises the issue of how to cultivate and moderate human emotions. In the Confucian mentality, this issue is both aesthetic and moral, and thus arts play an important role. As portrayed in the Confucian advice, for example, a gentleman ought to do whatever possible to “wander in the arts” and “be perfected in music.” The Rationale of Equilibrium Harmony What, then, could be the most effective way of cultivating and moderating human emotions? In my observation, it is none other than the way of “equilibrium harmony” (zhong he ѝ઼). This way can also be referred to as the principle of correctness or moderation. It is grounded on the Confucian doctrine of the Golden Mean (zhong yong ѝᓨ) as “the correct course to be pursued by all under heaven,” and “the perpetual principle regulating all under heaven.”8 What is to be done in this regard? According to the doctrine, While there are no stirrings of pleasure, anger, sorrow, or joy, the mind may be said to be in the state of Equilibrium. When those feelings have been stirred, and they act in their due degree, there ensues what may be called the state of Harmony. This Equilibrium is the great root from which grow all the human acts in the world, and this Harmony is the universal path that they all should pursue. Let the states of Equilibrium and Harmony (zhong he) exist in perfection, and a happy order will prevail throughout heaven and earth, and all things will be nourished and flourish.9 Noteworthy in the argument are two stages of sentimental evolution and moderation: the initial stage in which the emotions are not stirred up yet and therefore remain in the state of equilibrium, and the secondary stage in which the emotions are already stimulated but moderated to the appropriate degree by means of such cardinal virtues as reciprocal love, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. He who can be self-disciplined when confronted with emotional stirrings is most likely to attain the realm of harmony at its best. He will then be able to follow the universal path and generate a positive impact on others who will be elicited to move along the path as well. This being true, a happy order for all under heaven can be created such that one will be in a position to become what he should be, and to live a life as he should live. In a word, the moderation of human emotions is none other than the harmonization of them by virtue of equilibrium harmony as the principle of

24

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

correctness. Such moderation manifests the beauty of appropriateness as a synthesis of aesthetic and moral dimensions, for it creates a balanced state of being both reasonable and emotional in the meantime, and retains human existence in a suitable balance between human nature and human sociality. All this facilitates the possible becoming of the ideal personality in the Confucian concern from the past to the present. On this account, equilibrium harmony is thought of as a rule of beauty as applied to a wider scope ranging from personality development, art making, and artistic evaluation among others. As regards the beauty of personality development according to the rationale of equilibrium harmony, what is affirmed is the goodness of individual personality in one sense, and the sociality of whole being in the other. From the Confucian viewpoint, what is aesthetically and morally significant is the union between goodness and sociality. As for art making according to the rationale in question, what is persistently emphasized is the complementary interaction between the outward and the inward and between the beautiful and the good. Thus, in most cases, what prevails in the expression of human emotions is the notion of being sorrowful without being harmful, and being joyful without being licentious, for this notion stems from equilibrium harmony, and is schematized to assess the social and moral functions of art. Undeniably, the Confucian emphasis on equilibrium harmony results in a corresponding structure of reason-cumemotion in artworks. This structure may be conducive to some disadvantages concealed in a negative mechanism. More often than not, it is inclined to show up in three domains at least. First, it constrains the creation of artwork because of the pursuit of the balanced structure of reason-cum-emotion, for what underlies and dominates the structure is moral teaching or didactic engagement. It interferes in art making as it serves as an obstacle in the freedom of artistic creativity and the profundity of emotional expression. It is therefore likened to letting one dance with bounded feet and shackled hands. Secondly, the artistic expression or representation for the sake of equilibrium harmony may go so far as to cater to the public mentality and taste, which is then confined to producing a happy ending in order to please the audience at large. This may turn the free act of art making and aesthetic appreciation into a hidden control of moral and even political ideology. What happens in this case will eventually disturb art creation, patternize the sense of art, and strengthen the uniformity rather than the diversity of taste. Last but not least, the tendency to rectify artistic style or ethos is derived from the principle of equilibrium harmony. It is often guided by a moralized idea such that it hinders and even obstructs the in-depth exploration and insightful exposure of the different aspects of human nature and emotions. Hence it reduces the spell of tension, obscures the philosophical value, and

WANG KEPING

25

suspends the tragic power of artworks in many cases. That is why there is little resemblance of the Attic tragedy found in Chinese art all along in its history.

2. THE DAOIST ALTERNATIVE In contrast to Confucianism, Daoism presents a reversed way of thinking which it has been exercising since its advent in spite of the mutual complementarity between Daoism and Confucianism. As Daoism is skeptical about the Confucian and other conventional values, it is often labeled as a kind of skepticism. Meanwhile, it is also considered to be a kind of naturalism as it keeps focus on the importance of nature in general and on that of spontaneous naturalness in particular. To my mind, Daoism as a way of thought and lifestyle straddles two provinces, skepticism and naturalism, because of its characteristic worldview and value system as well. In terms of aesthetics, some considerations are distinct and thoughtprovoking in the writings by Laozi (e. 571–? BCE) and Zhuangzi (e. 369– 286 BCE), two founders of early Daoism. These considerations mainly cover such categories as the aesthetic object, aesthetic attitude, aesthetic experience, heavenly joy, and art creation, among others. Teleologically, they all purport to nurture absolute spiritual freedom through “free and easy wandering” and the becoming of an independent personality modeled on the Daoist sage (sheng ren ൓Ӫ) or true man (zhen ren ⵏӪ). The Beautiful and the Ugly As regards the aesthetic object, both the beautiful and the ugly are taken into account from the perspective of relativity and mutualism. According to Laozi, “When the people of the world know the beautiful as beauty, there arises the recognition of the ugly. When they know the good as good, there arises the recognition of evil.”10 Thus there emerge antithetical concepts in binary pairs, such as beautiful and ugly, good and evil, long and short, high and low, front and back, etc. Their interactions can be largely boiled down to the characteristics of bilateral opposition and mutual production in the phenomenal world. With respect to the beautiful and the ugly in particular, they come into being in contrast. That is, what is considered beautiful is so because of the contrast with what is considered ugly, and vice versa. It is the same with the good and the evil, the long and the short, the high and the low, etc. From this dialectical perspective, the beautiful and the ugly are brought forth in the process of value judgment through comparison and relativity. That is to say, they are different but not absolutely antithetical to or

26

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

incompatible with each other. They seem to have no positive hiatus between them. They are in effect interlinked to the extent that they co-exist or beget one another. This argument can be well justified by another question: “How much difference is there between the beautiful and the ugly?”11 Contrary to other philosophers like Confucius who tend to make a clear-cut discrimination between the beautiful and the ugly, Laozi develops an insight into the relativity and changeability of the two categories. This being true, he refuses to absolutize the apparent opposition between the binary and opposite pairs. Further evidence can be found out in this observation: “The normal can suddenly turn into the abnormal; the good can suddenly turn into the evil.”12 This happens because of the endless change or dramatic shift of one into the other under relevant conditions. Moreover, what is really beautiful to Laozi is attributed to simplicity, naivety, plainness, quietude, tranquility, and purposelessness. It is, in a word, equal to the Dao. In Laozi, one experiences the realm of real beauty only when he has stripped himself of enslavement by external things and obtained authentic freedom of the spirit. He is completely enlightened and spiritually emancipated from any attachment as he has realized the essential significance of the Dao at this point. In addition, Laozi takes a skeptical view of the mundane discrepancy between the beautiful and the ugly. Take his criticism of the rich and powerful, for example. They live lavishly and abandon themselves to the brilliant colors, attractive tones, and tantalizing flavors, which are seen in their eyes as something sensuously beautiful and enjoyable. But Laozi looks upon them as something destructive and detrimental to health.13 Along this line of thought, Zhuangzi expands the scope of the aesthetic object so as to encompass the ugly and the grotesque apart from the beautiful. As read in his numerous anecdotes and exaggerated scenarios, what are included in this scope range from the persuasive talkers like “Mr. LameHunchback-No-Lips” and “Mr. Pitcher-Neck-Goiter” to the useless “hideous tree,” with its twisted branches and huge trunk, so gnarled that it cannot be measured with a line, among others. Zhuangzi proposes that “where virtue is great, form must be forgotten” and “what one loves is not the form but what enlivens that form.” And likewise, he holds that beauty lies in the personality, the spirit, the true, the wisdom, and not in external appearance of bodily shape. As read in the Zhuangzi, an innkeeper has two spouses; one is beautiful and the other ugly. But he loves the ugly one and neglects the beautiful one. When asked about the reason, he confesses frankly that he does not distinguish between the outward looks but inward virtues, and the beautiful one is beautiful just because she thinks of herself being so. Accordingly, in the Zhuangzi,

WANG KEPING

27

anything, regardless of appearance or form, could now become the object of aesthetic appreciation. This would come to include unconventional forms in poetry and prose, clumsy strokes in painting and calligraphy, oddlooking rocks in landscapes, plot twists in drama—indeed, anything unusual, grotesque, or naïve, anything intricate or obscure that breaks the sweetness of harmonious relations or the tranquil norms of moderation, including Zhuangzi’s own “fantastic and outlandish language and extravagant words.”14 This constituted a tremendous liberation for Chinese art. Self-Purification and Deep Contemplation As for aesthetic attitude toward life and object, it is derived from what Laozi advises to do for the attainment of the Dao, which is then extended and applied to aesthetic engagement and exploration. As indicated in his rhetorical question (“Can you purify your mind and contemplate in depth without any flecks?”15), a special kind of stance is recommended as it is bestowed with selfpurification and deep contemplation. It is twofold in principle, claiming to help one get rid of all selfish desires and calculations in one sense, and enabling one to achieve profound insights into all things in another sense. For personal cultivation, it is supposed to obtain the mastery of the Dao and the nourishment of the De, both of which are symbolic of great wisdom and ultimate truth in the Daoist tradition. Incidentally, it is coupled with other methods like “reducing one’s selfishness and having few desires” (shao si gua yu ቁ⿱ሑ Ⅲ)16 and “keeping to vacuity and tranquility” (zhi xu shou jing 㠤㲋ᆸ䶌).17 At this point, it somewhat resembles the idea of “disinterested contemplation” in Kant when applied to aesthetic appreciation. Along this line of thought, Zhuangzi proceeds to develop an attitude toward the Dao that can be perceived as aesthetic in kind. On one occasion he raises the notion of “fasting of the mind”; and on another he grants it to “be spring with all things.” For the former, he explicates through Confucius as a mouthpiece: Have a single intent. Do not listen with your ears, but with your mind. Do not listen with your mind, but with qi as vital energy. For hearing does not go farther than the ears, and the mind does not go farther than symbols. But qi as vital energy is empty and responds to things. The Dao gathers only in emptiness. Emptiness is the fasting of the mind . . . The empty chamber gives birth to brightness, the lucky and auspicious stay where there is stillness.18

28

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

Since senses are constrained by what is seen and heard, and thought is constrained by symbols, vital energy (qi) is constrained by none of them when flowing freely through the universe and facilitating the “fasting of the mind” through its emptiness and omnipresence. Thus, the “fasting of the mind” transcends human desires, responds to the myriad things, and ensures the convergence of humankind with the universe or nature as a whole. At this stage, one has the access to the ultimate joy or happiness. In other words, one is well in a position to discover “the great beauty of heaven and earth that does not speak of itself.” As for “being spring with all things,” Zhuangzi suggests that one be ready to be delighted with all things as though it is more than pleasant to do so in a warm and beautiful spring season. When reaching this state of being, one is not only “to assimilate heaven and earth” (yu tian wei tu 㠷ཙ⛪ᗂ) beyond the secular bound, but also to “make use of material stuff without being enslaved by it” (wu wu er by wu yu wu ⢙⢙㘼н⢙Ҿ⢙). All this implies transcendence over the finite and entry into the infinite, again the ultimate joy with absolute spiritual freedom. Mutual Production and Spontaneous Naturalness Considering the key rules of art creation, early Daoism has laid a solid basis in this sphere. Among the rules given, there are two most fundamental and prevailing ones with continuing impact from the past to the present. One is derived from Laozi’s idea of “have-substance and have-vacuity produce each other (you wu xiang sheng ᴹ❑⴨⭏),”19 which can be exemplified by what follows: “Clay is kneaded to mold a utensil, but it is on the empty space inside it that the utility of the utensil depends. Doors and windows are cut out to form a room, but it is on the interior vacancy that the utility of the room depends. Therefore, have-substance brings advantage while havevacuity creates utility.”20 Herein a cup as a utensil and a room with doors and windows provide a convincing exemplification in this case. As a binary of concepts, have-substance and have-vacuity reflect Laozi’s dialectical thinking in terms of their mutual production. Laozi seems to infuse more importance into have-vacuity, because he reckons it more decisive in the aspects of utility and function. The two concepts are seemingly opposite, but they are counterparts, helping accomplish each other due to their interdependent and generative qualities. After all, have-vacuity as an empty space in a bowl, cup, or room comes into effect as a consequence of the concrete aspect of have-substance. This being true, they exert a continuing impact on Chinese arts. Have-substance (you ᴹ) and have-vacuity (wu ❑) are inseparable categories, and closely associated with such notions as “the concretization in the painted part” (shi ሖ) and “the abstraction in the blank part” (xu 㲋). Accordingly, “the mutual production between the concretization and the

WANG KEPING

29

abstraction” (xu shi xiang sheng 㲋ሖ⴨⭏) is applied as a general principle to art creation in Chinese ink painting, calligraphy, opera, architecture, and horticulture, and even poetry.21 The other rule of art making is stemmed form the idea that “the dao follows spontaneous naturalness (dao fa zi ran 䚃⌅㠚❦).”22 This is regarded as the most important foundation of Daoist aesthetics and art theory because the deep-rooted property or underlying secret of the Dao is none other than “spontaneous naturalness.” “Spontaneous naturalness” is a crucial rule of art making and meanwhile a demanding criterion for art evaluation. It is most likely conducive to sincerity in the expression of human feelings and emotions. According to Zhuangzi, what is touching is what is sincere in expression. What is sloppy is what is pretentious in presentation. Hence, one who pretends to howl is seemingly sad, but not really sorrowful; one who pretends to lose his temper is seemingly threatening, but not fearful; one who pretends to smile is seemingly amiable, but not lovable. Instead, one who is really sad is sorrowful without howling, one who is really angry is fearful without losing his temper, and one who is really kind is lovable without smiling. This is because there is sincerity within and effect without as a consequence of worshiping true sincerity. And true sincerity is naturalness that works always this way. Hence the sage follows naturalness and treasures sincerity.23 Such naturalness is then shifted into a primary rule for art making and a supreme standard of artistic evaluation, and further developed into an artistic style and aesthetic ideal. During the long course of historical development, it is further evolved into natural taste, natural sincerity, natural naivety, natural simplicity, natural accomplishment, and natural grace and beauty, among others. However, its impact on art remains constant from the past to the present. In poetic composition, for instance, it is embodied in the image like a lotus flower grown out of clean water. And in the design of a garden it is indicated by the precept that it is man-made but it appears natural without any trace of artifice. Incidentally, mutual complementarity between Daoism and Confucianism occupies a large proportion of Chinese aesthetic awareness, and threads through the history of Chinese art ever since its interactive connection. Here is an insightful observation about it: On the surface, Confucianism and Daoism seem to be diametrically opposed. One embraces the world, the other forsakes it; one is optimistic and progressive, the other negative and retiring. But in reality, the two form a mutually complementary and harmonious whole . . . How does this “opposition and complementarity” look in practice? I would suggest

30

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

that the notion of “the naturalization of humans” put forward by the Daoists and Zhuangzi is at once opposed to and complements the idea of “humanization of nature” emphasized by the rites and music tradition and Confucian humanists.24

3. THE MOHIST UTILITARIANISM Among ancient Chinese thinkers, Mozi (r. 479–381 BCE), the acknowledged founder of Mohism, stands out as the first opponent of Confucius. He asserts that some of the Confucian principles will ruin the society in four ways: First, the Confucian denial of the existence of God and the spirits will displease these beings and make them ready to punish Chinese society. Secondly, the Confucian insistence on elaborate funerals and a three-year period of mourning on the death of a parent will waste the wealth and energy of the people. Thirdly, the Confucian emphasis on the practice of music will also waste the wealth and energy of the people. Fourthly, the Confucian belief in predetermined fate will lead people to laziness and passive resignation.25 To correct what he perceives as Confucian errors, Mozi proposes five strategies to govern the state, namely honoring the worthy, recognizing the principle of frugality and moderation in funerals, negating music and rejecting fatalism, respecting the will of Heaven and the spirits, and exercising universal love and denouncing offensive warfare.26 All this comprises a crucial part of the Mohist utilitarianism against Confucianism. For and Against Confucian Values Mozi expresses what he thinks about the Confucian doctrines and the social issues in his book based on a collection of fifty-three chapters, some of which are presumably written by his disciples or adherents. In one of the chapters on “Anti-Confucianism” he speaks out on behalf of the poor, criticizes the Confucian promotion of rites and music, modifies the Confucian values of humaneness and righteousness, and develops them into his central ideal of universal love. He therefore proceeds to justify the man of humaneness in terms of the man of universal love.27 To my mind, Mozi may be considered as a practical utilitarian as he is apt to swing toward the negative extreme. This can be evinced in his critique of music. As read in the surviving fragment of his essay “Against Music,” he asserts that the harmfulness of music stems from its negative functions.28 This being the case, making music is wrong because it is useless in at least three ways. First, music provides no welfare to the people, in contrast to the

WANG KEPING

31

boats and carts that help gentlemen rest their feet and laborers spare their shoulders. Consequently, music offers no material benefits to the community and reduces in no way “the three great worries of the people” relating to food, clothing, and shelter. Mozi cynically proclaims, “Let us try sounding the huge bells, striking the rolling drums, strumming the zithers, blowing the pipes, and waving the shields and axes in the martial dance. Does this do anything to provide food and clothing for the people? I hardly think so.”29 Secondly, music can do nothing to “rescue the world from chaos and restore it to order” in circumstances where the great states would attack the small ones, the great families molest the small ones, the strong oppress the weak, the many tyrannize the few, the cunning deceive the stupid, the eminent lord it over the humble, and the bandits and thieves rise up on all sides and cannot be suppressed.30 Thirdly, and worse still, music becomes loathsome as it deprives the people of the wealth needed for their food and clothing (kui duo min yi shi zhi cai ҿཪ≁㺓伏ѻ䍒). For when the rulers and ministers want musical instruments, such as bells, drums, zithers, and pipes, to be used in their government activities they will lay heavy taxes upon the common people in order to let them make musical performances available. By so doing, the ruling class is to be amused with pleasure and comfort while the ruled are to be plunged into plight and poverty.31 In addition, Mozi believes that performing music is wrong because it is wasteful in two ways. First, it is a waste of human resources because musical performance must have young people in their prime, whose eyes and ears are keen and whose arms are so strong that they can make the sounds harmonious and see to strike the bells front and back. Young men who are employed in performing music will be taken away from plowing and planting, and young women from weaving and spinning. Performing music therefore interferes with the people’s efforts to produce food and clothing. Secondly, performing music is a waste of material resources. Dancers cannot wear robes of cheap cloth or eat coarse food. Instead, they must dress themselves in beautiful robes of patterned and embroidered silk in order to make their figures and movements worth watching and they must have the finest food and drink, such as millet and meat, in order to keep their faces and complexions fit to look at. But they themselves produce neither food nor clothing at all, but live like parasites on the provisions of others.32 Accordingly, in the Mozi listening to music will lead society astray. He describes all this above in detail as read in his condemnation of music.33 Apparently, he tries to conclude that listening to music is a waste of time and energy aside from being an interference with state affairs and social production. Those who are keen on music are most likely to enjoy themselves

32

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

at the cost of their duty and work. If they get attached to musical entertainment they will deviate from what they are expected to do and even become lazy or slack. All this tends to plunge the whole country and the common good into decline and jeopardy. As I see it, Mozi’s perception of music as useless, wasteful, and misleading corresponds not only to his underlying rejection of music, but also to his utilitarian preoccupation with usefulness in material life. As announced at the outset of his argument “Against Music,” it is the business of the humanhearted man to promote what is beneficial to the world and to eliminate what is harmful. In planning for the benefit of the world, the benevolent man does not consider merely what will please the eye, delight the ear, gratify the mouth, and give ease to the body.34 For this reason, Mozi looked to usefulness as the test for policy and applied this test as the one and only measure to all practices, including music. What underlies all this seems to me to be a kind of radical negative utilitarianism that is sustained by Mozi’s deep concern with the life of the common people in view of their three great worries about the supply of food, clothing, and shelter. This concern drove Mozi toward giving absolute first priority to meeting the practical needs of the people. In giving this priority to the satisfaction of basic needs, he held that the process of making, performing, and appreciating music is detrimental to the welfare of the world, particularly to the development of social production and to the administration of state affairs. It is noteworthy that Mozi’s treatment of music does not necessarily imply an inability to realize the aesthetic effect of music and other beautiful things. In fact, he is conscious of the aesthetic pleasure contained in the delightful sound, beautiful dress, delicious food, and comfortable dwelling that everyone loves, but he suspends the aesthetic pursuit of the beautiful, delightful, and comfortable altogether for the sake of fulfilling his noble purpose. This purpose is to follow the ways of the sage kings, and attend to the welfare of the populace. That is why he attaches top priority to the gratification of the basic needs of the common folks, and took this requirement as the premise for judging the enjoyment of the aesthetic in both art and life. This observation can be justified by what Mozi claims in another textual fragment.35 “Only when you have enough to eat, then you seek after delicious food. Only when you have enough to keep yourself warm, then you seek after beautiful dress. Only when you have a safe shelter to live under, then you seek after an enjoyable dwelling.”36 Mozi versus Xunzi on Music Nevertheless, the negative utilitarianism embodied in Mozi’s thought leads him to pay much heed to the usefulness of things such that he fails to gain a

WANG KEPING

33

fuller insight into human nature. Paradoxically, he shows a constant and great concern about the welfare of the common people, but he concentrates on the basic human needs of daily necessities while ignoring other higher needs, such as the need for the aesthetic or the beautiful. His consistent concern about “the three great worries of the common people” assumes that the common people care for nothing else but things such as food, clothing, and shelter. As a consequence, he confines his planning for humankind to the pursuit of these lower needs only. This is against human nature and the hierarchy of human needs as a whole. It is for this reason that Xunzi sharply criticizes Mohzi in his “Discourse on Music” (Yue lunҀ䇪). According to Xunzi, music is the expression of joy and stays originally joyful. Joy is an essential part of man’s emotional nature, and its expression is aesthetically significant, indicating a necessity that goes beyond the basic needs of physical existence. When artistically expressed in musical form, joy can be shared by other people and excite further joyful feelings among those who listen to it. For music is pleasing and appealing not only to the senses, but also to the soul. Music thus becomes the means of guiding the experience of joy. It helps different people to meet their respective pursuits. That is to say, if the gentleman takes joy in carrying out the Dao and the petty man takes joy in gratifying his desires, music can help the gentleman retain the Dao and help the petty man curb his desires in accordance with the Dao. Noticeably, both Mozi and Xunzi place their accounts of music in the context of their differing proposals to reduce poverty and enrich the state. According to Mozi, state poverty and disorder result from a fondness for musical performances and elaborate rites that lead to interference with both government affairs and social production. To the extent that he himself is deeply concerned with the satisfaction of basic needs for the populace, Mozi constantly demands frugality while sharply criticizing extravagance, trying to justify the elimination of music in particular. Likewise, Xunzi concurs with the idea that frugality is needed to make a state self-sufficient, but he also endorses letting the people make a generous living and store up the harvest surplus (jie yong yu min, er shan cang qi yu ㇰ⭘㼅≁ˈ㘼ழ㠗ަ佈).37 He therefore argues that this objective can be fulfilled only through the proper exercise of rites and government. In his view, human beings need to form a society with class divisions (qun er you fen 㗔㘼ᴹ࠶), because if they form a society without class divisions (qun er wu fen 㗔㘼❑࠶), social disorder and state poverty will certainly follow. “In order to ensure human living, it is impossible for human beings not to form a society. If they form a society in which there are no class divisions, strife will develop. If there is strife, then there will be social disorder; if there is social disorder, there will be hardship and poverty for all.”38

34

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

What should be done to secure a society with suitable class divisions? For Xunzi, it is nothing but complementary practice of relevant rites and music. A society must be harmonized in terms of human relations, and class divisions must be stratified by means of an established hierarchy. Because music serves to harmonize what is common to people, and rites operate to distinguish what is different among them, both can be deployed and performed to help create a harmonious society with class divisions. Xunzi goes on to claim that the teachings of Mozi worry too narrowly about the problems of a world suffering from the hardship of inadequate supplies. This “inadequacy” is not in fact a misfortune common to the world, but merely a hardship peculiar to Mozi’s one-sided reckoning. For Xunzi, “It is Mozi who with his ‘Condemnation of Music’ (Fei yue 䶎′) produces social anarchy throughout the world and who with his ‘Moderation in Expenditures’ (Jie yong ㇰ⭘) causes poverty throughout the world. My intention is not to depreciate Mozi himself, but the effect of his teachings makes this unavoidable.”39 Last but not least, the polar opposite views regarding music for Mozi and Xunzi are also related to their different personal assumptions about the function of music. In their arguments, they both exaggerate what they believe music will bring about. The more they argue for their own positions, the further their exaggerations move them apart, so to speak.40 Aside from all this above, Xunzi’s conception of music is ostensibly grounded on the historical duration of the ancient music-rites tradition. Yet, he has developed it much further by identifying yue (Ҁ) as music with le (Ҁ) as joy. Such identification does not merely embody a defining property of music itself, but also has a strong impact upon the Chinese tradition and national mentality altogether. That is to say, it serves to enhance the musical sensibility in an aesthetic sense, remold the joy-conscious culture in an anthropological sense, and consolidate the optimistic spirit in an ontological sense. These three aspects are interwoven in the deep structure of cultural psychology and life philosophy of Chinese people at large. In practice, the musical sensibility pertains to the aesthetic awareness of the artistic, moral, and social functions of music, the joy-conscious culture makes the national mentality accustomed to take delight in painful sufferings, and more significantly, the optimistic spirit enables Chinese people to become what they are, never losing a ray of hope at confrontation with the gravest crises and hardships. Thus they are ready to perceive the interaction between the negative and positive sides of all matters and prepare for the interplay between fortune and misfortune in varied situations. This being the case, they tend to stay alert to potential dangers in times of peace and engage themselves in worried thoughts from which they draw pragmatic wisdom, care-ridden pleasure, and relevant alternatives to cope with the challenges or

WANG KEPING

35

catastrophes encountered. Knowing well the difficult condition of human existence sandwiched between Heaven and Earth, they have no other choice but insist on self-reliance under all circumstances. On this account, they are sharply distinguished from Christians exposed to divine assistance and redemption by God.

4. THE PURSUIT OF CHAN BUDDHISM Toward the end of the first century BCE (the Western Han) Buddhism was introduced into China from India, and began to take root thereafter. Its subsequent spread featured a long and gradual process, and enriched the Chinese culture and spiritual heritage altogether. Broadly speaking, its historical course of development could be divided into three major stages. The initial stage ranged from the first to fourth centuries CE, which was devoted to the translation of the Buddhist sutras. The second stage from the fifth to sixth centuries CE was characterized with rapid propagation, and Buddhism was thus intermingled with the metaphysical current of Daoism. The third stage from the seventh to tenth centuries CE featured a flourishing period during which varied sects were founded one after another, and accordingly, the number of common believers was dramatically increased all over the country since then. A Preoccupation with Chan Interestingly, the conception of dhy¯ana in Buddhism is further explicated and promoted through the Chinese notion of Chan, which is transliterated into Zen in Japanese. This led to the advent of Chan Buddhism (chan zong ⿚ᇇ) at a later stage. Compared with other important sects, Chan Buddhism served to enhance the metaphysical dimension of Chinese culture to a tremendous degree. In practice its emergence broke out of not only the existing Confucian worldview as is characterized by phrases such as that “heaven proceeds vigorously” and “ceaseless begetting is called change,” but also the existing Daoist worldview with its exhortations to “wander free and easy,” “mount the clouds and wind, and straddle the sun and moon.” Thus for Chan Buddhism, all of these precepts leave too many footprints to approach the true noumenon in itself.41 Nevertheless, Chan does not deny the perceptual world or sensuous human existence as is upheld by both traditional schools of thought in China. Nor does it deny the Confucian affirmation of everyday life in the real world. Where Confucians said, “The Dao is found in everyday human relationships,” Chan Buddhism proclaims, “In carrying water or splitting firewood, there is

36

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

nothing less than the excellent Dao.” Even though each school of thought has its own distinct notion of the Dao, Confucians, Daoists, and Buddhists are relatively united in their assertion that the Dao can be followed, conveyed, or realized in the course of everyday life. So while Chan Buddhism raises the transcendent aspect of Confucianism and Daoism to a new level of relevance, it remains firmly within Chinese tradition when it comes to its inherent practicality. For this reason, Chan Buddhism can be considered to carry on and renew the tradition in the domain of the human condition at large. As a popular sect of Buddhism, Chan does not appeal to rational thought or to blind faith. More specifically, it does not engage in debates about whether or not there is material or sensuous existence, it does not strive carefully for analytical knowledge, nor does it stress meditation or prolonged ascetic practice. Rather, Chan advocates an instantaneous, all-encompassing enlightenment that happens in the context of the everyday realm and retains direct connection with life itself. It is in the ordinary perceptual existence of everyday life that one can find transcendence and enlightenment, and that one can attain the indestructible Buddha-nature. What was then highly significant was the theoretical, philosophical, and emotional pursuit of metaphysical transcendence carried out by Chan Buddhists. This had a profound impact upon the psychological formation of nonmonastic intellectuals, and thereby also upon their artistic creations, aesthetic taste, and attitudes toward life.42 The Poetic Wisdom of G¯ath¯a Regarding aesthetics in particular, Chan Buddhism is often associated with at least four cardinal traits: poetic wisdom, sudden awakening, Chan sense, and subtle void. First and foremost, poetic wisdom stems from g¯ath¯a, a kind of Buddhist chant or hymn that is used to signify one’s experience and realization of Chan itself. For the sake of illustration, let us turn to the famous g¯ath¯a composed by Hui Neng himself: Fundamentally there is no Bodhi-tree, Nor stand of a mirror bright. Since originally there was nothing, Whereon can the dust fall?43 This g¯ath¯a claims that there are no such things as the Bodhi-tree and the mirror, and accordingly there is no such distinction between body and mind. According to the concept of su ¯ nyat¯a (void or emptiness) “all is void from the beginning,” or in other words, all phenomena bear no reality at all. It thus

WANG KEPING

37

terminates the logic of gradual enlightenment and takes as sheer redundancy the step-by-step approach to Chan cultivation. In Hui Neng’s mind, everyone has Buddha-nature within himself, and what one needs to do is to awaken it and fulfill it oneself straight away. This is because all is su ¯ nyat¯a (empty) and your Buddha-nature is all; that is to say, nothing outside it can be imagined to be either an obstacle against it or a vehicle for Chan enlightenment. Furthermore, there is nowhere the dust can alight. One can obtain sudden enlightenment and realizes Buddha-hood as soon as he attends directly to his Buddha-nature, and makes no distinction between Buddha and himself. Hence, Hui Neng complacently recalled it and retold his disciples, “When the Fifth Patriarch preached to me I became enlightened immediately after he had spoken, and spontaneously realized the real nature of tathata (suchness). For this reason it is my particular task to propagate the teaching of this Sudden School, so that learners may find Bodhi at once and realize their true nature by introspection of mind.”44 The Sudden Awakening of the Chan Sense What is closely connected in this case is the idea of sudden awakening (dun wu 亯ᛏ) that is also termed as subtle awakening (miao wu ࿉ᛏ). It forms a guiding principle in its own right. By sudden awakening what is meant is something mysterious, ineffable, and beyond pursuit in kind, and therefore related to the individual’s own perceptual sensibility and intuitive power. By this account, its secret lies in a type of unconscious, sudden enlightenment, release, and distillation by nature. When it comes to artistic creation, this principle corresponds to the Daoist tradition that “The method of no method is the perfect method,” implying that no fixed method is applied to art making as it is by no means the product of logical thought or rational knowledge. Facilitating a new level of richness of Chinese mentality or psychological formation, the notion of subtle awakening “brings with it a new round of instability and progress in people’s inner rational structure in which nonconceptual understanding, the element of intuitive wisdom, overwhelms the imagination and the senses and merges with the emotions and intentions in such a way to direct and shape their development.”45 What follows next is Chan sense (chan yi ⿚᜿). Since Chan Buddhism stresses “eternity in the wink of an eye” and spiritual transcendence through senses, it encourages the realization of the eternal, unchanging and original stillness in the midst of the flux of ordinary phenomena. By so doing, it can attain the spiritual realm characterized by the mystical union of self and Buddha, the forgetting of self and things, and the dissolution of one’s spirit into the universe. All this leads to Chan sense as is suggestively denoted in poems par excellence. For example,

38

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

In the empty hills, no one is to be seen, One only hears echoes of human voices. Returning light enters the deep forest, To shine again on the green moss. This poem is titled Lu Zhai (咯Ḥ) composed by Wang Wei (⦻㔤 701–761). Every object in the scene is familiar and set in tranquility. There is motion in stillness, fullness in emptiness, and beauty in the void, for the noumenon transcends these aspects, and in it they blend together and become inseparable. This is how it is possible to obtain the noumenon via the multifarious phenomenal world, or eternity in the intuitive understanding of a moment.46 Moreover, there is painting in poetry and vice versa. This helps one’s mind enter the scene such that one’s spirit converges with nature and finds rest in it. Thereby the mind seems to dissolve until all that is left is natural beauty. Poetically, it is a demonstration of “the image beyond the image”; picturesquely, it is a display of a painting in words; and psychologically, and paradoxically, it is saturated with emotion but seemingly devoid of emotion. In actuality, it is permeated by Chan sense and related to the realm of union with nature characterized by “no mind” and “no thought.” It indicates a kind of personal detachment and spiritual transcendence in serene contemplation. Despite its religious element, Chan sense in this case can be taken for a “nonrational aesthetic viewpoint.”47 According to Li Zehou, Chan sense can be depicted as an aesthetic pleasure occurring at the level of “spiritual delight.” Meanwhile, it is a sensuous pleasure that lingers in the perceptual senses even while transcending them. It is the direct philosophical apprehension of life that results from the heightening of the senses and the profound sedimentation in them of rationality. This being true, Chan sense is a noumenal kind.48 After all, it strikes me as appealing to aesthetic experience via detached contemplation under relevant conditions. Moreover, it procures a high standard to measure the aesthetic worth of poetic creations. That is why Wang Wei’s poetry is widely appreciated and commended through history. The Working of the Subtle Void Derived from the notion of su ¯ nyat¯a, subtle void means something empty but suggestive as though one sees the yellowish green of the grass in early springtime from a distance. As noted in the art of Chan poetry, it pertains to a hidden synthesis of poetic wisdom, sudden awakening, and Chan sense altogether. Hence, the conception of subtle void as beauty is usually granted as the highest realm of Chan poetry as well as Chan painting.

WANG KEPING

39

Why is it so? It is largely based on the Mahayana theory of su ¯ nyat¯a, claiming that “all around in the four directions is void by nature” (si da jie kong ഋབྷⲶオ).49 In the Chan experience, when you are enlightened to the extent that you perceive all things in view of absolute void or emptiness, you are thought to have reached the realm of su ¯ nyat¯a, attained the truth of prajna, and fulfilled the nature of Buddha-hood. The realm of su ¯ nyat¯a as subtle void is often expressed poetically with the help of three typical scenes. The first of them runs, Everywhere the wild hills are covered with fallen leaves, Where can I find a trodden trail to walk out? The couplet indicates metaphorically a persistent search for Chan in a dhy¯ana exercise. The practitioner here was looking up and down for a short cut to Chan apprehension, but was wandering around in eagerness and confusion, failing to get anywhere simply because he pursued from without. As suggested in the question “Where could I find a trodden trail to walk out?” his introspective cultivation still remains at the initial stage where he cannot purify his own mind and awaken his own nature. Then the second scene follows: In the wild hills there are no persons, But flowing waters and blooming flowers. Tranquil and empty as the hills are, there is vitality and charm hidden in running waters and beautiful flowers. All things are as natural as can be in this environment, implying an intermediate stage of Chan cultivation at which the state of nirvana is not completed yet and the realm of subtle void is still some distance away because one can still recognize the outside objects with reference to the dharma law. Some people tend to assume that the Chan practitioner at this point has already entered into tranquility and apprehended the true meaning of Chan only in part so far. It is somewhat like “something that was grasped in hand but then slipped through the fingers.” Finally, there emerges the third scene as such: The broad sky is of eternal existence, The entire landscape turns out in one morning. By this is meant that the eternal being of the universe is conceived of in a moment, and so is the long history of natural and human evolution. There is no discrepancy between the momentary and the eternal with respect to time,

40

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

but just oneness between all things with respect to space. Taken as the highest awareness of Chan, it lies not merely in a sudden mystical and subtle enlightenment, but in an intuitive perception and su ¯ nyat¯a experience. It is right at the moment that the practitioner has regained real liberation and absolute freedom. Thereupon, he projects himself into harmonious and serene Nature, and makes no distinction between mountains and waters, the sun and the moon, the sky and the earth, the phenomenal and the real, and even the day and the night. He feels as if this moment had seemingly transcended time and space, cause and effect, and as if the past, present and future were seemingly fused together such that any division became rather impossible. Actually, he has no intention to make any division in this regard as he is no longer conscious of either where he is or where he is from. All this, of course, goes beyond the man-made boundary between oneself and other things, and leads him to identify himself with the outside world and thus become integrated into everlasting oneness.50 Such an experience is typical of the sudden awakening through which you enter into the realm of subtle void, the highest state of being in Chan Buddhism. The realm itself is not only retained in the absolute void, serenity, and profundity, but also in subtlety, inspiration, and transcendence. Now, it has transformed the finite I into the infinite I, the ordinary into the extraordinary, the depressed into the delighted, the necessary into the natural, and above all, brought forth the oneness between Brahma and I (fan wo he yi ụᡁਸа). In a word, it has eventually rendered human existence spiritually free and aesthetically artistic. Hence the process of Chan cultivation is thought of as the process of artistizing human life, the outcome of Chan apprehension as the outcome of such artistization, and the essence of Chan wisdom as the essence of life wisdom. This kind of wisdom calls for the purification of your own mind and the return to nature where you may well apprehend the Chan message in the beautiful and mystical scenery, or perceive the poetic appeal in the plain and familiar things around you.51 As noticed in praxis, the realm of subtle void (kong ling オ⚥) is transformed into a crucial rule for art creation as well as a determinant measure of artistic evaluation. It favors an insightful contemplation of what appears empty, serene, deep, and even mysterious on one hand, and on the other it emphasizes a sudden enlightenment of infinity in finiteness, profundity in simplicity, and eternality in a moment. It thus proceeds to sublimate the unworldly dimensions of arts by stimulating a symbolic expression of the cosmic spirit and the boundless communion in poetry, painting, calligraphy, literati garden, and music. By so doing, it not only enriches the significant substance, but also expands the imaginative space. For this reason, Chinese artists tend to embrace such ideas as “the void can accommodate myriad

WANG KEPING

41

realms”; “the infinite can be perceived in the finite”; “heaven and human are in oneness”; “words are to be forgotten when the meaning is apprehended”; “the nonfactual and the factual beget each other”; and “the magic brilliance of life is signified through a minimum amount of verbal description.” Consequently, the contemplation of the realm of subtle void in artistic presentation is characterized by the attainment of Buddha-hood, poetic wisdom, genuine nirvana, Chan pleasure and the like. It in turn inculcates much metaphysical import into artworks, aesthetic activities, life experiences and so forth. This being the case, those who are able to create or appreciate the suggestive imagery of subtle void tend to, for example, see the myriad changes in the universe through a flowering bud, infer the ups and downs of human life through a fallen leaf, and discern the complex interrelationship between the one and the many through the moon mirrored in all rivers and lakes across the world.

5. THE RISE OF MODERN CHINESE AESTHETICS The outset of the twentieth century witnessed an increasing flux of heterogeneous ideas into China, an influx that motivated and facilitated the rise of modern Chinese aesthetics as an outcome of the exchange and interaction between Chinese tradition and its Western counterpart. In view of its method and content, one of the most defining characteristics of modern Chinese aesthetics lies in transformational creation from a transcultural perspective, leading to the development of some new and provocative theories in art criticism in particular. What marks the rise of modern Chinese aesthetics seems, to my mind, to be two leading theories which resulted from transcultural creation. One is the theory of the poetic state par excellence (yi jing shuo ᜿ຳ䃚) that has a constant impact on modern Chinese poetics and aesthetics alike, and the other is the theory of art as sedimentation (ji dian shuo ぽ◡䃚) that is now selected into the revised edition of the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism.52 The Theory of Poetic State Par Excellence As read in his Discourse on Ci Poetry (Ren jian ci hua Ӫ䯃䂎䂡), a selection of his critical remarks on Chinese poetics, Wang Guowei (⦻ഭ㔤 1877– 1927) formulates the poetic state par excellence (yi jing/jing jie ᜿ຳຳ⭼). In a gloating thesis, he points out: In his Poetic Discourse (Canglang shi hua ⋗⎚䈇䈍), Yan Yu said: The poets of the Golden Tang period were concerned only about inspired

42

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

interest in poetic charm (xing qu ‫ޤ‬䏓). Like the antelope that hangs by its horns leaving no discernible traces on the ground, their excellence lay in their crystal-like transparency, no more to be grasped than a sound in empty space, the changing color in a face, the moon in the water or an image in a mirror. The words had a limit, but the meaning went on forever. However, what Yan Yu called inspired interest and what Wang Shizhen called subtle charm in rhythmic significance (shen yun ⾎严) only seem to touch the surface, while the term of two characters, jingjie, which I have chosen really probe the fundamentals of poetry.53 This thesis is strong and interconnected with the Chinese tradition. It is due to the fact that the author himself seems to stand on the shoulders of the preceding critics. In my observation, Wang Guowei evokes and is inspired by the idea of “inspired interest” initiated by Yan Yu (ѕ㗭 1192–1197), and by the notion of “subtle charm” proposed by Wang Shizhen (⦻༛⾟ 1634– 1711). Yet, Wang plays them down because he considers jingjie as the poetic state par excellence to be the most essential aspect of poetic creation and its aesthetic worth. Thus, in his view, the poetic state accommodates within itself both an aesthetically touching or enlightening effect in view of “inspired interest” and a stylistic outcome or magic power of imagery in light of “subtle charm.” Moreover, the touching effect implies a subtle enlightenment in connection with the mystic Zen, whereas the magic power indicates an obscure contemplation of the poetic style in terms of exquisiteness and extensiveness. Therefore, neither of them could be specifically formulated owing to their vagueness and ambiguity. Relatively speaking, the poetic state par excellence can be described, as Wang believed, in more tangible terms such as “authentic scenes” presented in an indirect manner and “sincere feelings” expressed for heart-stirring and mind-freshening effect, for instance. It is therefore treated as a so-called unity of the subjective and the objective, the ideal and the real, the emotional and the natural. There then arises the question of why Wang Guowei boasts about his conception of the poetic state par excellence by proclaiming that it “really probes the fundamentals of poetry.” Its answer varies from one to another. Yet, it is often generalized from three viewpoints: One affirms that the poetic state par excellence is more specific, substantial, and clear in articulation than the inspired interest and the subtle charm. The other assumes that the poetic state poses a new aesthetic standard, a standard that advocates the synthesis of these two tendencies: that the subjective part is more emphasized than the objective one in aesthetic contemplation, and representation is more important than expression in artistic creation. The third holds that the poetic state is more profound and exact than the inspired interest and the subtle

WANG KEPING

43

charm because of its particular stress on the “feelings” and “scenes (including events)” as the two primary components of literature per se. To my understanding, the notion of the poetic state is more fundamental than the other two notions concerned because it is based on such features as the intuitive, the contemplative, and the philosophical. Wang Guowei tends to identify poetry with philosophy in the disclosure of the truth of both the universe and human existence. In comparison, poetry is more intuitive whereas philosophy is more abstract, but both of them are contemplative in kind. According to Wang’s understanding, the poetic state reveals the truth in question through vivid imagery, and therefore is more inspiring, engaging and thought-provoking in this regard. When manifesting itself through visual imagery, intuitive perception, and poetic wisdom, the poetic state par excellence helps people peek into and even get hold of the truth via aesthetic contemplation and philosophical reflection vicariously. By so doing, it leads people to the cultivation of good taste and the discovery of an alternative way of dealing with the cares and worries encountered in life. On this account, Wang’s poetics seems to be preoccupied with the human condition aside from the aesthetic experience and artistic creation. Wang Guowei enlarges the scope of the poetic state both through his writing and aesthetic judgment and through his capacity to absorb relevant elements from Western sources. His account of the poetic state has reminded many Chinese scholars of its possible association with Schiller’s concept of “the aesthetic state” as elaborated in his twenty-seventh letter. But, in the specific context of Schiller’s thought, the concept is intended to idealize things such as aesthetic culture, aesthetic man, and the cultivated taste involved in “the aesthetic state.” It is related primarily to a concern for the advantages of aesthetic education rather than to a concern for the principles of artistic creation and appreciation. Schiller’s impact on Wang Guowei is permeated into his other theories concerning aesthetic education, spiritual detachment, and art as play more than his doctrine of the poetic state par excellence. Interestingly, there is a more direct link between jingjie and Geist (spirit) as stated in Kant’s Critique of Judgment.54 In this regard, both the poetic state and Geist are chiefly concerned with the essence, vitality, and significance of art. In short, Wang develops his theory of the poetic state par excellence not only as an ultimate measure of literary value, but also as an ideal standard of artistic creation. However, his account fails to offer any easily intelligible definition or systematically coherent clarification. The poetic state is like an eel that the reader may assume to have caught, only to find that it has slipped through his fingers. Hence, a contextual reading is required to gain greater confidence in understanding and assessing the poetic state par excellence.55

44

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

The Theory of Art as Sedimentation According to Li Zehou (ᵾ⌭৊ 1930–), art is the product of history based on human practice and symbolic creation. It involves a long process of sedimentation in the stratification of its form, image, and significance. Accordingly, a work of art is reckoned to consist of at least three interrelated stratifications and sedimentations, namely the stratification of form along with primitive sedimentation, the stratification of image along with artistic sedimentation, and the stratification of significance along with life sedimentation. The stratification of form along with primitive sedimentation undertook a gradual progression of material and social labor. Its early stage emerged with the employment of certain aspects of natural order and form by primitives. Later on it underwent the evolution of objective lawfulness and subjective purposiveness into a new unity. This unity conduced to the crudest forms of beauty and aesthetic experience. Eventually, it was through social labor and material production that humans created the forms of beauty. As humans lived with subjective emotions and sensations, they became more and more sensitive to the visible orders and apparent shapes, and also capable of discovering an isomorphic correspondence with external objects at the time when they commenced to utilize the laws of nature to produce objects of beauty for either decoration or enjoyment. The awareness of isomorphic correspondence was by no means an inborn mentality or capacity, but an outcome of the human activities of making and using tools for social production. It was therefore imbued with sociality and humanity as well. Although aesthetic experience features vague understandings, imaginations, and intentions, it is sensation that dominates in any case. All this can be regarded as the prehistorical mode of humans’ spiritual world or the process of primitive sedimentation.56 The formal stratification of artworks commences from primitive sedimentation, but develops and extends itself in at least two directions: One is the naturalization of humanity embodied not merely in such physical activities as the Chinese breathing system for health and spiritual nourishment, martial arts for bodybuilding and mind cultivation, and practical expertise for longevity, but also in the formal stratification of artwork, including life force and noble vitality. It takes considerable effort to get the formal stratification of artwork to tally with the rhythm of the universe and thereby to form an isomorphic structure. That is why the key principle of garden design in the Chinese tradition emphasizes the value of naturalness, for it suggests that a fine garden should appear “as if it were created by nature itself even though made by man.” With respect to the other direction, it refers to the Zeitgeist and sociality, that is to say the ever-changing objects,

WANG KEPING

45

events, and relationships that embody the tendencies of different times and societies which would cause formal variations and aesthetic trends. Briefly, the formal stratification involves three forces as such: primitive sedimentation, naturalization of humanity, and social life underlined by ideology in religious, political, ethical, and cultural scopes. These forces are intermingling and interplaying in intricate patterns.57 Subsequently, the stratification of image along with artistic sedimentation considers a person’s emotion and desire insofar as it is humanized and expressed through symbols. These symbols, such as the Chinese taiji, the Christian cross, and the Buddhist mandala, constitute the subject matters, themes, and even contents of mimetic arts in particular. In both China and the West, art originated from ancient witchcraft practices through its rituals, whereas aesthetic experience originated from human labor. As the rituals developed, they divided into three branches: The first branch recognized and reflected natural things, which gave rise to science; the second controlled and organized the masses into group activities, which gave rise to religions, political systems, and ethical norms; the third imitated the production and phenomena in real life to form lively images, demonstrating the formal aspect of witchcraft. This formal aspect is related to gestures, languages, costumes, and performances, leading to the making of art. With respect to the stratification of significance along with life sedimentation, the significance that is suggested in the image gives rise to significant form. It is therefore inseparable from the sensuous forms and images of artworks. Yet it transcends them in a manner that means more than the humanization of sense organs and the emotional desires in addition to the realization of such emotional desires in art illusions. It in fact humanizes the psychological condition of humans and accounts for the endurance of artworks as it enables them to provide continuing satisfaction of aesthetic experience instead of a momentary effect like fireworks. Saturated with such great significance, the artworks are appealing not merely to the pleasures of the ear and the eye, but to the pleasures of the heart and mind as well as those of lofty aspirations and moral integrity. As a rule, fine artwork thus created as emotional symbols is rich in and characteristic of significance and life sedimentation. In a word, it is in the stratification of significance that the degree of fulfilling human nature is embodied.58 Now the significance in artworks specifically refers to the deepest meaning of human life and condition as well. Moreover, the stratification of significance in artworks cannot be divorced from life itself. The significance in this case can be considered to be the significance of life. Although its expression is sometimes mystical and even religious, it is still felt to be related to life in reality. In many cases, art serves in its own way to preserve the significance

46

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

of human life and often demonstrates itself as the materialized confirmation of the incessant expansion of a person’s spiritual life and substance. In short, art is the product of history. Its creation and development involve the stratification of form, image, and significance parallel to primitive, artistic, and life sedimentation. The three stratifications are interrelated to the extent that we cannot draw a hard and fast line between them. For they interweave and interpenetrate one another along with the three sedimentations, which conduces to the organic unity of the structure in a great artwork. Regarding the three sedimentations, we may arrive at a tentative conclusion that primitive sedimentation results in aesthetic, artistic sedimentation in form, and the life sedimentation in art. All this makes up a dynamic and changing process in close association with the daily experience of humankind as a whole.59 When looking into Li’s philosophy of art as sedimentation along with cultural and aesthetic psychology, we find it more stimulating in a methodological sense as it straddles two cultural domains, Chinese and Western. It can be conceived of as a transcultural approach by and large. It proceeds from a fundamental basis on such constituents as Chinese traditional thought in the mainstream of Confucianism, Marx’s practical philosophy in view of historical materialism, Kant’s critical aesthetics of judgment, Bell’s hypothesis of significant form, Freud’s psychoanalysis of the unconscious, and Jung’s probing into the archetype. It is especially so in respect to Li’s aesthetic consideration about art. Interestingly, he appropriates some suggestions and even concepts from Marx, Kant, Freud, and Bell, but reconstructs them in new shapes and implications in his own system, which they seem to fit fairly well as if they were salt dissolved in water. All this comes out from a critical transformation and creative synthesis in the Chinese context of globalization and consequently leads him to widen his range of thought and venture across some theoretical boundaries encountered in his speculative pursuits.60

NOTES 1. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, trans. Maija Bell Samei (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2010), p. 51. 2. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, p. 40. 3. Confucius, The Analects, trans. D.C. Lau (London: Penguin Books, 1983), 7.6. 4. Confucius, The Analects, 8.8. 5. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, p. 47. 6. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, p. 52. 7. Mencius, The Book of Mencius (trans. James Legge), 7B.25, in The Four Books (Changsha: Hunan Press, 1995).

WANG KEPING

47

8. James Legge (trans.), The Doctrine of the Golden Mean, in The Four Books, p. 25. 9. James Legge (trans.), The Doctrine of the Golden Mean, in The Four Books, pp. 26–27. 10. Laozi, Dao De Jing, trans. Wang Keping (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 2008), Sect. 2. 11. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect.20. 12. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 58. 13. Wang Keping, Reading the Dao: A Thematic Inquiry (London: Continuum, 2011), pp. 60–61. 14. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, 93. 15. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 10. 16. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 19. 17. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 16. 18. Zhuangzi, The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), Ch. 4. Cited from Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, p. 81. 19. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 2. 20. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 8. 21. Wang Keping, Reading the Dao: A Thematic Inquiry, pp. 42–43. 22. Laozi, Dao De Jing, Sect. 25. 23. Chuang Tzu, The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, Ch. 31. 24. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, p. 77. 25. Mozi, “Gong Meng” [Gong Meng Zi], in Wang Huanbiao (ed.), Mozi ji gu [Collected Annotations to The Book of Mozi] Shanghai: Shanghai Guji Press, 2005), Ch. 48, 1101–1102; also see Sun Yirang (ed.), Mozi xiangu [The Book of Mozi with Annotations] Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 2001), Vol. 2, 459; Fung Yu-lan. A Short History of Chinese Philosophy in his Selected Philosophical Writings (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1991), pp. 248–249. 26. Mozi, “Lu wen” [The Lord of State Lu], in Wang Huanbiao (ed.), Mozi ji gu [Collected Annotations to The Book of Mozi], Ch. 49, 1125–1176; also see Sun Yirang (ed), Mozi xiangu [The Book of Mozi with Annotations], Vol. 2, pp. 475–476. 27. Mo Tzu, “Universal Love,” in Mo Tzu, Basic Writings, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1966), pp. 39–41. 28. Mozi, “Fei yue” [Against Music], in Wang Huanbiao (ed.), Mozi jigu [Collected Annotations to The Book of Mozi], Ch.s 33–34. His essay “Against Music” is said to have three parts. What is left in The Book of Mozi is two incomplete parts from which we see the key arguments relevant to his whole system of thought in this domain. Cf. Sun Yirang (ed.), Mozi xiangu [The Book of Mozi with Annotations], Vol. 1, pp. 251–263. 29. Mo Tzu, “Against Music,” in Mo Tzu, Basic Writings, p. 111. 30. Ibid., pp. 111–112.

48

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., pp. 112–113. 33. Ibid., pp. 114–115. 34. Ibid., p. 110. 35. Mozi, “Yi wen” [Fragments in the Appendix], in Sun Yirang (ed.), Mozi xiangu [The Book of Mozi with Annotations], pp. 653–659. 36. Ibid., p. 656. 37. Xunzi, “On Enriching the State,” in the Xunzi, trans. John Knoblock (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 2003), pp. 266–267. 38. Ibid., pp. 272–273. 39. Ibid., pp. 282–285. 40. Wang Keping, Chinese Culture of Intelligence (Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan & Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press), p. 351. 41. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, p. 161. 42. Ibid., pp. 161–162. 43. Huang Maolin (tr.), The Sutra of Hui Neng (Changsha: Hunan Press, 1996), p. 19. 44. Ibid., pp. 51–53. 45. Ibid., p. 166. 46. Ibid., p. 165. 47. Ibid., pp. 165–166. 48. Ibid., p. 166. 49. The four directions (si da ഋབྷ) here stand for east and west, south and north. They are often used to indicate the universe. 50. Li Zehou, “Chan yi ang ran” [The Meaning of Zen], in Zou wo ziji de lu [Along My Own Path] (Beijing: Sanlian Shudian, 1986), pp. 392–393. Also see Li Zehou, Zhongguo gudai sixiang shilun [Essays on Traditional Chinese Thoughts] (Beijing: Renmin Chubanshe, 1985), pp. 207–210. 51. Wang Keping, “Poetic Wisdom in Zen Enlightenment,” in Wang Keping, Chinese Culture of Intelligence, pp. 135–157. 52. Zehou Li, “The Stratification of Form and Primitive Sedimentation,” from his Four Essays on Aesthetics: Toward a Global View, in Vincent B. Leitch et al (eds.), Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism (New York: WW Norton & Co., 2010), 2nd edition. 53. Wang Guowei, Ran Jian ci hua [Wang Guowei’s Discourse on Ci Poetry], see Wang Kuo-wei’s Jen-chien Tzi-hua: A Study in Chinese Literary Criticism (trans. Adele Austin Rickett, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1977), 43. The translation is modified in this quotation. 54. I. Kant, Critique of Judgment, trans. J.B. Bernard (New York: Hafner Press, 1951), pp. 156–157. 55. Wang Keping, Chinese Culture of Intelligence, pp. 357–359.

WANG KEPING

49

56. Li Zehou and Jane Cauvel, Four Essays on Aesthetics (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2006), p. 134. 57. Li Zehou and Jane Cauvel, Four Essays on Aesthetics, 144. Also see Li Zehou, Meixue si jiang [Four Essays on Aesthetics] (Beijing: Sanlian Bookshop, 1989), 205. 58. Li Zehou, Meixue si jiang [Four Essays on Aesthetics], pp. 237–238. 59. Wang Keping, Chinese Culture of Intelligence, pp. 406–411. 60. Ibid., pp. 418–424.

BIBLIOGRAPHY English Materials Chuang-tzu (Zhuangzi), A Taoist Classic: Chuang-tzu, trans. Fung Yu-lan, Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1989. Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi), The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, trans. Burton Watson, New York: Columbia University Press, 1968. Confucius, The Analects, trans. D.C. Lau, London: Penguin Books, 1983. Confucius, Mencius et al., The Four Books, trans. James Legge, Changsha: Hunan Press, 1995. Fung, Yu-lan, A Short History of Chinese Philosophy in his Selected Philosophical Writings, Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1991. Huang, Maolin, trans., The Sutra of Hui Neng, Changsha: Hunan Press, 1996. Kant, Immanuel, Critique of Judgment, trans. J.B. Bernard, New York: Hafner Press, 1951. Laozi, Dao De Jing, trans. Wang Keping, Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 2008. Legge, James, trans., Record of Music, in The Sacred Books of China (The Li Ki Book xvii. Yo Ki), Delhi et al: Motilal Banarsidass, rep., 1976. Li Zehou, The Path of Beauty: A Study of Chinese Aesthetics, trans. Gong Lizeng, Hong Kong et al: Oxford University Press, 1994. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition, trans. Maija Bell Samei, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2010. Li Zehou and Jane Cauvel, Four Essays on Aesthetics: Toward a Global View, Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, 2008. Mencius, Mencius, trans. D.C. Lau, London: Penguin Books, 1988. Mo Tzu (Mozi), Basic Writings, trans. Burton Watson, New York & London: Columbia University Press, 1966. Wang Guowei, Wang Kuo-wei’s Jen-Chien Tzi-hua: A Study in Chinese Literary Criticism, trans. Adele Austin Rickett, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1977. Wang Keping. Chinese Culture of Intelligence, Singapore: Palgrave MacMillan, 2019. Wang Keping. Harmonism as an Alternative, Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. Wang Keping. Reading the Dao: A Thematic Inquiry, London: Continuum, 2011. Wang Keping. “Mozi versus Xunzi on Music,” The Journal of Chinese Philosophy, no. 4, Oxford: Blackwell, 2009.

50

A SKETCH OF CHINESE AESTHETICS

Wang Keping, “Wang Guowei: Philosophy of Aesthetic Criticism,” in Cheng Chung-ying and Nicholas Bunin (eds.), Contemporary Chinese Philosophy, Oxford: Blackwell, 2002. Xunzi, Xunzi, trans. John Knoblock, Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 2003.

Chinese Materials Li Zehou, Mei xue si jiang [Four Essays on Aesthetics], Beijing: Sanlian Bookshop, 1989. Li Zehou, Zou wo ziji de lu [Along My Own Path], Beijing: Sanlian Shudian, 1986. Li Zehou, Zhongguo gudai sixiang shilun [Essays on Traditional Chinese Thoughts], Beijing: Renmin Press, 1985. Sun, Yirang, ed., Mozi xiangu [The Book of Mozi with Annotations] Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 2001. Wang, Guowei, Wang Guowei wen ji [Collected Works of Wang Guowei]. ed. Yao Ganming and Wang Yan, Beijing: Zhongguo Wenshi Press, 1997. Wang Huanbiao, ed., Mozi ji gu [Collected Annotations to The Book of Mozi], Shanghai: Shanghai Guji Press, 2005. Wang Zhimin and Fang Shan, Fojiao yu mei xue [Buddhism and Aesthetics], Shenyang: Liaoning Renmin Press, 1989. Yan Yu, Cang lang shi hua [Canglang’s Discourse on Poetry], Beijing: Renmin Literature Press, 1983.

CHAPTER TWO

Beauty Lies in the Image: Endowing Fundamental Theories of Aesthetics with Chinese Characteristics YE LANG

After the publication of An Outline of the History of Chinese Aesthetics (Zhongguo meixueshi dagang ѝഭ㖾ᆖਢབྷ㓢) in 1985, I became aware that the then system of theories of aesthetics in China was stale.1 This system— not referring to any volume in particular, but instead to the common system of theory existing in textbooks that is taught in universities in China— constructed upon the Grand Aesthetic Discussion (meixue dataolun 㖾ᆖབྷ 䇘䇪) of the 1950s is a summary of the dialogues and conclusions of the discussion. Although this system, founded under certain historical circumstances, bears the value and significance of its time, in the approaching decades especially toward the 1980s, it exposed four major shortcomings. 1. Its theoretical framework and scope are relatively narrow (it commonly refers only to disciplines of aesthetics, aesthetic perception, art and maybe at times aesthetic education), with limited 51

52

BEAUTY LIES IN THE IMAGE

content and a disregard for the progress of aesthetic developments over the recent decades, lacking interdisciplinary dialogue and referential study with other disciplines; 2. It lacked foundation in, and engagement with, traditional Chinese philosophy, having based its theoretical framework solely on Western philosophy (from Plato, Aristotle to Nikolay Chernyshevsky and Georgi Plekhanov etc.); 3. It did not incorporate developments in aesthetics of the West of the twentieth century; 4. It was detached from local contemporary developments, neglecting the new practices of art, experiences and new challenges raised in China. In my opinion, the above-noted four shortcomings determine a fundamental deficiency. They cause our system of aesthetic theory to be dated, monotonous, and dull, as well as lacking contemporary development and a detachment from reality. It is becoming increasingly outdated and unfit for contemporary higher education and aesthetic education in the practices of art and literature. It has become of critical importance to break through the existing system and to create a new modern form of aesthetic theory. The construction of such a modern form of aesthetic theory is crucial to subject development; it is the major task for contemporary Chinese aestheticians. Hence after publishing An Outline of the History of Chinese Aesthetics, the majority of my time and effort have been devoted to the studies of a fundamental theory of aesthetics. One essential notion had already formed in my mind at the time, namely that modern aesthetics should be a truly international discipline. Existing theories of aesthetics in Western countries have been limited to the scope of Western philosophy and Western culture, without in-depth incorporation of Asian philosophy of aesthetics or Chinese philosophy of aesthetics. This neglect has prevented the theories of aesthetics of today from becoming truly international. In other words, within a globalized world, there is not a universally inclusive system of modern aesthetics. This lacuna needs to be filled. With the writing of a contemporary theory of aesthetics, the presence of Chinese philosophy is essential to form a true international dialogue and discipline. The contributions of Chinese philosophers in writing modern aesthetics would be unique and irreplaceable. From 1986 to 1988, I organized a group of young scholars (postgraduate students under my supervision) to write System of Modern Aesthetics (Xiandai meixue tixi ⧠ԓ㖾ᆖփ㌫), in which I focused on two main aspects. The first was to build upon the theories of classic Chinese aesthetics, the other to incorporate the recent achievements of Western aesthetics. This is the first

YE LANG

53

volume after Zhu Guangqian’s to attempt the systematic study and integration of traditional Chinese aesthetics and modern Western aesthetics on a fundamental, theoretical level. The breakthrough contribution of System of Modern Aesthetics is the re-evaluation and redefinition of fundamental concepts and the scope of the field. It studies and summarizes the achievements of Western aesthetics in the twentieth century, but also elevates the lexicon of Chinese aesthetics from a philosophical standpoint. It proposed the concept of the image (yixiang ᜿䊑)2 as the ontology3 of aesthetic appreciation. While the concept of image exhibits the theoretical essence and discoursecharacteristics of traditional theories of Chinese aesthetics, it also engages with modern Western theories of aesthetics. For instance, the analysis of traditional Chinese aesthetics in the formation of the image, through sense and scenery, intention and the image, bears resemblance to the analysis of the intentionality of aesthetics in phenomenology and aesthetics from experience (Erlebnis). This points to the fact that the intentionality of aesthetics forms between the subject and object in the intentional structure of aesthetic Erlebnis.4 Through a detailed examination of the practice of art in both the West and East, the concept of the image has been proven to be of common theoretical value. System of Modern Aesthetics continues along the research path of Zhu Guangqian and Zong Baihua, for the first time introducing into theories of aesthetics essential concepts of Chinese philosophy such as image and inspire (ganxing ᝏ‫)ޤ‬, thus constructing the basis for an equal dialogue with Western philosophy and the Western discourse of aesthetics. Of course, the attempts in System of Modern Aesthetics were still preliminary. The structure of the volume proved to be multifarious and jumbled, and the fundamental concept of beauty lies in the image (mei zai yixiang 㖾൘᜿䊑) still had to be elaborated theoretically. With some important issues still to be addressed, the concept of beauty lies in the image did not manage to run through all the chapters. After the publication of System of Modern Aesthetics in 1988, and twenty years of researching and pondering, in April 2009 I published Beauty Lies in the Image (Mei zai yixiang 㖾൘᜿䊑), with the black and white edition of the volume titled Foundations of Aesthetics (Meixue yuanli 㖾ᆖ৏⨶). This work carries forth the ventures of System of Modern Aesthetics. It takes note of the significant changes in Western philosophy since Heidegger. From the dualist approach to considering phenomena as a whole, from the emphasis on the study of the ontology of beauty in aesthetics to the actual activity of aesthetic appreciation. Also, in reaction to the developments of aesthetics in China since the 1950s, particularly the theoretical problems posed by dualist approaches, I

54

BEAUTY LIES IN THE IMAGE

proposed the theory of viewing the image as the ontology of aesthetics, to treat the generation of the image as the essence of aesthetic appreciation. The concept of the image both defines the ontology of the aesthetic subject and also defines the ontology of the activity of aesthetic appreciation. During aesthetic appreciation, beauty and the perception of beauty are the same. Beauty is an experience, as opposed to cognitive knowledge, and at the core of the perception of beauty is the formation of the image. From the essential concept of beauty lies in the image, Foundations of Aesthetics discusses beauty in nature, social activities, science, arts and crafts, etc., all drawing on the essential concept that although these are diverse fields, they all share the same generation mechanism, which is the generation of the image. Using this essential concept, many standing propositions of aesthetics could be revisited and given new meaning and understanding. From the perspective of the traditional Chinese philosophical concept of the unification of man and heaven (tian ren heyi ཙӪਸа), the image world (yixiang shijie ᜿䊑ц⭼) is not the result of cognitive knowledge of the physical world. Rather, it is a creation. Consequently, aesthetic experience is not knowledge but creative activity. Hence, I have emphasized repeatedly in my book the concept of the generation of the image (yixiang de shengcheng ᜿䊑Ⲵ⭏ᡀ). Image is not the result of cognition, but a generation of that moment. Aesthetic experience is the generation of the image world through intuition of the moment, creating a complete and meaningful sensuous world, which reveals the true living world as it is. It is using this theory that we can state that aesthetic appreciation is not a type of cognitive knowledge but an experience. Aesthetic appreciation and aesthetic experience are dependent upon the human being, while cognitive knowledge may exist separately, through isolating subjects of the physical world as the objects of investigation. Aesthetic experience is direct and sensual, it is a momentary, instantaneous experience, while cognitive knowledge needs to depart from the senses in order to enter into the abstract world of concepts and knowledge. Aesthetic experience is an instantaneous instinct that draws experience from the whole living world as it is. Cognitive knowledge is logical thinking, which calls for the breaking down of the whole for analysis through logical thinking. Aesthetic appreciation creates a meaningful sensuous world, an image world, and this is where beauty lies, contrary to the system of abstract knowledge which cognition deals with which is gray and dull. The image world directly created from experience is momentary and irreproducible. Not only does the image world created by different individuals differ from each other, the image world of the same observer even differs from their own at each different moment of experience of the same thing. Emphasizing the value and effect of the mind (xin ᗳ) and spirit (jingshen ㋮⾎), the mind is the fundamental characteristic of this volume. Discussions

YE LANG

55

of leading-edge issues in aesthetics have all been grounded upon this key point. The mind we mention here is not the passive, simply reflective awareness or subjectivity, but an immensely active generation mechanism of meaning (yiyi shengfa jizhi ᜿ѹ⭏ਁᵪࡦ). The effect of the mind, as in the theories of Wang Yangming, is in bestowing meaning (yiyi ᜿ѹ) upon the physical world we live in. This bestowing of meaning contains the aesthetic judgment of beauty: “without the active generation mechanism of the mind, the physical world bears no meaning, and shall by no means be known as beauty.”5 For instance, the beauty of nature lies in the image of nature. Without the active enlightenment (zhaoliang ➗Ӟ) procedure of the mind, nature bears no issue of beauty. Simply put, the observation and analysis of nature, or discussions of human interaction with nature, is not sufficient for the theoretical understanding of the beauty of nature. In summary, the proposition that beauty lies in the image identifies simple object (wu ⢙) from the image of the object xiang 䊑. This emphasizes the crucial value of bestowing meaning in aesthetic activity, the key point being reinstating the dominant position of the creative mind in aesthetic appreciation, which would enhance the ability to bestow meaning and creativity of the mind. Therefore, what fundamentally sets apart Foundations of Aesthetics from the system of aesthetics created from the 1950s Grand Aesthetic Discussion is not the emphasis on mind or object, but the level of understanding of the generation mechanism of meaning. The value of an aesthetic theory rooted in the image goes far beyond the construction of a systematic body of theories of aesthetics. Rather, it protrudes the relationship between life, aesthetic experience, and the elevation of the spiritual pursuit, and the pursuit of the value of self. The reason that we believe that the ontology of aesthetics is the image and that aesthetic activity is the activity of the generation of the image is for the fact that the image may enlighten life, enlighten the living world of man and all physical components. “The ultimate full content of the study of aesthetics is to lead us to elevate our spiritual realm of life, to bestow upon ourselves a benign and openhearted perspective, in pursuit of a more purposeful, valuable, temperamented life.”6 A true study of aesthetics in the realm of Chinese philosophy will, apart from accumulating theoretical and intellectual knowledge, cultivate a love for theoretical study. But most importantly, it will lead us to experience life, feel life, and in turn we will achieve joyousness of the soul and elevation of our spirit and realm of life. In the Chinese philosophical context, the world studied is nature (ziran 㠚❦). It is a world full of life; the living world in which humans dwell; a world where humans and all physical matter exists as one; a world of meaning and temperament. This nature is all existence as it truly is. Traditional Chinese

56

BEAUTY LIES IN THE IMAGE

philosophers have in-depth dialogues on this subject matter. Wang Fuzhi states that “emotion and scenery are denoted two individual names, yet they are in fact inseparable. Spirit to poetry, are wondrous in conformation of each other. Genius is when emotion is in the scenery, and the scenery lies within emotions,”7 and “hence scenery is conformed by senses, senses rise from the scenery, inseparable and conform through the human consciousness. If they were to be abruptly separated, senses alone are not enough to inspire, and though facing the same scenery, it is not the scenery previously perceived.”8 Noting the phrases true (shiᇎ) and original (chuࡍ) used by Wang, with both referring to the natural state as it was, we are able to grasp the essential meanings of the paragraph. This is the concept of scenery and senses are fused into one (qingjing heyi ᛵᲟਸа). It is a complete world pre-given as it is, it is the living world as presented in the theories of Husserl and as mentioned by Habermas in his statements on the experience as a whole.9 Wang Fuzhi uses his famous concept present revelation (xianliang⧠䟿) to advocate this idea. Xianliang consists of the characters xian ⧠ and liang 䟿. Xian refers to the now, the ready-made, the revelation of the real (xianxian zhenshi ᱮ⧠ⵏᇎ). The now amplifies emancipation from the shadows of the past. The readymade is the physical trigger of the now, without purposeful consideration of the mind. The revelation of the real reveals something for what it is, a simple act of revelation without imagining or the adding of assumptions. I greatly esteem the theory of xianliang by Wang Fuzhi, as he states clearly that the image is as it is, not the result of analysis or thinking. Above all, he points out that in such image we may see the real; we may see a thing as it is. Zong Baihua writes that “the image is like the sun, creates all and enlightens all!”10 And “subjective temperament interacts with natural matters merging into one, creating an eternal and vast lively realm (lingjing ⚥ຳ) where birds soar and fish swim, life is given to all.”11 These elaborations by Zong paved the way for us to grasp the idea of the image. The image is to create, to generate. The image enlightens the world where humans and nature exist as one. Aesthetic appreciation is to enlighten; it is the act of enlightenment, of revelation of the real as it is. This enlightening originates in our mind. By means of this enlightenment of the mind, physical matters are endowed with meaning, and are given temperament and expression. As Zong sets forth, “all beauty comes from the light of the mind; without this enlightenment, there is no such thing as beauty.”12 Chinese philosophers have long since advocated this notion. As Wang Yangming writes, “before you have seen this flower, the flower and your mind are both mute. As you glance upon this flower, all colors of this flower become vivid.”13 With the enlightenment from the mind, the flower is thus revealed. All colors become vivid. It enters into our world, and is given meaning and expression. The

YE LANG

57

role of the mind here is simply to enlighten, bearing no concept or purpose. Wang Yangming does not specify here the type of flower, only that “all colors of this flower become vivid.” The term vivid here has no conceptual meaning, but refers to the revelation of the flower as it is in the real world, the appearance of the flower in the real world, which is the image of the flower. It is pre-given; we exist in this revelation and appearance without any other extra thinking. It is possible to view Wang Yangming’s statement that the object does not exist without mind (xinwu waiwuᗳᰐཆ⢙) in this sense. We should also read Heidegger’s statement of beauty as the autonomous revelation of the real in this same theoretical frame.14 In Wang Fuzhi’s theory on poetry he repeatedly states what the body experiences, what the eyes see (shen zhi suoli, mu zhi suojian 䓛ѻᡰশˈⴞ ѻᡰ㿱), experience of the mind and experience of the body are one (xinmu zhi suojiᗳⴞѻᡰ৺), all referring to the original experience of the moment, the now. Aesthetic appreciation is of the now. Beauty is not a set of abstract concepts or logic, like the Platonic or Hegelian idea, nor a perfect ideal of a certain typology. Beauty is the revelation of the real at the now, as in the Zen fable of cypress seeds in the courtyard.15 The revelation of the sensual experience of the moment, it is the now. Characteristics of the now are instantaneousness, separateness, continuity, and historicity. As time exceeds the self, the momentary experience of the now does not sever history, and hence there is continuity and the experiences of the now are intact. As Gadamer states, “a single aesthetic experience is always inclusive of the experience of a certain infinite whole.”16 Hence the instantaneous experience of the now embodies infinity and eternity in the moment. Zhu Guangqian states that “in the moment of observation, the conscious of the observer is occupied by the intact and pure image of the now, the miniscule to him is the entire universe; he loses sense of time, moment becomes eternity to him.”17 For Zong Baihua the attitude of living a life of aesthetic appreciation lies in the “play of the ‘now,’ the pursuit of infinite and eternity through the instantaneous experience of the now.”18 As Martin Buber pointed out, when limited by the dualist approach the “I” has only past and no present. It is only when transcending the dualist approach that there may be a now, and only through the now can there be the revelation of the real.19 We live in a world where scenery and feelings are fused into one, a world with history and culture; this is not the world of prehistorical creatures. This fundamental notion runs throughout all chapters of Foundations of Aesthetics. In this book I have repeatedly emphasized the historical and social characteristics of aesthetic appreciation, stressing that the activity of aesthetic appreciation is a social and cultural activity. This is to say that the theory of beauty lies in the image overall respects historical materialism.

58

BEAUTY LIES IN THE IMAGE

Thus, the fundamental theories of beauty lies in the image surpassed the dialogue and results of the 1950s Great Aesthetic Discussion. It is for this reason that, after the publishing of Foundations of Aesthetics, I paid no further attention to the contents of that discussion. Having surpassed the theory it is not fruitful to pay additional attention to it. I have given thought to the reason why the dialogues, contents and results of the 1950s Great Aesthetic Discussion were surpassed. It is due to the lack of heritage: it did not build upon the works of traditional Chinese philosophy; it neglected the research of Zhu Guangqian and Zong Baihua; it strayed from the main course of Chinese aesthetics. Humanistic subjects require the constant reexamination of history and previous research, and doctrines of the past bear great value to ongoing research. Concerning humanistic research, it is impossible to depart completely from all classical volumes and develop an absolutely original body of theory. The heritage and legacy of previous classics are of crucial importance in humanistic research. We often witness the complete negation of tradition and classics, as novel claims are presented in an attempt to cause sensation. In fact, these baseless claims are not only unable to withstand the test of time, but barely receive attention or affirmation from learned scholars. In my personal opinion, one of the significant lasting negative effects of the Great Aesthetic Discussion of the 1950s is that it steered the research of Chinese aesthetics off the main course. During the discussion, there was a common neglect of the mind and spirit, straying away from the fundamentals of Chinese aesthetics and the pursuit of a higher spiritual realm. The proposed conclusions of the 1950s discussion are unsatisfactory in explaining the activity of aesthetic appreciation and the complex factors of the perception of beauty. Nor are they able to engage with the great minds which created the classics. Such conclusions are detached from reality, detached from the actual activity of aesthetic appreciation, and detached from engaging with real practices and forms of art or art history. Instead, they focus solely upon the so-called “ontology of beauty itself ” or “origin of beauty,” which inevitably results in falling into the void of hollow abstract concepts, even though caution against this has long been pointed out by Zhu Guangqian. From the 1980s, Chinese aesthetics has gradually returned to its main course. In recent years, research into Chinese aesthetics has followed the path of integration of the West and traditional Chinese aesthetics, finding a footing in the traditional concepts of Chinese aesthetics and Chinese culture. Conforming to this main course of research, the fundamental and pioneering research of Zhu Guangqian and Zong Baihua led the way. It is necessary that we construct our research upon the works of Zhu and Zong. Those

YE LANG

59

completely negating their works, claiming revolutionary original insights, have been repeatedly proven to be making little contribution. Chinese aesthetics always returns to, and shall follow, its main course. Among the numerous works of modern Chinese aesthetics, the works of Zhu and Zong are most orthodox. Their works could be denoted classics of Chinese aesthetics of the twentieth century and are definitely worthy of a detailed reading. Of course, the inheritance of legacy does not mean abandoning creation. It is important to remember what history has taught us. It is only upon the inheritance of tradition that there may be true creation of the new. In my volume Foundations of Aesthetics, building upon the works of Zhu, I have theorized his idea of transcending dualism with unification of man and heaven, thus allowing the research of Chinese aesthetics to rise above the entanglement of stale conceptual debates. In Zhu’s works man and the world are dualistic and arrive at the unification of man and heaven in a certain mental state. In my book I elaborated on the notion that man and the world were never separate. The activity of aesthetic appreciation not only surpasses the limitations of self, but also returns to the revelation of the real. This return to existentialism is clarified in my book. In brief, concerning the construction of aesthetics and theories of art, it is imperative that we consider the most common issues, and are consistently reminded to engage with the greatest works created by man, in order to stay vigilant to avoiding straying from the main course of theory of art and Chinese aesthetics.

NOTES 1. A first draft of Ye Lang’s chapter was translated by Dr. Hu Die. 2. For a detailed elaboration of the concept of the image and beauty lies in the image, see Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Meixue yuanli 㖾ᆖ৏⨶ [Foundations of Aesthetics] (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2009). 3. This article uses the phrase “ontology” loosely, in an attempt to refer to “what aesthetics deals with” in the frame of Chinese aesthetics. 4. Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Xiandai meixue tixi ⧠ԓ㖾ᆖփ㌫ [System of Modern Aesthetics] (Beijing: Peking University Press, 1988), pp. 554–556. 5. “⿫ᔰӪⲴ᜿䇶Ⲵ⭏ਁᵪࡦˈཙൠз⢙ቡ⋑ᴹ᜿ѹˈቡн㜭ᡀѪ㖾DŽ” Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Meixue yuanli 㖾ᆖ৏⨶ [Foundations of Aesthetics] (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2009), p. 72. 6. “㖾ᆖ⹄ウⲴ‫ޘ‬䜘޵ᇩˈᴰਾᖂ㔃䎧ᶕˈቡᱟᕅሬӪԜ৫ࣚ࣋ᨀॷ㠚ᐡⲴӪ⭏ຳ ⭼ˈ֯㠚ᐡާᴹа⿽ÿ‫ݹ‬仾䴱ᴸÿ㡜Ⲵ㜨㾏઼≄䊑ˈ৫䘭≲а⿽ᴤᴹ᜿ѹǃᴤ ᴹԧ٬઼ᴤᴹᛵ䏓ⲴӪ⭏DŽ” Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Meixue yuanli 㖾ᆖ৏⨶ [Foundations of Aesthetics] (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2009), p. 24.

60

BEAUTY LIES IN THE IMAGE

7. “ᛵᲟ਽ѪҼˈ㘼ᇎнਟ⿫DŽ⾎Ҿ䈇㘵ˈ࿉ਸᰐැDŽᐗ㘵ࡉᴹᛵѝᲟˈᲟѝ ᛵDŽ” Wang Fuzhi ⦻ཛѻ, Jiangzhai shihua ဌᮻ䈇䈍 [Poetry written in Jiang Study]. 8. “ཛᲟԕᛵਸˈᛵԕᲟ⭏ˈࡍн⴨⿫ˈୟ᜿ᡰ䘲DŽᡚ࠶є₋ˈࡉᛵн䏣‫ˈޤ‬䶒 Ჟ䶎ަᲟDŽ” Wang Fuzhi ⦻ཛѻ, Jiangzhai shihua ဌᮻ䈇䈍 [Poetry written in Jiang Study]. 9. Zhang Shiying ᕐц㤡, zhexue daolun ଢᆖሬ䇪 [Introduction to Philosophy] (Beijing, Peking University Press, 2002), pp. 3–5. 10. “䊑ྲᰕˈࡋॆз⢙ˈ᰾ᵇз⢙DŽ” Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ, Zong Baihua Quanji ᇇⲭॾ‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Zong Baihua] Vol.1 (Anhui: Anhui Education Publishing House, 2008), p. 628. 11. “ѫ㿲Ⲵ⭏ભᛵ䈳оᇒ㿲Ⲵ㠚❦⢙䊑Ӕ㶽ӂ⑇ˈᡀቡањ呒伎劬䏳ˈ⍫⌬⧢ ⨁ˈ␺❦㘼␡Ⲵ⚥ຳDŽ” Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ, Zong Baihua Quanji ᇇⲭॾ‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Zong Baihua] Vol.2 (Anhui: Anhui Education Publishing House, 2008), p. 358. 12. “а࠷㖾Ⲵ‫ݹ‬ᱟᶕ㠚ᗳ⚥ⲴⓀ⋹ˈ⋑ᴹᗳ⚥Ⲵ᱐ሴˈᱟᰐᡰ䉃㖾ⲴDŽ” Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ, Zong Baihua Quanji ᇇⲭॾ‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Zong Baihua] Vol.2 (Anhui: Anhui Education Publishing House, 2008), p. 358. 13. “֐ᵚⴻ↔㣡ᰦˈ↔㣡о⊍ᗳ਼ᖂҾᇲDŽ֐ᶕⴻ↔㣡ᰦˈࡉ↔㣡仌㢢аᰦ᰾ⲭ 䎧ᶕDŽ” Wang Yangming ⦻䱣᰾, Wang Yangming Quanji ⦻䱣᰾‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Wang Yangming] Vol.1 (Shanghai: Shanghai Classics Publishing House, 1992), pp. 107–108. 14. Heidegger ⎧ᗧṬቄ, Haidegeer xuanji shangce ⎧ᗧṬቄ䘹䳶к޼ [Selected Works of Heidegger], Vol.1 (Shanghai: Sanlian Publishing House, 1996), pp. 276, 302. 15. “ᓝࡽ᷿ṁᆀ.” Pu Ji Პ⍾, Wudeng huiyuan ӄ⚟Պ‫[ ݳ‬Five Volumes of Enlightenment], Vol.1, Scroll 4 (Beijing: Zhonghua Book Company, 1984), 202. 16. Gadamer խ䗮唈ቄ, Zhenli yu fangfa ⵏ⨶оᯩ⌅ [Truth and Methodology], Vol.1 (Shanghai: Shanghai Translation Publishing House, 1999), p. 90. 17. “൘㿲䍿Ⲵаࡩ䛓ѝˈ㿲䍿㘵Ⲵ᜿䇶ਚ㻛ањᆼᮤ㘼অ㓟Ⲵ᜿䊑ঐտˈᗞቈሩ ҾԆ‫ׯ‬ᱟབྷॳ˗Ԇᘈ䇠ᰦ‫Ⲵݹ‬伎傠ˈࡩ䛓ሩҾԆ‫ׯ‬ᱟ㓸ਔDŽ” Zhu Guangqian ᵡ‫▌ݹ‬, Zhu Guangqian meixue wenji ᵡ‫▌ݹ‬㖾ᆖ᮷䳶 [Writings on Aesthetics by Zhu Guangqian] Vol.1 (Shanghai: Shanghai Literature & Art Publishing House, 1982), p. 17. 18. “ᢺ⧙ÿ⧠൘ÿˈ൘ࡩ䛓Ⲵ⧠䟿Ⲵ⭏⍫䟼䘭≲ᶱ䟿ⲴѠᇼ઼‫ݵ‬ᇎDŽ” Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ, Zong Baihua Quanji ᇇⲭॾ‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Zong Baihua] Vol.2 (Anhui: Anhui Education Publishing House, 2008), p. 279. 19. See Buber 傜бgᐳ՟, Wo he ni ᡁ઼֐ [I and You] (Shanghai: Sanlian Publishing House, 1986).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Buber, Martin 傜бgᐳ՟, Wo he ni ᡁ઼֐ [I and You], Shanghai: Sanlian Publishing House, 1986.

YE LANG

61

Gadamer, Hans-Georg խ䗮唈ቄ, Zhenli yu fangfa ⵏ⨶оᯩ⌅ [Truth and Methodology], Shanghai: Shanghai Translation Publishing House, 1999. Heidegger, Martin ⎧ᗧṬቄ, Haidegeer xuanji shangce ⎧ᗧṬቄ䘹䳶к޼ [Selected Works of Heidegger], Shanghai: Sanlian Publishing House, 1996. Husserl, Edmund 㜑ຎቄ, Wenhua yu zhongguo ᮷ॆоѝഭ [Culture and China], Shanghai: Sanlian Publishing House, 1987. Pu Ji Პ⍾, Wudeng huiyuan ӄ⚟Պ‫[ ݳ‬Five Volumes of Enlightenment], Beijing: Zhonghua Book Company, 1984. Wang Fuzhi ⦻ཛѻ, Jiangzhai shihua ဌᮻ䈇䈍 [Poetry written in Jiang Study], in Wang Fuzhi ⦻ཛѻˈ Chuanshan Quanshu 㡩ኡ‫ޘ‬Җˈ vol.15, pp. 836, 824, Changsha 䮯⋉˖ Yuelu Shushe ዣ哃Җ⽮, 1998. Wang Yangming ⦻䱣᰾, Wang Yangming Quanji ⦻䱣᰾‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Wang Yangming], Shanghai: Shanghai Classics Publishing House, 1992. Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Xiandai meixue tixi ⧠ԓ㖾ᆖփ㌫ [System of Modern Aesthetics], Beijing: Peking University Press, 1988. Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Meixue yuanli 㖾ᆖ৏⨶ [Foundations of Aesthetics], Beijing: Peking University Press, 2009. Zhang Shiying ᕐц㤡, Zhexue daolun ଢᆖሬ䇪 [Introduction to Philosophy], Beijing, Peking University Press, 2002. Zhu Guangqian ᵡ‫▌ݹ‬, Zhu Guangqian meixue wenji ᵡ‫▌ݹ‬㖾ᆖ᮷䳶 [Writings on Aesthetics by Zhu Guangqian], Shanghai: Shanghai Literature & Art Publishing House, 1982). Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ, Zong Baihua Quanji ᇇⲭॾ‫ޘ‬䳶 [The Complete Works of Zong Baihua], Anhui: Anhui Education Publishing House, 2008.

62

CHAPTER THREE

A Cosmological Aestheticism: The Interpretive Context for Confucian Role Ethics ROGER T. AMES

The early Chinese cosmology made explicit in the “Great Tradition” བྷۣ commentary on the Yijing ᱃㏃ or Book of Changes is an aestheticism that serves as the interpretive context for the Confucian philosophical tradition broadly, and for Confucian role ethics more specifically.1 What, in Whiteheadian terms, makes this Confucian cosmology an aesthetic order rather than a reductionistic, logical, or rational order, is that it is vital, holistic, unbounded, inclusive, and resolutely anarchic.2 That is, for Whitehead, in the contrast, the enjoyment of the logical order begins from the details themselves and then moves upward toward some abstract principle as the logical construction (rationality, matter, volition, God) that would discipline (and thus “rationalize”) these details into a single order. In Whitehead’s language, “it is the enjoyment of the abstracted details as permitting the abstract unity.”3 In the enjoyment of the aesthetic order, on the other hand, “there is a totality disclosing its component parts” in which “The whole precedes the details. We then move to discrimination. As in a moment, the details force themselves upon us as the reasons for the totality of the effect.”4 63

64

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

In the “cosmos” of this early Confucian cosmology, we are overwhelmed by the beauty of the unsummed whole and then move to an appreciation of the concrete details themselves as they sponsor the totality of the effect. This is but to say that, in the patterned order of the world in which no single privileged order predominates, all things—or better, all “events”—are, without exception, to be appreciated not only as participants in the production of the contrapuntal harmony at every level of cosmic order, but also as each having its own unique role in collaborating with its environing others to generate everything else. Whitehead insists that “the distinction between logic and aesthetics consists in the degree of abstraction involved. Logic concentrates attention upon high abstraction, and aesthetics keeps as close to the concrete as the necessities of finite understanding permit.”5 An image that comes to mind to illustrate this sense of aesthetic order is how in the appreciation of Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, we are initially overwhelmed by the beauty of the picture itself. Animated as this enjoyment is by the attention of the always unique connoisseurs who belong to a particular time and place, we then seek to take into account each concrete detail as it collaborates with every other detail in producing the totality of the enigmatic effect. This appreciation of each detail in its relationship to the portrait as a whole creates a holographic aesthetic in which the full effect of the Mona Lisa is implicated in and can be retrieved from each particular detail. In the same way, in this Changes cosmology any particular existent is in degree relevant to the construal of everything else, and, in this sense, has the unbounded totality implicated in its particularity. At the same time the anarchic totality of the effect is always being construed from one particular perspective or another. The intellectual milieu for early Chinese thinkers, as it is captured in the vocabulary of this “Great Tradition” commentary that reflects this animated holographic relationship between concrete detail and the disclosure of the aesthetic effect, is a phenomenal world of process and change described aspectually as either dao 䚃—“the unfolding of the boundless field of experience”—or as wanwu 㩜⢙—“the ten thousand processes or events.” To say that dao and wanwu are “aspectual” descriptions means that the two terms are connotative in viewing the same phenomenon in importantly different ways. These and the other dyadic, correlative categories the Changes invokes to describe this process such as the “alternation of yin and yang” (䲠䲭) and “change and persistence” (biantong 䆺䙊), rather than being analytically discrete and thus the source of dualistic language, are two mutually entailing ways of observing the same phenomenon that require each other in providing a full account. Dao is the term that can be used to capture this world order in its most synoptic and capacious sense

ROGER T. AMES

65

as the totality that is both diachronically and synchronically unbounded. Wanwu references this same dao phenomenon in its most concrete sense as the myriad events that, while constituting the totality, in their insistent particularity resist the imposition of any single order. The relationship between the cosmic dao and dao in its insistent particularity can thus be described in holographic terms in the language of focus and field respectively. Dao is thus one and many at the same time. Viewed chronologically, for example, there is the dao of the early sage rulers Yao and Shun, of the Zhou dynasty’s King Wen and Wu, of Confucius, of his protégée Yan Hui, of Mencius, and so on down to the contemporaries Tang Junyi and Li Zehou. It is the confluence of these many, sometimes conflicting, and always interpenetrating daos that emerge in the fullness of time to become the Confucian orthodoxy (daotong 䚃㎡), to again become the way of humanity (rendao Ӫ䚃), and then, by extension, to also become the unbounded and inclusive cosmic way (dao 䚃) itself. If Greek ontology as its starting point is grounded in an unchanging and self-sufficient “substance” (ousia) or “being per se,” the cosmology of the Changes takes as the most generic characteristic of experience “the generative procreativity of life itself ” (shengsheng ⭏⭏). “The greatest capacity of the world around us,” says the Changes, “is its vitality, its life force.”6 Dao then, far from referencing some preexisting and external originative principle that, according to its own formal perfection and self-sufficiency, rationalizes experience, is the procreative vitality inherent in the unceasing processes of transformation that fills in the gap between determinacy and indeterminacy to produce its own emergent order. Dao is not the actualization of an inherent, teleological design determined by some external agency. Rather, it is the unfolding of an always provisional and evolving pattern wherein all of the various interpenetrating events have their own unique and creative role in making the indeterminate aspect of the process determinate. Dao as it is described in the Changes explicitly denotes an efficacious continuity in the correlative relations that constitute things and events as they collaborate in an animated cosmic process that is persistently transforming what already is, into what it will become: It is the alternating of yin and yang that is meant by dao, or way-making. What continues way-making is its efficacy, and what brings it to fruition are the natural tendencies of things . . . It is its sheer abundance that we call “the grand working”; it is its constant novelty that we call “copious virtuosity”; it is its ceaseless procreating that is meant by change itself (yi).7

66

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

In order to give expression to this life-producing process, a connotative, explanatory vocabulary is established that parses the determinate and the functional aspects of this vital cosmic procreativity. When something is manifest, it is called an image (xiang 䊑), and taking on physical form it is called a phenomenon (qi ಘ). To get a grasp of these things and apply them is called emulation (fa ⌅). Putting them to good use so that all of the people can take advantage of them is called insight into the mysteries of the world (shen ⾎).8 As in so many passages in the “Great Commentary,” the text begins with observations about the form and functioning of the natural processes, and then concludes with advice on how effective collaboration with this changing world can inspire the human experience. Thus, that which goes beyond form is called dao; those things that have form are called phenomena. The transforming and tailoring that goes on among things is called their flux, while their advance and application is called their continuity. To take up this understanding and bring it into the lives of the common people is called the grand undertaking.9 In the Changes, the phenomenon of cosmic life is described in the aspectual and processual language of symbiotic bipolar dyads such as “flux and continuity” (biantong 䆺䙊), “alternating succession” (yinyang 䲠䲭), and “penetration and receptivity” (qiankun Үඔ). Within the unbounded totality of the heavens and the earth (tiandi ཙൠ), these transactional tensions in their complementarity describe the processes of transformation that continue without respite—the ceaseless and always creative rhythm of yin and yang alternations. A familiar metaphor in the Changes and the early corpus broadly, invoked to provide an image of the novel arising and subsiding, emerging and returning, waxing and waning, of the always unique phenomena of the world, is the opening and closing of the “swinging gates” (men 䮰): Thus, the closing of the swinging gates is called receptivity (kun ඔ); the opening of the gates is called penetration (qian Ү). The ongoing alternation of openings and closings is called flux (bian 䆺), and the inexhaustibility of the comings and goings is called continuity (tong 䙊).10 The process of interactive transformation and creative advance imaged here as the opening and closing of the swinging gates—a metaphor that

ROGER T. AMES

67

resists any of our default assumptions about discrete agency—provides us with insight into how the novel presencing of the cosmic life forces is conceived of as irreducibly relational, creative, and thus eventful. It is within this cosmic flux and flow that the human experience unfolds, and that the most intelligent and insightful of human beings have been able to fathom these operations and, in service to cosmic flourishing, to correlate the interactive activities of human beings with the natural world to optimum effect.

COORDINATING THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE AND ITS NATURAL CONTEXT TO OPTIMAL AESTHETIC EFFECT When, in the Changes, this “swinging gates” metaphor is carried over into the human world, it first conjures up images that might be read in terms of human sexuality, but is then extended beyond human coupling that produces new life, to the procreativity pervasive in the operations of the natural world and in the turning of the seasons. An important point being made here is that new life, creative advance, and the making of meaning that come with it, rather than originating from discrete agency, is always a function of productive correlations: For qian, at rest it is globular, and aroused it becomes straight. This is how mass comes to life in it. For kun, at rest its gates are closed, and aroused they are wide open. This is how breadth comes to life in it. In its breadth and in its mass, it correlates with the heavens and the earth; in its flux and persistence it correlates with the four seasons; in the appropriateness of yin and yang it correlates with the sun and moon; in the efficacy of change and simplicity it correlates with the highest potency (de).11 The purpose of the Changes is fundamentally normative and prescriptive. The coordination of the relationship between the changing world and the human experience to optimal effect is the main axis of this seminal text. It purports to address what is perhaps life’s most pressing question: What kind of human participation in the natural processes can optimize the possibilities of this world in which natural and human events are its two inseparable, mutually shaping aspects? Or said more simply, how can we human beings in collaborating with our natural context make this life truly significant? As a way of bringing the dynamic metaphor of the “swinging gates” used here into clearer focus, we might want to pay attention to the concrete example of “friendship” that Whitehead finds salient in explaining his notion of

68

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

“creative advance.” The degree of meaning achieved in a human life is a function of the relationships that have nurtured it. A possible common-sense understanding of this swinging gate metaphor is that it is a division between persons that must be opened on the shared pathway as a precondition for extending the relationship between them. For Whitehead, such an understanding would be a clear example of what he calls the fallacy of misplaced concreteness in which things themselves come first and the connectivity and transitivity of their relations is only second order. Whitehead insists that to truly appreciate the processual and open-ended nature of what is a fundamentally transactional aesthetic experience, we must give full measure to the primacy of transitions and conjunctions that are integral to the emergent, relational, and eventful nature of our lives. In rather abstract language, he avers that “in the full concrete connection of things, the characters of the things connected enter into the character of the connectivity which joins them.”12 Whitehead offers us this specific example of “friendship” to illustrate the unique kind of oscillating interactivity that produces the prospective “sense of penetration” and “creative advance” in the cosmic process. For Whitehead, friendship is the enrichment of the human experience that occurs when two, always unique, persons are able to pursue and consolidate a continuing pattern of productive interactions. For Whitehead, it is the continuing quality of the process of the friendship itself, including both the unique, nonsubstitutable friends and their connectivity, that is the concrete, nonfungible fact of this friendship. Evaluations of the quality of their relationship that would appeal to fixed characteristics such as their obligations to one another, or even to the two persons themselves as putatively discrete “individuals,” must be understood as only second-order abstractions from what is the complex, lived, and concrete reality of the opening and closing, doing and undergoing, shaping and being shaped experience. It is the deepening, interactive friendship itself as an optimizing symbiosis that is first order and concrete.

A RATIONALIZING TELEOLOGY VERSUS THE AESTHETICS OF AN OPTIMIZING SYMBIOSIS (HE ઼) This aspiration for meaning in our situated relations as an optimizing symbiosis is captured by the term he ઼, conventionally translated as “harmony.” What makes “harmony” a less than adequate translation of he ઼ is the alternative ratio understanding of “harmony” as it functions within the familiar teleological model of cosmic order. In favoring ratio itself over an appreciation of the correlative, interactive, and emergent relationship

ROGER T. AMES

69

between ratio and oratio, this teleological notion of harmony tends to be reductionistic in the Whiteheadian sense of a “rational” or “rationalized” order. Where meaning is not available to us from putative metaphysical foundations—what David Keightley has described as “a Platonic metaphysics of certainties, ideal forms, and right answers”—then the guidance, the technologies, and the institutions for leading the most meaningful lives must have been formulated and passed on within the continuing historical narrative by the most sagacious of our progenitors in their best efforts to coordinate the human experience with the changing cosmic processes.13 Confucian morality itself is a cosmic phenomenon emerging out of the symbiotic and synergistic transactions that take place between the operations of nature and our concerted human efforts. To set a contrast for better understanding the optimizing and consummatory nature of the human experience, we might draw further upon the important differences between the strong sense of teleology that provides motive force in a substance ontology having its roots in ancient Greek metaphysics on the one hand, and this Confucian notion of superlative “harmony” (he ઼) that seeks to optimize the possibilities of “lived body” (ti 億) and “embodied living within family and community” (li ⿞) within the Confucian process cosmology on the other. Philosophically, both optimizing harmony and teleology have an important albeit different function in explaining the organization, the evolution, and the consummation of events within the human experience. Teleology gives impetus and direction to a cosmos informed by an overarching, predetermined design. Such a teleology, with its formal and final causes directing the actualization of order to a given end, is front-loaded and linear in the sense of being in important degree predetermined by some originative principle. By contrast, the Confucian idea of an achieved “optimal harmony” within its own process cosmology proceeds without a presumed beginning, without a given design, and without a predetermined and final end. Moreover, this process is ever emergent in the sense of focusing on the capacity and responsibility of the most exemplary of human beings to make the most of the cosmic possibilities in their continuing present. This being said, the pursuit of such a superlative harmony does much of the work of teleology as a determining factor in the flourishing and consummation of the human experience. This optimizing harmony, resourcing the historical past as its reservoir for analogy and projection, draws upon human resolve and imagination to forge an always new way forward. The human capacity for innovation, design, and purpose assumed in this Confucian sense of harmony gives human beings a vital and prominent role in the evolution of an emergent and always provisional cosmic order.

70

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

This distinction between teleology and an optimizing harmony is much in evidence in how dualistic thinking has been insinuated into a teleological understanding of beginnings, where some prior originative and determinative principle is assumed to be disciplining the process. Familiar terms such as root, cause, source, potential, and nature have come to be understood teleologically in a way that not only cleaves off the initial beginning from the process, but further makes the process itself a reduplicative derivation of this preexisting assumption. Source, for example, is seen in a derivative sense as a reservoir out of which dependent existents issue forth. The contrast between the model of an independent and self-sufficient creator God and the manifestation of His creatures on the one hand, and the aspectual relationship between dao as “source” and the wanwu myriad things as being two different yet coterminous ways of observing the same phenomenon on the other, is a clear illustration of this difference. Again, in the teleological cosmology, potential is generally understood as some latent possibility that inheres within a thing itself, and that if unobstructed will, in the fullness of time, be actualized as what it is. The “givenness” and thus timelessness of this teleological understanding of potential contrasts with the symbiotic and mutually shaping relationship between existent and world in the open-ended model of an optimizing harmony that in coordinating its creative possibilities aspires to get the most out of its experience.

CONFUCIAN ROLE ETHICS AS AN ETHICAL AESTHETICISM The sense of aesthetic order as the optimizing symbiosis that produces the richest of friendships is perhaps best expressed by appeal to Tang Junyi’s ୀ ੋ⇵ cosmological postulate: “the inseparability of the one and the many” (yiduobufenguan аཊн࠶㿰).14 This yiduobufen proposition can be read in many different ways, as it speaks at once to the inseparability and interdependence of the one and the many, to the continuity between particular identity and context, to the co-presence of uniqueness and multivalence, to the mutuality of continuity and multiplicity, to the inclusiveness of integrity and integration, to the dynamics of a shared harmony emerging out of relational tensions, to the disclosure of the specific details in the totality of the effect, and so on. This postulate of the one and many also restates in a different language the holographic, focus-field conception of persons, where each self-conscious person, and each impulse in the life of each person, has implicated within it the totality of the boundless “many.” This defining feature of Chinese natural cosmology is fundamental to our understanding of the relationally

ROGER T. AMES

71

constituted, focus-field conception of persons; as Mencius says, “the myriad things of the world are all implicated here in me.”15 Confucian role ethics as a corollary to this cosmology is an ethical aestheticism that registers all of the relationships that collaborate in constituting each person as being relevant in degree to the totality of the effect achieved as that person’s persisting yet always evolving narrative identity. This vision of the moral life appeals to the holistic, unbounded, and nested nature of vital relationships, and the holographic conception of persons as they are defined in focus-field rather than part-whole terms. How is “Confucian role ethics” given expression in the canonical texts? There are several key philosophical terms that say “role ethics;” for example, xiao ᆍ as the intergenerational embodiment and transmission of the cultural tradition through patterns of deference in lived and always familial relations, and following from this prime moral imperative, ren ӱ as “consummate persons and their conduct in their family and community relations.” An important vocabulary cluster that also expresses “role ethics” is the three terms: the aspiration to “an optimizing harmony” (he ઼) realized through the performance of the “lived body” (ti 億) in “achieving propriety within the roles and relations of family and community” (li ⿞). Although we find that “optimizing harmony” (he) is a generic idea with wide application in all human activities from the kitchen to the cosmos, what needs to be emphasized here is the Confucian assumption that when such aspirations have reference to human flourishing specifically, the harmony must necessarily be mediated through familial roles and relations for it to be robust, genuine, and enduring. It is the institution of family that is the entry point, the indispensable ground, and the ultimate source of this achieved propriety (li ⿞) in all of our roles and relations. The Analects of Confucius makes this point explicitly: An optimizing harmony (he) is the most valuable function of achieving propriety in our roles and relations (li). In the ways of the Former Kings, the sustaining of this quality of harmony through achieving propriety in their roles and relations made them elegant, and was a guiding standard in all things large and small. But when things are not going well, to realize harmony just for its own sake without regulating the situation through an achieved propriety in roles and relations will not work.16 Morality so understood describes the cultivation of a quality of conduct that begins from making familial bonds stronger and thicker and more durable. This passage makes the point that, without such accord among persons being properly negotiated in their most immediate and enduring roles and relations, their actions could be meaningless or worse. That is, a putative “harmony”

72

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

that is achieved by imposing external mechanisms and constraints as a means of enforcing order on people—the application of laws, policies, or rules, for example—can be dehumanizing to the extent that such “harmony” precludes full personal participation and confirmation. Li has been conventionally translated as “ritual,” “rites,” “customs,” “etiquette,” “propriety,” “morals,” “decorum,” “rules of proper behavior,” “worship,” and in other ways as well. Properly contextualized, each of these English terms can render li on occasion. In classical Chinese, however, the character li carries all of these meanings on every occasion of its use, with the particular situation determining the emphasis. The compound character is an ideograph connoting the performance and presentation (shi ⽪) of sacrifices to the primarily ancestral spirits at an altar to them (li 䉺), suggesting the profound religious significance that this term carries with it. It is defined in the ancient Shuowen lexicon 䃚᮷䀓ᆇ paronomastically by semantic and phonetic associations as lü ን (homophonic with li in its ancient pronunciation), meaning “treading a path,” and hence “conduct, behavior”— that is, “how to conduct oneself in service to the spirits in order to bring about good fortune within the human community.” The character li ⿞ is further cognate with “body” (ti 億), underscoring both the concrete, somatic dimension of always embodied and situated ritual propriety, as well as its more formal and determinate aspects. I have chosen to translate li with variations on “aspiring to propriety in one’s roles and relations.” Again, this rendering is a considered choice. On the formal side, li are those meaning-invested familial and social roles, relationships, and institutions which facilitate communication, which foster communion, and which generate a sense of intimate community. The compass is broad including all formal conduct, from table manners to patterns of greeting and leave-taking to graduations, weddings, funerals, from gestures of deference to ancestral sacrifices; all of these, and more, are li. They are in sum a social grammar that provides each member with a defined place, status, and role within the family, community, and polity. Li are life forms transmitted from generation to generation as repositories of meaning, enabling the succeeding progeny to embody and appropriate persisting values and to make them appropriate to their own situations. Although an achieved propriety in one’s roles and relations clearly has a formal and redundant structure to it, still the preponderant significance of these activities in defining family and communal life lies in those informal, personal, and particular aspects that conduce to and are necessary for real meaningful experience. These li have a profoundly somatic dimension where the social, vital body is often more effective than spoken language in communicating the gestures of deference necessary to strengthen the bonds

ROGER T. AMES

73

among those participating in the various life forms. The li also have an important affective aspect wherein feelings suffuse and fortify all of our relational activities, providing the communal fabric a tensile strength that resists the tensions and ruptures that inevitably attend associated living. Pursuing refinement through the performance of li must be understood in light of the uniqueness of each participant engaged in the profoundly aesthetic project of becoming this exceptional and always inimitable person. Li is again a process of personal articulation—the growth and disclosure of an elegant disposition, an attitude, a posture, a signature style, and ultimately, a persistent and singular identity. What recommends the translation of li as “propriety” is that along with other cognate words such as “appropriate,” “proper,” and “property,” it is derived etymologically from the Latin proprius with its core meaning of “making something one’s own.” The substance and depth of li, unlike formal regulations, is dependent upon a process of personalization and embodiment—that is, it is the aspiration to make the unique role of this particular daughter in her relationship with this particular father something both moving and magical. What makes ritual profoundly different from law or rule is this sustained effort to make the tradition and its institutions one’s own. In a cosmology in which one’s uniqueness is always a function of context, the Latin proprius, “making something one’s own,” gives us a series of reflexive cognate expressions that are useful in translating key Confucian philosophical terms to capture this sense of participation and personalization: yi 㗙 is not “righteousness” as compliance with some external divine directive, but is rather an optimal “appropriateness” as “a sense of what is fitting in this particular context for all concerned.” Zheng ↓ is not merely “rectification” or “correct conduct” as an appeal to some external standard, but is “proper conduct” as it can best be determined by persons as they act within their own particular roles and context. Zheng ᭯ is not simply “government” but is “governing this community properly,” and li ⿞ is not just “what is ritually appropriate in one’s roles and relations,” but “personally doing what is ritually appropriate” in such relations. As Confucius observes: The expression “sacrifice as though present” is taken to mean “sacrifice to the spirits as though the spirits are present.” But the Master said: “If I myself do not participate in the sacrifice, it is as though I have not sacrificed at all.”17 With respect to Confucius himself, li is a resolutely personal performance revealing his worth to both himself and to his community. It is a public discourse through which he is able to constitute and reveal himself

74

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

qualitatively as a unique individual, a whole person, doing what he does for the benefit of everyone, including himself. Importantly, there is no respite. Li requires of Confucius the utmost attention to every detail of what he does, at every moment that he is doing it, from the drama of the high court to the posture he assumes in going to sleep, from the reception of different guests to the proper way to comport himself when alone, from how he behaves in formal dining situations to appropriate extemporaneous gestures when encountering friends. In our reading of the Analects, there is a tendency to give short shrift to the middle books 9–11 as a series of intimate portraits depicting the historical person of Confucius. If such personal information is considered at all, we are inclined to pass over it quickly as insufficiently philosophical to be relevant to the Confucian project of personal cultivation. But in fact, in overlooking these personal details, we are in danger of missing the real substance of Confucius’ moral vision. We must not lose sight of the fact that Confucian role ethics ultimately and invariably has to do with specific persons in their particular situations. While laws and formal institutions can certainly serve as important guidelines, since their ultimate source is the concrete narratives of particular human beings, it is ultimately analogy and correlation with family members, role models, and cultural heroes that has the greatest motive force in promoting flourishing families and communities. This being the case, the deferential yet authoritative life habits of Confucius himself and the emulation of this role model over succeeding generations is nothing less than an object lesson in understanding the concrete way in which role ethics works. One compelling image we have of Confucius is the self-conscious display he makes of his dedication to official duties even from his sick bed: When ill, and his lord came to see him, Confucius reclined with his head facing east, and had his court robes draped over him with his sash drawn.18 From this passage and many others like it, it should be clear that propriety in our roles and relations does not reduce to generic, formally prescribed “rites” and “rituals” performed at stipulated times to announce status and to punctuate the seasons of our lives. The li—the realization and expression of propriety through our roles and relations—are more, much more than such performances. Indeed, these many, seemingly random snapshots of Confucius reveal an image of a person aspiring in the conduct of the largely routine events of his daily life to express a quality of relational virtuosity that is sufficiently robust to transform and indeed to enchant the ordinary affairs of his life. One way to distinguish the inclusive and holistic Confucian role ethics from more formalized and thus reductionistic principled-based ethical

ROGER T. AMES

75

theories is to give an account of how, in this Confucian moral vision, the particular, the informal, and the contextualizing aspects of experience, far from being discounted or marginalized, in fact take on a central importance as those resources that can be drawn upon to maximize the productive outcome of always particular human activities. This aesthetic dimension— the need for elegance and moral artistry in ethics—is integral to this holistic understanding of human conduct in which all aspects of the life experience have more or less relevance, and thus have some value for determining a worthwhile outcome. It is because the moral vision of Confucian role ethics is concerned with coordinating the contribution of each aspect of experience in achieving the totality of the effect that the normative language to which it appeals, and the sense of order to which it aspires, is fundamentally aesthetic. The effect itself is most often characterized in these texts in the language of authenticity and duplicity, genuineness and contrivance, rather than by appeal to the rationalizing language of right and wrong, or good and evil. There is a perceived, inseparable relationship between elegance and morality, and, conversely, between baseness and immorality. On being asking about family reverence (xiao ᆍ), for example, Confucius would insist that this moral imperative cannot be satisfied by some set of formally prescribed, reduplicative activities that would resolve to a binary right or wrong, but rather is dependent upon the specific attitude expressed as the actions are being carried out: The Master said: “Family reverence (xiao) lies primarily in showing the proper countenance. As for the young contributing their energies when there is work to be done, and deferring to their elders when there is wine and food to be had—how can merely doing such things be considered being properly filial?”19 In ethics, there is ostensibly a distinction to be made between being boorish and being immoral. For Confucius, however, there are simply varying degrees of inappropriate, demeaning, and hurtful behavior along a continuum on which a failure in personal responsiveness is not just bad manners, but fully a lapse in moral responsibility. Since morality itself is nothing more than those modalities of acting that conduce to the enhancement of relations, any kind of conduct that has a disintegrative effect on the fabric of family or community is perceived as fundamentally immoral. Lifestyle takes on crucial import when we consider the corrosive consequences on the community of those who live lives without style. Carelessness becomes of major concern when we have to worry about those who could care less. And ignorance in the sense of ignoring others and their needs, far from being detached or

76

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

neutral, is in fact to inflict a violence upon the persons of our friends and neighbors.20 Graciousness, on the other hand, has gravity when we reflect on the relevance that charm and deportment have for an overall sense of fittingness and propriety. Morality is much more than formal correctness, emerging as it does importantly from poise and demeanor in our discursive transactions with others. The Analects repeatedly reflects the always transactional nature of this Confucian philosophy as a “face” or “shame” culture. “Face” itself as a discursive social phenomenon is performed in our roles in “giving face,” “saving face,” and “losing face,” where the effects of such conduct are both felt and seen. This wholeness and integrative nature of the moral experience means that a socially responsive “sense of shame” (chi ᚕ) is of high value in the Confucian culture; after all, it is a robust sense of shame that is the clearest evidence of one’s commitment to the family and community nexus. Shame is such a powerful expression of moral awareness that, when properly nurtured, it can become a galvanizing value that promotes social and political solidarity, and can enable the community to be inclusive of difference, and to become self-regulating.21 Confucius himself as he is portrayed in the canonical literature has a much-developed sense of shame, and the feelings of belonging that accompany it. Shamelessness by contrast is poison in the well, unleashing aberrant individuals to roam freely and to act arbitrarily without reference to the roles and relations that would properly secure them within their families and community. Such selfish and morally retarded individuals erode the communal solidarity on which the moral life depends. On the informal and uniquely personal side, full participation in a ritually constituted community requires the personalization of prevailing customs, institutions, and values. What makes ritual profoundly different from law or rule is this process of making the tradition one’s own. I might conclude this essay by insisting upon the centrality of the aesthetic in every dimension of Confucian philosophy. There is a cosmological aestheticism that provides the canonical texts with their interpretive context. The value of aspiring to an optimizing symbiosis (he ઼) does the work of teleology in the sense of being the ultimate source of meaning within this cosmology. Indeed, it is this aspiration to an optimizing harmony that makes the institution of family in its ultimate demand on each of its members the governing metaphor in the intergenerational transmission of a living culture. And when this commitment to aesthetic order is carried over into Confucian ethics, it becomes the holistic vision of the moral life in the roles we live that stands as an alternative to rationalized ethical theories grounded in appeal to antecedent principles, values, and virtues.

ROGER T. AMES

77

NOTES 1. A few portions of this chapter are excerpted and reworked from a book-length monograph presently in production tentatively entitled “Human Becomings: Theorizing Persons for Confucian Role Ethics.” 2. See A.N. Whitehead, Modes of Thought (New York: Free Press, 1938), pp. 83–87 where he develops this important distinction. 3. Whitehead, Modes of Thought, p. 85. 4. Whitehead, Modes of Thought, pp. 85–86. 5. Whitehead, Modes of Thought, p. 84. 6. Great Commentary B1: ཙൠѻབྷᗧᴠ⭏. 7. Great Commentary A5: а䲠а䲭ѻ䄲䚃ˈ㒬ѻ㘵ழҏˈᡀѻ㘵ᙗҏ ᇼᴹѻ䄲བྷᾝˈᰕᯠѻ䄲ⴋᗧDŽ⭏⭏ѻ䄲᱃. 8. Great Commentary A11: 㾻ѳ䄲ѻ䊑˗ᖒѳ䄲ѻಘ˗ࡦ㘼⭘ѻˈ䄲ѻ⌅˗࡙⭘ ࠪ‫≁ˈޕ‬૨⭘ѻˈ䄲ѻ⾎DŽ 9. Great Commentary A12: ᱟ᭵ˈᖒ㘼к㘵䄲ѻ䚃ˈᖒ㘼л㘵䄲ѻಘDŽॆ㘼㻱ѻ 䄲ѻ䆺ˈ᧘㘼㹼ѻ䄲ѻ䙊ˈ㠹㘼䥟ѻཙлѻ≁ˈ䄲ѻһᾝDŽ 10. Great Commentary A11: ᱟ᭵ˈ䰄ᡦ䄲ѻඔ˗䰒ᡦ䄲ѻҮ˗а䰄а䰒䄲ѻ䆺˗ ᖰֶнマ䄲ѻ䙊. There is an important grammatical distinction in these several “Great Commentary” passages that we find throughout the text. Sometimes the text uses the denotative expression “is what is meant by” (zhiwei ѻ䄲) and sometimes the conative “is termed” (weizhi 䄲ѻ). The former expression defines its antecedent explicitly, while the latter connotes or references some “aspect” of a greater whole. 11. Great Commentary A6: ཛҮˈަ䶌ҏሸˈަअҏⴤˈᱟԕབྷ⭏✹DŽཛඔˈަ 䶌ҏ㘅ˈަअҏ䰒ˈᱟԕᔓ⭏✹DŽᔓབྷ䝽ཙൠˈ䆺䙊䝽ഋᱲˈ䲠䲭ѻ㗙䝽ᰕ ᴸˈ᱃㉑ѻழ䝽㠣ᗧDŽ 12. Whitehead, Modes of Thought, p. 81. 13. David Keightley, “Shang Divination and Metaphysics.” Philosophy East and West 38 (1988), p. 376. 14. Tang Junyi ୀੋ⇵, The Complete Works ୀੋ⇵‫ޘ‬䳶 (Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1991), vol 11, pp. 16–17. 15. Mencius 7A4: ᆏᆀᴠ˖㩜⢙Ⲷ‫ۉ‬ᯬᡁ⸓DŽ 16. Analects 1.12: ⿞ѻ⭘ˈ઼⛪䋤DŽ‫⦻ݸ‬ѻ䚃ᯟ⛪㖾ˈሿབྷ⭡ѻDŽᴹᡰн㹼ˈ⸕ ઼㘼઼ˈнԕ⿞ㇰѻˈӖнਟ㹼ҏDŽ See also 12.1 and 12.15. 17. Analects 3.12: ⾝ྲ൘ˈ⾝⾎ྲ⾎൘DŽᆀᴠ˖੮но⾝ˈྲн⾝DŽ 18. Analects 10.19: ⯮ˈੋ㿆ѻˈᶡ俆ˈ࣐ᵍᴽˈᤆ㍣DŽ The bed for the master of the house was usually on the western side of the southern window. When one’s lord would visit, the lord would approach by ascending the stairs from the east. The eastern stairs is the place of the “host,” but since the lord himself is the proper host of the entire country, he would ascend and descend from these same eastern steps. 19. Analects 2.8: ᆀᴠ˖Ā㢢䴓DŽᴹһᕏᆀᴽަऎˈᴹ䞂伏‫⭏ݸ‬佼ˈᴮᱟԕ⛪ᆍ Ѿ˛”

78

A COSMOLOGICAL AESTHETICISM

20. Vrinda Dalmiya, “Linguistic Erasures,” Peace Review, vol. 10, no. 4, 1998. 21. Analects 2.3.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Confucius, The Analects of Confucius: A Philosophical Translation, trans. R.T. Ames and H. Rosemont, New York: Ballantine, 1998. Dalmiya, Vrinda, “Linguistic Erasures,” Peace Review, vol. 10, no. 4, 1998. Keightley, David, “Shang Divination and Metaphysics,” Philosophy East and West, vol. 38, 1988. Tang, Junyi ୀੋ⇵, The Complete Works ୀੋ⇵‫ޘ‬䳶, vol. 11, Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1991. Whitehead, Alfred N., Modes of Thought, New York: Free Press, 1938.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Living and Dead Rules”: The Role of Rules in Chinese Aesthetics KARL-HEINZ POHL

Chinese poetry is generally regarded as a paragon of naturalness.1 Even those who only know it from translations appreciate its condensed juxtaposition of nature and the human world, the embedding of human feelings and moods in vivid images of nature. Those who are familiar with Chinese poetry in its original language also know about other, sometimes more difficult aspects—the numerous allusions, the openness and frequent ambiguities. They also understand how it is possible to create images with a high degree of suggestiveness—to conjure up “images beyond the images” (xiang wai zhi xiang)2—or to suggest a lot with a little, due to the peculiarities of the Chinese language and poetics. But there is also another side of Chinese poetry that, like its naturalness and suggestive qualities, is also representative: its regularity, i.e., its formal and methodological features. It can be shown, however, at least for classical poetry, that both aspects—naturalness and regularity—belong together like two sides of a coin: that suggestive, natural qualities exist only together with this other side: its regularity. Both complement each other and are mutually dependent on each other. In the following, this relationship between rule and naturalness (fa–ziran) in Chinese poetry and art will be traced, to a certain extent, throughout the 79

80

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

history of Chinese literature—albeit without going into comparative aspects but rather following it from its autochthonous development. The focus of this study will be on the literary theory of the Ming and Qing periods, with a glance at Qing painting. As we will see, the tension between rule and naturalness—between law and freedom—applies not only to literature and art: It also permeates China’s philosophical and social thinking. In this respect, the following could be understood not only as a stroll through China’s aesthetics, but also as an attempt to uncover a cultural pattern—a part of China’s cultural structure.

1. SOCIO-HISTORICAL BACKGROUND The term fa—to be translated with “law,” “rule,” “model,” “method,” but also verbally as “to take as a yardstick or model”—which was to play such an important role in the “theoretical” discussions on literature and art of the later dynasties, has its firm place in the history of (political and religious) ideas in China. Besides the Confucians and Daoists, one of the most important schools of thought in antiquity was the “School of Law” (fa jia). Its followers—the “Legalists”—advocated rigorous enforcement of criminal laws by an absolute ruler. The state was able to tighten and strengthen its system of power by the acceptance of this totalitarian thought in the third pre-Christian century in such a way that it succeeded in defeating its rivals and united the country under the despotic Qin dynasty (221–207 BCE) which, however, lasted only fifteen years. Although the Confucian ruling class strongly opposed Legalist thinking, their ideas of a well-ordered society were related to those of the Legalists. Instead of the power of an absolute ruler and the application of rigorous penal laws, they advocated a government by moral example and moral legitimation of the ruler, but they demanded the observance of another, no less elaborate set of rules: the rules of rites and etiquette (li), which regulated the behavior of people in almost all situations in life. The affinity of both schools is also evident not least in the fact that after the fall of the Legalist Qin dynasty social reforms and administrative measures of the hated Qin rule were maintained and have an effect to the present day. Therefore, some Chinese intellectual historians call classical China Confucian only on the outside, but Legalistic on the inside (wai ru nei fa).3 In this respect, fa stands for a politically authoritarian side of China: for the Legalist–Confucian tradition, dominant in its history, oriented toward fixed rules and regulations; and, needless to point out, Communist China fits in seamlessly here. Fa, however, also described for the thinkers of Chinese antiquity more than just human law, but also the law of the cosmic order. So it says in the

KARL-HEINZ POHL

81

Guanzi, a text from the pre-Qin period, originating between Confucianism and Legalism (compiled approx. second to first century BCE): That the four seasons should not change, that the stars should not change, that night and day should be with shade and light, with the glow of the sun and the moon, that is rule (fa).4 The ideas expressed in the Guanzi quotation are also related to Daoist thought. In the twenty-fifth chapter of the Daodejing it notes about the fa of the Dao—the primordial cause of reality: “The law of the Dao is its being what it is (dao fa ziran).”5 That is, being of oneself is the principle of the Dao, is the law according to which the Dao works and reveals itself; and it reveals itself as nature; in Chinese: as “what is by itself so” (ziran). Finally—and this will be important for the later periods—fa is also a central concept in Chinese Buddhism, where it unites the two aforementioned aspects: human and cosmic law. But in Buddhism, fa, the Chinese translation of the Sanskrit term dharma, has an interesting double meaning: It first stands for the Buddhist doctrine and second for the phenomena of the world. In its first meaning, fa can be understood as a Buddhist equivalent to the Chinese Dao, the Confucian and Daoist “Way”: the “Way” of man (i.e., ethics) and of nature. So already in Chinese antiquity we find the following two poles of fa: on the one hand regulations and rules issued or handed down by men, as in Confucianism/Legalism; in Daoism, on the other hand, the law of the constant change of nature, which evolves spontaneously, but whose activity is not without lawfulness. If we search for the factors that reinforce the tendency toward regularity in Chinese literature, there are essentially three: an ideological, a linguistic and a social. The first is the aforementioned dominance of Confucian/Legalist thought, which endorsed human action according to guidelines and models. For China an important linguistic factor, which has shaped regularity particularly in poetry in a very special way, has to be added. The Chinese literary tradition is not necessarily richer in rules and forms than the occidental tradition with its multitude of rhetorical figures, verses, rhythms, meters, styles, and regulations, but has two Chinese peculiarities leading to predominantly regular forms: First, because of the monosyllabic nature combined with the ideographical characters of Chinese writing (i.e., that each character is pronounced with only one uninflected syllable and represents one word unit), orderly arrangements with the same line length or number of characters per line easily occur, as well as parallel structures,

82

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

especially the antithetical parallelism, which was to become one of the prominent features of classical Chinese poetry and prose. Secondly, the tonal nature of the spoken language leads to a regular, musical arrangement of the tones in the poem. The poetical form in which these linguistically conditioned rules were most conspicuously reflected is the regular poem (lüshi) of the Tang period (see below). Finally, a social factor has to be added which in the Tang period contributed decisively to the turn from the rather free exploration of stylistic and musical forms of poetry during the preceding epoch to a fixed set of rules: While poetry during the pre-Tang period was still a relatively free art of the educated class, it became a compulsory program from the Tang period onwards, through the establishment of the civil servants’ examination system. To write poetry was now, in addition to the interpretation of classics, one of the requirements in the examinations. A Chinese official was not expected to master administrative laws, but to be able to write verses in addition to the interpretation of the classics. In this respect, poetry was a social convention—a circumstance which favored regularity to a great extent. At the same time, this led to a stupendous erudition of the Chinese literati. The whole lyrical tradition was mastered and constantly referred to by making poetic allusions or interweaving quotations without having to fear that they would not be understood—as we do today. In the course of the examination system, a new requirement was added during the Ming period: the interpretation of classics in the form of the socalled “eight-legged essay” (baguwen), which is likely to seek its equal in terms of rigid regularity. In the “eight-legged essay” the antithetic parallelism—here in prosaic form—also had to be strictly observed.6 Its popularity, apart from the linguistic conditions mentioned, seems to be connected with the omnipresence of yin–yang thought, so that Achilles Fang notes that parallelism is “ingrained in Chinese thinking.”7 The formulation of antithetic, but always related units also shows itself in the still popular antithetical couplets of two parallel sentences (duilian), which one encounters everywhere in China, at the entrances to temples, restaurants, and so on. The regular poem and the eight-legged essay are by no means the only examples in which the tendency toward literary-artistic regularity can be demonstrated. Later, too, verse forms emerged, such as the ci and sanqu songs of the Song and Yuan periods, which, despite their different line lengths, required strict adherence to the original song rhythms, their rhyming patterns and tone sequences. Regularity is also expressed in calligraphy and painting. In their various forms of writing (shu), the great calligraphic masters of the past have remained rule-setting until today. Their model-like pieces of calligraphy were called fashu—“rule writing.” The modern Chinese term for calligraphy

KARL-HEINZ POHL

83

is called, reversely, shufa—“writing rule.” In painting, finally, one followed the principles of composition and brushstrokes (cun) of the Song dynasty painters, classified according to their structure. In this way, painting was less oriented to the objects of nature than to the regular models of an old master, and thus Chinese painting is essentially (especially during the Ming and Qing periods), as Max Loehr once remarked, “art-historical art.”8 How do the dynamics between rule and naturalness, between form and spirit, between law and freedom, unfold in Chinese literature? As far as the relationship of Confucianism to poetry and art is concerned, the canonical writings contain only sparse statements on the subject, and yet little was enough to convey strict guidelines. For the Confucians, who were always conservative and oriented toward the past, the models for poetry were found in the glorified early period, in the canonized Book of Songs (Shijing), from which ideas of an artistic orthodoxy (zheng, literally “correct”) were derived: Poetry should not contain immoral thoughts, should express man’s intent (zhi), should serve both the education of the people and criticism of the ruler by the people; it should be moderate and balanced, ornamental but not overcharged. Different styles were called “changed” (bian) and often had something unorthodox and basically unacceptable about them.9 In the Daoist texts there are even fewer expressions that refer directly to literature and art, and yet it was precisely the book of Zhuangzi, with its lively and witty parables and anecdotes, that gave later poets and painters more inspiration than any other early texts, such as the story of a cook, named Ding, who shows his prince how to dismember an ox in accordance with the Dao: His cook was cutting up an ox for the ruler Wen Hui. Whenever he applied his hand, leaned forward with his shoulder, planted his foot, and employed the pressure of his knee, in the audible ripping off of the skin, and slicing operation of the knife, the sounds were all in regular cadence. Movements and sounds proceeded as in a dance . . . The ruler said, “Ah! Admirable! That your art should have become so perfect!” (Having finished his operation), the cook laid down his knife, and replied to the remark, “What your servant loves is the . . . Dao, something beyond any skill. When I first began to cut up an ox, I saw nothing but the (entire) carcass. After three years I ceased to see it as a whole. Now I deal with it in a spirit-like manner, and do not look at it with my eyes.”10 The central sentence is here: “What your servant loves is the Dao, something beyond any skill (jin hu ji).” That is, when artistic creation happens out of

84

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

the Dao, it transcends mere craftsmanship and technique. A work created in this fashion is formed in the same way as the work of nature: it bears no traces of methodical creation—it appears natural and yet artistically perfect. The two views of artistic creation—the Confucian which accentuates the moderate and regular, and the Daoist which prefers the natural—were by no means irreconcilable. Already in early literary theoretical works, for example in the comprehensive treatise The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons (Wenxin diaolong) by Liu Xie from the fifth century, a classical synthesis, as it were, was formulated. In the opening chapter of this work (Yuandao: “On the Origin, the Dao”), the author draws a great analogy, playing with the polysemy of the character wen, which means both writing/literature and pattern/form as well as culture/civilization. For Liu Xie, the world in its wonderful form is the Gestalt of Dao (dao zhi wen); at the same time, wen as literature is the manifestation of the human spirit (xin). Finally, wen is also the cultivating influence of the sages of antiquity on human society, because they convey the Dao to man through the teachings of the canonical scriptures.11 Since the work of nature—as also hinted at in the Guanzi quote—possesses a regularity that is shown in beautiful form, artistic creation, if it corresponds to the work of nature, also expresses itself in balanced, beautiful, natural forms. Regular beauty and naturalness are, therefore, not mutually exclusive; rather, it is precisely in their harmony that the literary work reflects the Dao, namely the cosmic Dao of the Daoists and that of the Confucian sages. Almost at the same time as Liu Xie, a canon of “Six Rules” (liu fa) was established in painting by Xie He (ca. 500–535), the first of which demands that a painting must possess a “vital resonance” (qiyun) which reveals itself as “liveliness/naturalness” (shengdong).12 So we also have here harmony of rule and naturalness; or in other words, a rule is established which demands naturalness—it should become the guiding idea for the whole further history of Chinese painting. The aesthetic ideal of a harmony of regularity and naturalness—although already formulated in several pre-Tang period writings—was only realized in Tang times (especially the High Tang period: ca. 715–765). It brought forth a poetry that was praised by posterity as perfect: mainly the poetry of Du Fu (712–70) and Li Bai (701–62). At the same time, the regular poem (lüshi) became popular, which—as already mentioned—can hardly be surpassed in terms of regulations for formal features. The number of lines is fixed at eight, the number of characters per line at five or seven, with a caesura after the second or fourth character. No character may appear twice; grammatical auxiliary words, so-called empty characters, are to be avoided. Rhyme is obligatory. Antithetic parallelism is prescribed for the third and fourth lines

KARL-HEINZ POHL

85

as well as for the fifth and sixth. Finally, each character must follow a tone scheme of alternating even and uneven tones, whereby—through a sophisticated compensation system—violations at one point can be fixed by making corresponding changes at another. In this way, a regular but musically varied sequence of words is created. This complex prosodic set of rules (fa) is called gelü or geshi (regular, formal structure). The regular poem, in which these characteristics are to be found, was the most modern at its time— hence it was called “poem in the new style” (jin ti shi); it has remained popular until today. Despite the many regulations and prohibitions, the great poets of the Tang moved naturally and freely in the new form, as if there had been no restrictions for them whatsoever. Du Fu in particular became the master of the regular poem. Li Bai preferred less strict forms. So both poets represent the two starting positions: Du Fu is the Confucian-oriented poet who cares about the people and the country, from whose regular poems rules can be derived and learned for posterity. Li Bai, on the other hand, the Daoist, unbound artist genius, can only be admired—the naturalness of his works is inimitable.

2. DISCUSSION OF METHODS AND RULES The poets of the Tang period hardly asked about rules themselves. They regarded the limitations of the new forms, which were first established with and through them, as a challenge to their abilities, and they simply wrote poetry in inspired moments and moods (xingqu). And the educated audience, who were familiar with the formal peculiarities, appreciated the expert, the “master” who “shows himself first in confinement,” as we have it in a line from Goethe;13 and it felt the aesthetic pleasure that we are also familiar with when we know, for example, how to follow the formal structures of a Bach fugue or Beethoven sonata. The question of the rules—the discussion of methods—arose only after this golden age: in the post-Tang period. It is the period of reflection on poetry. In terms of intellectual history, the Song dynasty was the epoch of NeoConfucianism. Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist influences mixed in it, but it was methodically strict and promoted human action according to rules and regulations. Zhu Xi, the great Neo-Confucian philosopher of the twelfth century, wrote: “Everything under Heaven has a fixed rule (fa). The learner must progress gradually according to its order.”14 But Chan (Japanese: Zen) Buddhism was also popular among writers and highly influential in the art and literature of the epoch, also in Neo-Confucianism itself. Its terminology— especially the term “enlightenment” (wu, Jap.: satori), which means the

86

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

breakthrough to the realization of “Non-Duality” (bu er) and the unity of subject and object—should now serve as a vehicle to explain and grasp the essence of poetry, its rules and laws: its dharma (fa). What kinds of rules and methods of poetry were actually discussed by the Song dynasty writers? First, of course, the aforementioned prosodic rules (gelü) of the various forms of shi poetry. However, the focus of methodological interest was on compositional rules: rules of structuring sentences in the verse, the choice of words or the placement of characters as well as structural balancing. To the latter belonged the standard sequence of the four couplets in the “eight-line regulated poem”: 1. introduction (qi), 2. continuation (cheng), 3. turn (zhuan), and 4. summary (he); then the balancing of ups and downs (qi fu), opening and closing (kai he), call and answer (zhao ying)—all according to the yin–yang pattern, as well as the balanced combination of scenery with feeling (jing and qing) and fullness with emptiness (shi and xu). Finally, stylistic rules were also part of the discussions, such as avoiding directness and achieving a suggestive effect through images or literary allusions. The poems of the Song period, as well as those of the middle and late Tang, are quite different from those of the High Tang. Even though the prosodic rules of the poems remained the same in the new and old style and were never actually up for discussion—and even further and prosodically no less difficult forms emerged (such as ci songs)—style, diction, and theme changed considerably. The poems of the Song literati were more prosaic, more unusual, more self-reflexive, and more everyday in their subject matter. A good part of the discussion about rules in the Song period was, therefore, devoted to the topic: How can I orientate myself on a great role model without imitating it directly? In particular, the group of poets known as the Jiangxi School, which gathered around the important poet Huang Tingjian (1045–1105), developed sophisticated methods and rules of indirect imitation. In practice, for example, this meant using the words of the role models, but trying to give them a new meaning; or, conversely, imitating the meaning, but dressing it in new words.15 Also, one was anxious not to give too much polish to the poetic products: “Better clumsy than skillful, better plain than flowery, better rough than weak, better fancy than ordinary”—so it says programmatically in the writing of a pupil of Huang Tingjian.16 In short, a cultivated awkwardness and a relaxed approach to the poetic model characterize the lyrical activities of this group and, to a certain extent, the entire epoch. In the discussion about rules and methods a new (Chan Buddhist) slogan came up: “living rules” (huo fa). We find it for example with a member of the said Jiangxi group, Lü Benzhong (fl. 1110):

KARL-HEINZ POHL

87

When learning poetry you should know about living rules. By “living rule” I mean that one can master the rules (guiju) completely, but can go beyond them, that one can find inexhaustible variations and that these do not contradict the rules. This is the “Way” [of poetry]: it has fixed rules and yet it does not have them; it has no fixed rules and yet it has them.17 In spite of this ambivalent position about rules, the poets of the Jiangxi group, as a whole, tended more toward methodical and regular poetry. One of their contemporaries, Su Shi (1037–1101), also friend and cousin of Huang Tingjian, represented a much freer position. As a multi-talent and master in all three scholarly arts (poetry, calligraphy, and painting) and one of China’s most brilliant literary figures in general, he, too, repeatedly pointed out the importance of technical skill and rules, as quoted below: There is the Dao, and there is the technique (yi). If you have only the Dao and no technique, things may form in your heart, but they won’t take shape in your hand.18 On the whole, however, he emphasizes the other aspect: naturalness. He describes the creation of his writings as follows: It springs up out of me like a thousand buckets of water, without me having to choose it; it floods and gurgles effortlessly over the flat earth a thousand miles in one day. How it winds among mountains and rocks, how it forms when it meets things and adapts to them cannot be foreseen. What I do know, however, is that it always goes where it should go and always stops where it cannot but stop, and that is all! As for the rest, even I can’t guess [how it’s going to be].19 About the verses of a friend he says (not without reference to his own work) that they are like moving clouds and flowing water, which from the outset are not subject to any fixed pattern, but go where they should go and hold where they cannot but stop. The principle of literature is naturalness. Then their design is completely unpredictable.20 This means that artistic creation happens spontaneously and naturally, with elementary power, but it always follows an inner law: it goes where it should go, and is formed according to the rule of nature—being “so by itself ” (ziran). So while in the Song period the poets of the Jiangxi group copied the

88

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

old masters with “living rules” and thereby strove for a naturalness of expression, Su Shi orientates his work on the rules of nature itself (fa ziran).

3. RULE AND ENLIGHTENMENT In the following Ming and Qing periods, the discussion about rules was essentially carried out between two camps: a dominant archaistic movement (fugu: “back to antiquity”)—to be viewed, though, in a very differentiated way—which adhered to the orthodox tradition (zheng) and defended its rules, and counter-movements of heterodox, “nonconformist” literary figures. Nevertheless, we will see that the boundaries between the two camps are anything but clearly marked. The Ming period (fourteenth to seventeenth centuries) is considered the epoch of archaism. In poetry, one no longer oriented oneself only toward the Tang period; one was fixated on it. The archaistic movement was based on Yan Yu’s (fl. 1180–1235) important literary theoretical work Canglang’s Poetry Talk from the Southern Song dynasty as well as the anthology Graded Companion of Tang Poetry (Tangshi pinhui) of Gao Bing (1350–1423), published in the Ming period. It culminated with the so-called Seven Earlier and Seven Later Masters in the Ming Dynasty. The arch-archaist of the Ming, Li Mengyang (1473–1529), one of the Seven Former Masters, coined the phrase: “Prose must be like that of the Qin and Han periods, poetry like that of the High Tang.”21 His thoughts on following firm rules were: Words must have methods and rules before they can fit with musical laws, just as circles and squares must fit with compasses and rulers. The ancients used rules, which were not invented by them but actually created by nature. Now when we imitate the ancients, we are not imitating them but really imitating the natural law of things.22 Li Mengyang’s remark reads like a cleverly formulated justification for imitating old masters. But as much as we may sneer at these poets today in their efforts at skilled and regular verses, we will not quite do justice to them if we classify them, as is often done, only as pure technicians or verse makers and thus dismiss them. Let us first recall the ideal of artistic creation in China: harmony of form and spirit, of structure and naturalness. For the poets of the post-Tang period, this ideal had been achieved in the Tang period. Using the terminology of Chan Buddhism, the great Tang poets had written their poetry out of a state of “enlightenment.” Now it was necessary to reach a similar height by following the rules derived from their works—through methodical practice

KARL-HEINZ POHL

89

as in the practice of Chan meditation. Such efforts were at the center of all archaistic movements, and Li Mengyang, with his declared goal of ultimately imitating the natural law of things, entirely adheres to this meaning. Enlightenment (wu) and rule—the dharma (fa) of poetry—thus form an inseparable unity for the Ming archaists. Hu Yinglin (1551–1602), one of them, writes about their connection: These two terms [enlightenment and rule, or dharma] have been the great pivot of poetry for a thousand ages. One cannot give up one for the sake of the other. If you have only rules without enlightenment, you are like a young monk clinging to the rules; enlightenment that does not proceed from rules is like “wild fox heterodoxy” (waidao yehu).23 For the archaists, imitating old masters and following poetic rules should lead to poetic enlightenment, in other words to an intuitive mastery of the art of poetry.24 This method was and is in China (and probably not only there) the usual practice for the learning of any art; the peculiarity is perhaps only that it also—and especially—applies to the art of poetry. The constant, hard practice following an example or a master is called gongfu in Chinese. This word, which we now use here in its Westernized form “Kungfu” as a synonym for Chinese karate, does not only refer to the martial arts, but also to the practice—and the resulting perfect performance—in each of the traditional arts of China, thus also in poetry and painting. Let us keep in mind that the constant practice according to fixed rules led, on the one hand, to the attainment of a high degree of mastery, that is to the perfection of form, and on the other to the appropriation of the whole orthodox tradition, even to the degree that one became a part of it. The fa, the rules, thus form, as it were, the red thread that runs through the tradition of all classical arts in China.

4. RULE AND IDEA In the late Ming period, when archaism reached its climax, a strong countercurrent formed, namely in the three brothers Yuan Zongdao, Yuan Hongdao, and Yuan Zhongdao, who are called Gongan School according to their place of origin. They mocked the practice of imitation and regulated writing; instead, they emphasized that poetry should be an expression of both the poet’s individual sensitivity (xingling) and its specific epoch. Criticizing the fixation on the Tang period of the archaists, Yuan Hongdao (1568–1610), for example, pointed out that the greatness of the Tang poets consisted

90

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

precisely in the fact that they had no models to follow (wu fa); that they did not imitate masters of past epochs—although they certainly admired them.25 In addition to “enlightenment,” another concept began to play an important role in the discussion about the flexible application of rules: idea (yi), i.e. the artistic conception of the poet which is realized in the work of art. Yuan Zhongdao (1570–1623) of the Gongan School, for example, stresses that the rule has to be considered to be the servant of the idea, and not the other way around (idea being servant to rule).26 Corresponding tendencies also existed in painting theory, in which the term xieyi—sketching ideas—appears from the Yuan period onwards in the sense of a spontaneous, inspired expression of the artist. Comparable voices can be heard from the archaist camp. Wang Shizhen (1526–90), one of the so-called Seven Later Masters of the Ming, writes: I approach the rule from the idea. If the idea is there, then a rule is set up at the same time with it. Rule and idea merge to a unity. There is no recipe for the idea (yi wu fang), but rules are something essential (fa you ti).27 Similarly Shen Deqian (1673–1769) in the Qing period: If the idea does not lead the rule, but on the contrary the idea follows the rule, then we have nothing but dead rules.28 If here yi stands for the subjective mind of the author who weighs up the meaningful use of a rule, then we find in the following remark another aspect of yi, namely its “meaning” as an objective “sense” or logic (like the “sense” of a word). The quotation comes from a Ming period author named Xu Bozu, who was apostrophized by his contemporaries as Xu, the little Du (Fu), i.e. as a skilled craftsman of his art: A rule can be expressed in words; the idea (yi) of a rule, however, cannot be pronounced. Excellent writers grasp the idea of a rule when they use it; mediocre writers, however, achieve in the use of rules only similarity [to the requirements of the rules]. I myself hardly adhere to rules in poetry. As it comes, I begin; as it comes, I stop. As the case may be, I open and close; as the case may be, I let the speech melody rise and fall and set pauses. As it happens, the language becomes light or heavy, high or low. There, where the idea reaches, there are always corresponding words. I have never felt bound by rules; nor have I ever completely rejected rules. The masters of the art of antiquity were like the Cook Ding: [Their works] came forth following their heart and their hands. There’s no other

KARL-HEINZ POHL

91

secret—they had their rules, too. From this point of view, if you look at all the arts under heaven, there has never been a master of an art who would have achieved a spiritual/divine skill without rules.29 In yi there seem to be two aspects: on the one hand the guiding “idea” in the process of artistic creation—the “ego” of the poet, which in any case begins to stir from the late Ming period—on the other hand the “meaning” of the rule, which can only be grasped intuitively and which then makes the rule itself superfluous. Xu speaks of a relationship between rule and its meaning in a way which corresponds entirely to the well-known comparison of the relationship between word and meaning with fish and fish traps from the Zhuangzi: Fish traps are there for the fish’s sake; if you have the fish, you forget the traps . . . Words are there for the sake of their meaning (yi); if one has the meaning, one forgets the words.30 To stick to the rule would be, to remain in Zhuangzi’s image, to bring home only the fish trap and not the fish from the fishery. Instead, Xu Bozu says, it’s the meaning of form and rules that matters. Those who have grasped this no longer need to stick to the letter of the rule. If we compare the function of both concepts—“enlightenment” and “idea”—in the process of artistic creation, then “enlightenment” applies to the intuitive, and “idea” to the conscious control of the artistic medium. A work created from “enlightenment,” in its ideal form, no longer reveals any traces of methodical creation; on the other hand, if the artistic “idea” leads the rule, then the latter loses its normative, restrictive effect and instead becomes a tool in the hand of the artist/poet, which he knows how to use at his own discretion.

5. THE RULE OF NON-RULE While these two concepts were still largely separate during the Ming period, with the archaists tending toward the former and the “nonconformists” toward the latter, the fusion of the two approaches penetrates the subsequent Qing period. In this section we will also take a supplementary look at the “theory” of painting in that epoch to show that the question of rules—as a fundamentally aesthetic one—was posed across all the arts, and comparable answers were found. The Qing period is regarded as a time of great nonconformist painters who took up the idea of the “rule of non-rule” (wu fa zhi fa) already

92

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

expressed in literature by the Gongan School, formulated it further and implemented it convincingly in their art. Among the painters of the early Qing who turned against the archaistic trend of the time, Shitao (or Daoji, ca. 1641–1717) should be mentioned first of all—one of the most important nonconformist literati painters in Chinese art history. He reacted to the copy mania of his contemporaries with the dictum: “The rule of non-rule is the highest rule (wu fa er fa, nai wei zhi fa).”31 On the inscription to a painting, dated 1691, he further explains this idea. In the past, I once read the four words “I use my own rule” and was pleased about them; for if the painters of our time exclusively practice wearing the shroud of the old masters, and if the critics also say: “The style of such-and-such corresponds to the rule, the style of such-and-such does not correspond to it,” then that is for vomiting! So if this gentleman was able to follow his own rule—does he not already surpass the ordinary painters? But today I have backed down and realized that this is not the case, for under the immeasurably wide tent of the sky there is only one rule. Whoever has grasped it, wherever he goes, everything becomes the rule. Hence, why should one emphasize so much one’s own!—When the feeling grows, the power rises; and when it rises, it develops and creates the means, the way of expression. In reality, there is only this one becoming conscious, then one can create inexhaustibly, and there will not be a rule for it either. When I now painted these twenty-four sheets, I did not try in any way to agree with the old masters, nor did I determine my own rule. It was like with everything: The unconscious spiritual in us began to move, it was born, lifted through its power and developed on the path of utterance in order to complete forms and rules . . . Oh, later critics may call this my rule or the rule of the old masters; for my sake they may also call it the catch-all rule (tianxia ren zhi fa).32 Shitao leaves behind both the rule and the “I” as guiding instances in the artistic process. His “one rule,” the “catch-all rule,” is nothing other than the Dao from which he wants to create. So here we have a transcendence of rule and ego into the mystical realm. Similar ideas we find expressed in an inscription on a painting, dated 1760, by Zheng Xie (or Zheng Banqiao, 1693–1765), one of the so-called “Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou.” He writes about the rules—or methods—of painting: The method of painting orchids is said to be three spikes and five leaves . . . But all of these techniques are only for beginners. The art of orchid

KARL-HEINZ POHL

93

. . . painting is not like this, it is only so at the beginning, and it takes a whole lifetime to complete one’s knowledge of it. Most of the great painters of old took the Creator to their teacher. Hence the way Heaven gives life is the way I try to paint.33 As with Li Mengyang, we also find here the idea expressed that the ancients took nature’s work as their model or rule (fa ziran); but the point is not to imitate their works as such, but rather to follow their intention. The Qing period was not an epoch of great poetry. New forms were no longer created, and the old ones seemed to be exhausted. The strength of the Qing writers, therefore, was more in the reflection on poetry. Ye Xie, a late seventeenth-century writer, has extensively dealt with the topic of rule in his treatise “On the Origin of Poetry” (Yuan shi),34 thereby illustrating the two sides of fa—dead and living rules—as in the following passage using examples from the nonliterary realm (in Stephen Owen’s translation, quoted below “animate rule” is used for “living rules”): There are the ones who say, “Every event and every thing (wu) has its rules. Why should poetry alone be different?” This may be so, but there are “dead rules” and “animate rules.” If I were going to praise a person’s beauty according to dead rules, I would ask, “Are there brows over the eyes? Are a nose and a mouth located in the middle? Do the hands take hold of things and do the feet walk along?” There are countless postures (tai) conveying grace or ugliness, yet I would never be able to get beyond the scope of questions such as those—these are “dead rules.” Such beauty as stands unique, preeminent in all the world, is not to be found through them . . . If this is so, then are there any rules at all in such beauty as stands unique, preeminent in all the world? Such rules are nothing less than some spirit (shen) that illuminates (ming) precisely those same constants: ears, eyes, mouth, and nose. And, finally, can rules for the way spirit illuminates things be spoken of? . . . Dead rules can be spoken of by the sort of person who takes a firm grasp of things. But if we are considering animate rules, then the rules are truly animated and absolutely cannot be “grasped” firmly.35 Ye’s example is intended to show that dead rules—normal proportions of a human being—are self-evident constants that can mediate neither spirit nor beauty. Likewise, the fixed rules of poetry such as tone rules, parallelisms, etc. are not worth mentioning for Ye Xie: “Even in the village school, when

94

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

reading the [standard collection of a] thousand poems, one no longer considers it necessary to say a word about them.”36 So rules are not fixed quantities according to which one could create works of art; rather they result from the work itself, from the artist’s ability to change and his creative ingenuity. He concludes his discussion of living, natural rules by comparing their work with the emergence of cloud patterns over the sacred mountain Taishan. The analogy to literature is again grounded (like Liu Xie’s) in the polysemy of the character wen (pattern/literature): [The constantly changing clouds above Taishan] is the pattern of Heaven and Earth, the supreme achievement. But let us suppose that the pattern of Heaven and Earth were to be regulated by rules. Then when Mount Tai was going to send out its clouds, it would first muster the tribes of clouds and give them their orders: “I am now going to send you clouds out to make ‘the pattern of Heaven and Earth.’ You, go first; you, follow; you, go up; and you, you there, lie low. You, cloud, shine; you, make ripples like waves; you, double back in; you, spread out in the sky; you, open up wide; and you, Iock your gates fast. And you over there, you shake your tail.” If Mount Tai sent them out like this and brought them back like this, then there wouldn’t be the least vitality in any of them. And this would be the formation of the pattern of Heaven and Earth!? The result of such a situation would be that Heaven and Earth would feel that the presence of Mount Tai was a burden; and Mount Tai in turn would feel that having clouds was a burden—and no cloud would ever come forth.37 This image conveys an ideal of poetry or artistic creation, which we find already echoed in the parables of Zhuangzi or Su Shi: the work of art understood as a living, organic pattern, which does not follow given— dead—rules, but produces a regularity of its own (ziran). In a treatise on poetics published in 1864, that is already after the Opium Wars, a writer named Zhu Tingzhen summarizes the discussion about rules and non-rules in the following way: In poetry, on the one hand, there are no fixed rules, on the other hand, there are . . . A poet must direct the rules through his ego and must not let himself be directed by the rules. In this respect one begins with rules as rules and continues with the non-rule as rule. To be able to move within the rules without sticking to the rule means that one has reached the goal . . . The rule of the non-rule is the living rule (huo fa), the wonderfully subtle rule. If one can create according to the rule of non-rule, only then

KARL-HEINZ POHL

95

one has an unsurpassable rule. For those who can do this, [what Su Shi said about his writing] applies that it “goes where it should go, and stops where it cannot but stop . . . [If one is guided by it,] then [the work] radiates a spiritual brightness. But if one sticks to fixed rules, does not direct the rules oneself, but follows them, then one has only dead rules (si fa).38 Ye Xie and Zhu Tingzhen speak of a unity of naturalness and regularity in which archaistic and nonconformist approaches no longer lie so far apart. For the essence of “living rules” is not the absence of rules—arbitrary creation, creative chaos, or ingenious originality—but a transcendence of rules: regular and irregular. This means, on the one hand, no longer letting oneself be guided in the artistic process by the method learned, but by one’s own artistic ideas, on the other hand, trusting in the spontaneously working creative powers. A natural order and structure of the work of art is created by itself (like the work of nature)—just as Cook Ding’s knife moves in a natural way and allows the carved ox to effortlessly fall apart. Zheng Xie elsewhere calls this kind of work in painting “trusting one’s hand” (xin shou).39 This degree of art, which in Chinese aesthetics is called shen (spiritual or as if made by a god)—a “divine” rulelessness—comes, however, at the end of first following rules. At the beginning of the learning process, also for the representatives of the “rule of non-rule,” that is for so-called “nonconformists” and “eccentrics,” there is practicing according to rules: the gongfu. Even Zhuangzi lets his cook admit that it took him years until he was able to go beyond mere skill and to cut up the ox out of the Dao, and the “eccentric” Zheng Xie expresses similar things. The aim of the archaists to reach “enlightenment” or naturalness by following the correct rules—the dharma of poetry—thus in the end seems not so different from that of the followers of the non-rule; only the former, in their search for “enlightenment,” remain obliged to the models of the old masters, while the latter also begin with them, but seek to transcend them by taking the work of nature as a guideline and, at the same time, by bringing their own artistic ideas into play. To remain in the well-known Chan Buddhist metaphor, the difference between the two approaches could be compared with that between “gradual” and “sudden enlightenment” (jianwu–dunwu) in the Northern and Southern schools of Chan: Although both are identical in their aims, in practice they are fundamentally different in the sense that in “sudden enlightenment” the aim is to overcome duality and to reach unity of subject and object in a direct way and not as a goal of endless practice. A not insignificant difference between the two currents lies in the result of their efforts, in the works of art themselves. Those of the archaists—in

96

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

poetry and painting—are made according to correct models, according to all the rules of the art, and may possess a certain spiritual radiance depending on the degree of “enlightenment” of the artist. They fit into the orthodox tradition, but in their timeless craftsmanship they reflect relatively little of the respective epoch and of the artist’s ego. The works of those who allow themselves to be guided by the rule of non-rule, on the other hand, are the agents of change who have advanced art and poetry, left behind a name and formed their own style (zi cheng yi jia); they are—like Du Fu—the milestones in the history of literature and art. As far as the ideological background of the ideal of rule-conforming naturalness is concerned, we have observed that it is basically grounded on a synthesis of Confucian and Daoist or Chan Buddhist thought: What is asked for is a moderately balanced, methodical form according to fixed rules and at the same time creation in harmony with the unfathomable workings of nature. If in the discussion of this topic the Daoist/Buddhist component was emphasized, then Confucius would also have to be mentioned here additionally as an authority for the idea of transcendence of rule: At the mature age of over seventy, looking back on his various stages of life, the Master said about his moral gongfu: “At seventy I could follow all the movements of my heart without breaking the rules [of morality] (cong xin suo yu, bu yu ju).”40 In this respect, one might conclude, we have here more than just a specific characteristic of Chinese literature and art, a mere ideal of artistic creation, which, seen as a whole, places more value on natural creativity in harmony with regular beauty than on originality and individual genius. Rather, it seems to be a cultural pattern that can perhaps also be found in other areas of life, such as social behavior. Could, for example, the ability of Chinese people today to act within strict restrictions (conforming to the rules), but still move relatively freely and easily, not also belong to this? The unity or mutual complementation of Confucianism/Legalism and Daoism/Chan Buddhism—of the authoritarian and the naturally free—seems to be more than just a characteristic of Chinese aesthetics. Perhaps, and with all due caution regarding such generalizations, it might form a building block of what the great contemporary Chinese aesthetician Li Zehou once termed the “cultural-psychological formation” (wenhua xinli jiegou) of China.41

NOTES 1. This chapter is based on chapters from my book in German: Ästhetik und Literaturtheorie in China: Von der Tradition bis zur Moderne (Munich: K.G Saur, 2006). It is also available in a Chinese translation: Bu Songshan (K.-H.

KARL-HEINZ POHL

97

Pohl), Zhongguo de meixue he wenxue lilun: Cong chuantong dao xiandai, trans. Xiang Kai (Shanghai: Huadong shifandaxue chubanshe (East Normal University Publishing), 2010). 2. As remarked in a letter of Sikong Tu (837–908); Guo Shaoyu, Zhongguo lidai wenlun xuan, vol. 2 (Shangai, 1979), p. 201. 3. About this expression, see also Li Yi, The Structure and Evolution of Chinese Social Stratification (Lanham. Md.: University Press of America, 2005), p. 31. 4. Guanzi jiaozheng ㇑ᆀṑ↓, in Xinbian zhuzi jicheng ᯠ㐘䄨ᆀ䳶ᡀ, vol. 5, p, 254 (Taipei, 1983) Gong Pengcheng, “Lun shi wen zhi ‘fa,’ ” in Wenhua, wenxue yu meixue (Taipei, 1988), p. 52. 5. James Legge, Sacred Books of China: The Texts of Taoism, Vol. 1 (New York: Dover Publications, 1962), p. 68. 6. See Tu Ching-i, “The Chinese Examination Essay: Some Literary Considerations,” Monumenta Serica 31 (1974–75), p. 400ff. 7. Achilles Fang, “Some Reflections on the Difficulty of Translation,” in A.F. Wright (ed.), Studies in Chinese Thought (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967), p. 273. 8. Max Loehr, “Art-historical Art: One Aspect of Ch´ing Painting,” Oriental Art N.S. vol. 16 (Spring 1970), pp. 35–37. 9. See the programmatic “Great Preface” to the Book of Songs, trans. James Legge, The Chinese Classics IV (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1960), pp. 34–37. 10. Legge, The Texts of Taoism, vol 1., p. 198f (with modifications). 11. Vincent Y.C. Shih (trans.), The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons (bilingual edition) (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1983), pp. 19–21. 12. William R.B. Acker, Some T´ang and Pre-T´ang Texts on Chinese Painting (Leiden: Brill, 1974), p. 4. 13. In his poem Natur und Kunst (Nature and Art): “In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister,” transl. John Irons. 14. Hu Jingzhi (ed.), Zhongguo gudian meixue congbian, vol. 2 (Peking, 1988), p. 568. 15. James J.Y. Liu, The Art of Chinese Poetry (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962), p. 78. 16. He Wenhuan, Lidai shihua, vol. 1 (Peking, 1981), p. 311. Cf. the German translation of Canglang’s Poetry Talks (Canglang shihua) by Günther Debon, Ts’ang-lang’s Gespräche über die Dichtung: Ein Beitrag zur chinesischen Poetik (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1962), p. 20. 17. Men Kui (Comp.) Zhong guo lidai wenxian jingcui da dian I (Peking 1990), p. 1117; cf. Richard John Lynn, “The Sudden and the Gradual in Chinese Poetry Criticism: An Examination of the Ch’an-Poetry Analogy,” in Peter Gregory (ed.), Sudden and Gradual (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987), p. 392. 18. Yan Zhongqi, (ed.), Su Shi lun wenyi (Peking, 1985), p. 183; Susan Bush, The Chinese Literati on Painting (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), p. 37.

98

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

19. Guo Shaoyu, Zhongguo lidai wenlun xuan, vol. 2, p. 310, Bush, Chinese Literati, p. 35. 20. Guo Shaoyu, Zhongguo lidai wenlun xuan, vol. 2, p. 307. 21. Ming shi, Peking 1974, j. 286, p. 7348. 22. Guo Shaoyu, Zhongguo lidai wenlun xuan, vol. 3, p. 52; James J.Y. Liu, Art of Chinese Poetry, p. 80; cf. R.J. Lynn, “Orthodoxy and Enlightenment: Wang Shih-chen’s Theory of Poetry and Its Antecedents,” in Wm Theodore DeBary (ed.), The Unfolding of Neo-Confucianism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1975), p. 232. 23. Zhongguo meixue shi ziliao xuanbian II (Peking, 1981), p. 142; cf. Lynn, “Orthodoxy,” p. 235. 24. Lynn, “Orthodoxy,” p. 219ff. 25. Jonathan Chaves (trans.), Pilgrim of the Clouds: Poems and Essays by Yüan Hung-tao and His Brothers (New York: Weatherhill, 1978), p. 18. 26. Zhongguo meixue shi ziliao xuanbian II, p. 165. 27. Hu Jingzhi, Zhongguo gudian meixue congbian, vol. 2, p. 577. 28. Zhao Yongji (ed.), Gudai shihua jingyao (Tianjin, 1989), p. 406. 29. Ibid., p. 407. 30. Legge, The Texts of Taoism, II, p. 141 (with modifications). 31. Yu Jianhua (Comp.) Zhongguo lidai hualun leibian II (Peking, 1986), p. 148; cf. Lin Yutang, The Chinese Theory of Art (New York: Putnam Sons, 1967), p. 140. 32. Chen Zhuan, “ Yuji shanfang hua wailu,” in Meishu congshu, vol. 1, No. 8, Taipei 1963, p. 79; cf. Victoria Contag, Zwei Meister chinesischer Landschaftsmalerei Shih-t’ao und Shih-ch’i (Baden Baden: W. Klein, 1955), p. 84f; see also James Cahill, The Compelling Image: Nature and Style in Seventeenth-Century Chinese Painting (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), p. 185. 33. Zheng Xie, Zheng Banqiao ji (Shanghai 1979), p. 222; cf. K.-H. Pohl, Cheng Pan-ch´iao: Poet, Painter and Calligrapher (Nettetal: Steyler 1990), p. 141. 34. K.-H. Pohl, “ Ye Xie´s Yuan shi – A Poetic of the Early Qing,” T´oung Pao, vol. 78 (1992), pp. 1–32. 35. Ye Xie, “Yuan shi,” in Wang Fuzhi (ed.), Qing shihua, vol. 2 (Shanghai, 1963), p. 574f; cf. Stephen Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), pp. 501–503. 36. Ibid. 37. Ye Xie, p. 577; transl. Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, p. 509, with modifications: Owen translates the last sentence: “And those clouds would still have to be sent out every single day!” 38. Zhao Yongji, Gudai shihua jingyao, p. 407 (Xiaoyuan shihua, vol. 1). 39. Zheng Xie, Zheng Banqiao ji, p. 154. 40. Lunyu, 2.4; James Legge (trans.), The Chinese Classics I, S. 147. 41. Li Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition (Huaxia meixue), trans. Maija Bell Samei (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2010), p. 4.

KARL-HEINZ POHL

99

BIBLIOGRAPHY Acker, William R. B., Some T´ang and Pre-T´ang Texts on Chinese Painting, Leiden: Brill, 1974. Bush, Susan, The Chinese Literati on Painting, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971. Cahill, James, The Compelling Image: Nature and Style in Seventeenth-Century Chinese Painting, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982. Chen Zhuan, “ Yuji shanfang hua wailu,” in Meishu congshu, vol 1, no. 8, Taipei, 1963. Chaves, Jonathan (ed.), Pilgrim of the Clouds: Poems and Essays by Yüan Hung-tao and His Brothers, New York: Weatherhill, 1978. Contag, Victoria, Zwei Meister chinesischer Landschaftsmalerei Shih-t’ao und Shih-ch’i, Baden Baden: W. Klein, 1955. Debon, Günther, Ts’ang-lang’s Gespräche über die Dichtung: Ein Beitrag zur chinesischen Poetik, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1962. Fang, Achilles, “Some Reflections on the Difficulty of Translation,” in A.F. Wright (ed.), Studies in Chinese Thought, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967. Gong Pengcheng, “Lun shi wen zhi ‘fa’,” in Wenhua, wenxue yu meixue, Taipei, 1988. Guanzi jiaozheng, in Xinbian zhuzi jicheng, vol. 5, Taipei, 1983. Guo Shaoyu, Zhongguo lidai wenlun xuan, vol. 2, Shanghai, 1979. Hu, Jingzhi (ed.), Zhongguo gudian meixue congbian, Peking, 1988. Legge, James (trans.), The Chinese Classics, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1960. Legge, James (trans.), Sacred Books of China: The Texts of Taoism, New York: Dover Publications, 1962. Li, Yi, The Structure and Evolution of Chinese Social Stratification, Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 2005. Li, Zehou, The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition (Huaxia meixue), trans. Maija Bell Samei, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2010. Lin, Yutang, The Chinese Theory of Art, New York: Putnam Sons, 1967. Liu, James Y., The Art of Chinese Poetry, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962. Loehr, Max, “Art-historical Art: One Aspect of Ch´ing Painting,” Oriental Art N.S. vol. 16 (Spring), pp. 35–37, 1970. Lynn, Richard J., “Orthodoxy and Enlightenment: Wang Shih-chen’s Theory of Poetry and Its Antecedents,” in William Theodore DeBary (ed.), The Unfolding of Neo-Confucianism, New York: Columbia University Press, 1975. Lynn, Richard J., “The Sudden and the Gradual in Chinese Poetry Criticism: An Examination of the Ch’an-Poetry Analogy,” in Peter Gregory (ed.), Sudden and Gradual, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987. Men, Kui (ed.) Zhong guo lidai wenxian jingcui da dian, Peking, 1990. Owen, Stephen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992. Pohl, Karl-Heinz, Cheng Pan-ch´iao: Poet, Painter and Calligrapher, Nettetal: Steyler, 1990. Pohl, Karl-Heinz, “ Ye Xie´s Yuan shi – A Poetic of the Early Qing,” T´oung Pao, vol. 78, pp. 1–32, 1992.

100

“LIVING AND DEAD RULES”

Pohl, Karl-Heinz, Ästhetik und Literaturtheorie in China: Von der Tradition bis zur Moderne, Munich, K.G. Saur, 2006. Shih, Vincent Y.C. Shih (ed.), The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons (bilingual edition), Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1983. Tu, Ching-i, “The Chinese Examination Essay: Some Literary Considerations,” Monumenta Serica vol. 31, 1974–75. Wang, Fuzhi (ed.), Qing shihua, Shanghai: Zhong hua shu ju, 1963. Yu, Jianhua (Comp.) Zhongguo lidai hualun leibian, vol. 2, Peking: Renmin meish, 1986. Zhao Yongji (ed.), Gudai shihua jingyao, Tianjin, 1989. Zheng, Xie, Zheng Banqiao ji, Shanghai: Shanghai Guji Chubanshe, 1979.

PART TWO

Aesthetic Concepts

101

102

Editors’ Introduction to Part Two MARCELLO GHILARDI

As the reader might deduce from the title of this section, the following chapters focus primarily on some specific concepts that are considered exemplary of some Chinese artistic experiences but are also, in a more general sense, relevant to aesthetics tout court. Notions such as those of mindscape, image, beauty, nature, and others that enliven the treatises on painting and calligraphy, up to the thematization of an “everyday life aesthetic,” offer the reader the opportunity to probe to what extent the specificity of Chinese culture can communicate with other traditions and concepts, sprinkling them with new possibilities of meaning. By exploring a concept’s resources, we can broaden its horizon and extend its field of application. In fact, alongside the most peculiar characteristics that are difficult to translate, it is also possible to discover the opportunities for a cross-cultural dialogue and open those meanings to different contexts. The chapters of this section deal, each in its own way, with particular experiences of translation and with the very limits of the translatability of some words and categories. There are human invariants at the level of perception and aesthetic experience, but it is not possible to take cultural universals for granted without mediation and without a work of comparison and dialogue. The universality of concepts is rather to be built through patient work as something that is not so much behind us as it is in front of us, and which requires constant exercise, study, and passion for the encounter of languages, histories, and concepts.

103

104

CHAPTER FIVE

Defining Mindscape (yijing ᜿ຳ): Extension, Intension, and Beyond PENG FENG

1. INTRODUCTION Yijing ᜿ຳ is one of the most important concepts in traditional Chinese aesthetics. Unlike most traditional Chinese aesthetic concepts that were somehow lost after its modernization, yijing has been alive in the discourse from the beginning of the modern transformation of traditional Chinese aesthetics in the early twentieth century down to the present. In a small book entitled Comments on Poetry (renjian cihua Ӫ䰤䇽䈍) which was originally published in 1909, Wang Guowei ⦻ഭ㔤 selected yijing and its alternative expression as jingjie ຳ⭼ from numerous concepts of traditional Chinese aesthetics on which to construct his poetics.1 Yijing or jingjie was seen as the ultimate expression of traditional Chinese poetry. Wang’s writing initiated the process of modernizing yijing. After two decades, Deng Yizhe 䛃ԕ㴠 rekindled the discussion of yijing; however, he did not use yijing as a concept of literary theory but as a concept of art theory, especially the theory of painting. In his paper “On Body, Form, Concept, and Principle of Art” (Lun yishuzhi ti, xing, yi, li 䇪㢪ᵟѻփǃᖒǃ᜿ǃ⨶), the first version of which was published in 1935, Deng elaborated the concepts of yijing and qiyun ≄严 or qiyun shengdong ≄严⭏ࣘ to characterize traditional Chinese painting.2 Finally in 1943 Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ published 105

106

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

his paper entitled “The Birth of Yijing of Chinese Arts” (Zhongguo yishu yijingzhi dansheng ѝഭ㢪ᵟ᜿ຳѻ䈎⭏), in which he used yijing to describe the idiosyncrasy of traditional Chinese arts.3 Since then yijing has been treated as the most unique concept of Chinese aesthetics and has been widely discussed in modern Chinese aesthetics. After the revolution in 1949, traditional Chinese aesthetics along with traditional Chinese arts and culture were criticized and abandoned as feudal dregs. But yijing was an exception. It was not totally erased in the discourse of Chinese Marxist aesthetics. In his essay “On Yijing” (Yijing zatan ᜿ຳᵲ䈸) that was published in 1957, Li Zehou ᵾ⌭৊ tried to interpret yijing from a Marxist aesthetic perspective.4 When Li Zehou focused on studying traditional Chinese aesthetics after the Great Cultural Revolution at the end of 1970s, yijing was reinstated and became the topic of one chapter of his book The Path of Beauty (Meide licheng 㖾Ⲵশ〻), published in 1981.5 Li’s book was circulated so widely that almost every university student had a copy and it started the “aesthetic craze” (meixuere 㖾ᆖ✝) in 1980s. Ye Lang ਦᵇ was the first aesthetician who tried to convince the academy that the key concept of Chinese aesthetics is not beauty but yijing. This insight was a great help to him in understanding and writing the history of Chinese aesthetics. As a result, the first monograph on the whole history of Chinese aesthetics, An Outline of the History of Chinese Aesthetics (Zhongguo meixueshi dagang ѝഭ㖾ᆖਢབྷ㓢), was written by Ye Lang and published in 1985.6 In recent years, Ye Lang has devoted himself to transforming yijing from a local Chinese aesthetic concept into a general aesthetic category. In Foundations of Aesthetics (Meixue yuanli 㖾ᆖ৏⨶), published in 2009, Ye Lang argues that yijing is the essence and ultimate expression of all aesthetic objects.7 While the research interest of Luo Gang 㖇䫒 is quite different, he has tried to argue that the theory of yijing in modern Chinese aesthetics is a Chinese version of German aesthetics that was introduced into China by Wang Guowei, Zong Baihua, Li Zehou, and others.8 Although most of Luo’s arguments are untenable and wide of the mark, the debates surrounding it have been productive. In spite of numerous publications on yijing, a widely accepted definition of yijing still remains to be worked out. It seems that everyone is talking about yijing in Chinese aesthetics but nobody knows what it really means. It is certain that yijing refers to something relevant to the aesthetic; the problem is how to articulate it or define it.

2. EXTENSIONAL APPROACH The main reason why a well-accepted definition of yijing is wanted is that the intension of yijing is obscure, ambiguous and uncertain. It seems

PENG FENG

107

impossible to define yijing by clarifying or discovering its intension. There is a similar problem in the contemporary definition of art. We actually use art to refer to something, but we do not have a well-accepted definition of it. As Morris Weitz has asserted: “The very expansive, adventurous character of art, its ever-present changes and novel creations, makes it logically impossible to ensure any set of defining properties.”9 But George Dickie would not agree. For him, art can be defined if we take the appropriate approach. Dickie distinguishes two approaches to art: the intensional approach or top-down approach, and the extensional approach or bottom-up approach. For the intensional approach, “intensions come first as ready-made and determine extensions, the members of which are mere appearances.” While, for the extensional approach, “the discovered or discoverable essential property of the members of an extension constitutes its nature.”10 Dickie criticizes the intentional approach to art that has been taken by the atomist, the Platonist, and other similar theorists who could not successfully differentiate art from non-art. Instead, he proposes an extensional approach, such as the way that the anthropologist’s understanding of the islander’s word puka has formed without the help of her native translator. Based on her observations, finally the anthropologist translated puka as “bachelor.” The way of the anthropologist’s finding the meaning of puka is the so-called extensional approach. By means of observing the islanders’ application of puka to the people, our anthropologist finally arrived at the cultural practice. She did not study the meaning of puka. Actually the language-deprived anthropologist lacked intensional access to the islanders’ language, and so she was forced to approach the understanding of puka through an extensional approach.11 Now let us bracket the complex heterogeneous meaning of the word yijing and treat it like the language-deprived anthropologist dealing with puka. It is especially reasonable for us to take the extensional approach to yijing since it is not yet a research topic in English. Actually we do not know what yijing is since we do not yet have a fixed English translation of it. As imagined anthropologists, we are forced to understand the meaning of yijing by means of observing the Chinese application of yijing to things. It is not difficult for us to discover that yijing is taken to refer to something related to Chinese arts. Only when people talk about the arts will they use the word yijing. Therefore yijing is not something related to real things, such as natural things, man-made things, and human bodies. Then we can observe that among artworks only paintings and poems are said to have yijing. Stories and novels are seldom said to have yijing. If we make a further observation, we can find that only some paintings and poems, such as mountain–water

108

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

painting and mountain–water poems, are said to have yijing. Among the mountain–water paintings and mountain–water poems, only the paintings with one or all of three depths (sanyuan й䘌) and the poems consisting of isolated images (yixiang ᜿䊑) are said to have yijing. Then we can observe that the paintings and poems with obscure scenes and a recluse’s mood are immediately said to have yijing. Then we find that the poetic paintings and the imagistic poems are immediately said to have yijing. Finally we realize that yijing is often taken to refer to something related to the painting and poetry in the Tang dynasty, especially the works of Wang Wei ⦻㔤, the wellknown poet and painter of Tang, whose poems are said to be picturesque, and his paintings to be poetic. Actually the Chinese artist Cheng Zhide 〻㠣Ⲵ reaches the same position through a phenomenological description. Cheng introduces yijing not through definition but through reference to his experience of appreciation. According to his experience, yijing normally refers to the paintings and poems with poetic space, instead of time duration, and so narrative poetry and historical painting do not have yijing. Cheng also takes one of Wang Wei’s poems as exemplifying yijing.12

3. INTENSIONAL APPROACH Of course we are not the imagined language-deprived anthropologists. We have the advantage of being native Chinese speakers. But it does not mean that the extensional approach is useless to us. The language that we are speaking has a history of thousands of years. With this long history, almost every word has numerous meanings. And such meanings are different and even incompatible. This complex of meanings of Chinese words can be handicaps that lead native speakers astray. When native speakers venture into the history of the Chinese language, they can get lost in the boundless ocean of texts. Today most native Chinese speakers, even though they are well educated, are not capable of understanding classical Chinese very well. The extensional approach might help us to isolate the specific meanings of the words. Actually we were already getting close to the meaning of yijing after the extensional observing of its application in the above section. Although our understanding based on an imagined anthropologist’s reservation might be superficial, the extensional approach did not lead us astray. As I mentioned in the first section, Deng Yizhe uses yijing to refer something related to Chinese painting. Deng invents a special framework for the history of Chinese art that could be divided into three historical and theoretical stages, that is, the body (ti փ), the shape (xing ᖒ), and the

PENG FENG

109

meaning (yi ᜿). Briefly speaking, the body is the object of the hands, the shape is the object of the eyes, and the meaning is the object of the mind. In other words, the body is tactual art, the shape is visual art, and the meaning is the art of or for the mind. The history of Chinese art starts with the art of the body, that is, pottery, bronzes, and jade that are all solid objects and are made for the hands. With the development of art, the decorations on the surface of the solid objects win their independence and are removed from solid objects to be placed onto the surface of walls, papers, silks, and so on. Chinese art has reached its second stage, that is, the art of shape that is not for the hands but for the eyes. The third stage of Chinese art is the art of meaning that is not for the hands and eyes, but for the mind. What is the art of meaning or the art for the mind? According to Deng, the art for the mind is not modern abstract art or contemporary concept art, but Chinese mountain–water painting. Why is Chinese mountain–water painting designated by Deng as the art for the mind, not for the eyes? Can we close our eyes and appreciate the paintings? How do we understand Chinese mountain–water painting as art for the mind? From a Western perspective, Chinese mountain–water painting is a kind of landscape painting and so is typically art for the eyes. But there are some important differences between them that should be mentioned. Chinese mountain–water paintings are not an imitation of the real mountain and water, but a creation of the ideal landscape. The former is art for the eyes, while the latter is for the mind. One of the principles of Chinese mountain–water painting is “to see the small through the big” (yida guangxiao ԕབྷ㿲ሿ), as was first summarized by Shen Kuo ⊸ᤜ in the Dream Brook (mengxi bitan Ỗⓚㅄ䈸). Herbert Giles calls this way of looking an “aerial perspective.”13 Deng Yizhe’s understanding is different. He interprets the big as mind and the small as mountain and water; that is, nature. Therefore, “to see the small through the big” means “to see nature through the mind” (yixin guanwu ԕ ᗳ㿲⢙). Mind being bigger than nature reminds us of the Hegelian attitude to nature and art that is conceived as the production of the spirit. Hegel says, “The beauty of art is beauty born of the spirit and born again, and the higher the spirit and its productions stand above nature and its phenomena, the higher too is the beauty of art above that of nature.”14 For Hegel, spirit here can be interpreted as the human mind. Deng Yizhe’s “mind is bigger than nature” is similar to Hegel’s “spirit is higher above nature.” But the function of the mind in Hegelian aesthetics seems much weaker than Deng’s concept. For Hegel, imitating or copying is also a function of the mind. But it is only an operation of the hands and the eyes in Deng’s aesthetics. “To see nature through the mind” is different from “To see nature through the eyes.” Through the eyes we get nature, while through the mind we get something

110

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

“more” or “less” or even “purer” than nature. At least, “nature through the mind” is ontologically different from “nature through the eyes.” The object of Chinese mountain–water painting is not “nature through the eyes” but “nature through the mind” that Deng calls “pure mountain–water painting” (chun shanshuihua 㓟ኡ≤⭫). Deng says, Wang Wei starts pure mountain–water painting. He conceives of nature in his mind and makes it an ideal one. When the ideal nature in his mind is completed and must be born, he then begins to paint the mountain and water, the ravines and gullies. His painting is totally following the yijing in his mind. The mind’s conception comes first and the brush’s drawing follows.15 Shen Kuo also comments on Wang Wei’s paintings in Dream Brook, from which we get an image of Wang Wei’s paintings. Shen writes: The subtleties of calligraphy and painting must be realized by the spirit; they can hardly be discovered within the bodies and forms. Those who appreciate paintings are always able to point out faults of form, design, and coloring of the paintings, but I have seldom found people who have the ability to penetrate into the profound principles and depth of creativity. Thus, for instance, Zhang Yanyuan criticizes Wang Wei in his Criticism of Painting for having painted things without regard to their seasons, as he painted peach blossoms, apricots, hibiscus, and lotus flowers in the same scene. I have in my possession a painting by Wang Wei which represents Yuan An lying in the snow, and in the snow grows a banana. He had conceived the things in his mind; his hand just responded, and it was done as conceived. Therefore the painting manifests the profound principles and touches the deep spirit. But this is difficult to explain to common people.16 Deng Yizhe and Shen Kuo are not Chinese-language-deprived anthropologists. They are connoisseurs of Chinese paintings. But their understanding of the yijing of Chinese painting by intensional approach is not contradictory to the extensional observation from our imagined language-deprived anthropologist. Both the connoisseur’s intensional research and the anthropologist’s extensional observation confirm that yijing is something related to the pure mountain–water painting of which Wang Wei is the pioneer and exemplary representative. Studies from Chinese poetics can also support the imagined languagedeprived anthropologist’s observation. In this case, Chinese poetry theory is

PENG FENG

111

not contradictory to painting theory. The Book of Songs (Shijing 䈇㓿) is the earliest anthology that preserves 311 poems from over 2,500 years ago. But typical Chinese poetry, as people normally think of it, is not the poems preserved in the Book of Songs but the regulated verse (lüshi ᖻ䈇) that prevailed in the Tang dynasty, of which Wang Wei is also a representative. In “The Aesthetics of Regulated Verse,” Yu-Kung Kao outlines the historical development, technical requirements, and aesthetic properties of regulated verse. The poet whom Kao praises highly is Wang Wei. As for the highest jingjie or yijing of Chinese poetry, Kao says, “The aesthetic values of Tao Qian (䲦▌ˈ 352–427) and Wang Wei, along with those of Meng Haoran (ᆏ⎙❦ˈ 689–740), are perhaps the most outstanding examples.”17 Kao’s interpretation of Wang Wei’s poems might be an appropriate way for us to understand yijing. Most of Kao’s interpretations of Wang Wei’s poems are wonderful, but this one is especially helpful for us in trying to understand yijing. For Wang Wei’s couplet: “River flows—beyond heaven, earth; Mountains’ color—between being, nonbeing” (⊏⍱ཙൠཆˈኡ㢢ᴹᰐѝ), Kao provided this interpretation: Wang Wei skillfully used “abstract nouns” to create “a sense of elusive otherworldliness,” and indeed he “opposed the danger of falseness of feeling by its true negation.” As a technique of objective presentation, Wang Wei thoroughly mastered the “negation of feeling”; in its most extreme form, the feeling of complete self-negation approximates the feeling of nothingness. In this tableau, the poet is not the only one to recede into background; even the river and mountains are on the very margins of the perceptual field. This world is empty for sure, but the world beyond, or the “otherworld,” though elusive, can still be imagined. With proper understanding of its many Buddhist associations, one can grasp the layers of symbolic structure in this simple couplet, where the picture is about to dissolve, the river flows with its temporal movement rapidly disappearing into the other world, and the surface color of the seemingly stationary mountains extends in spatial dimensions finally into infinity and void. In Chinese, “being” and “nonbeing,” the proper translation of the more idiomatic verbs, “have” and “have not,” are both abstract and extremely concrete, not as nouns, but simply as verbs of possession and existence. It is through the perceptible and imaginable that the imperceptible and unimaginable can be intuitively understood.18 First, the “world” in Kao’s text can be translated into Chinese as yijing or jingjie ຳ⭼. Actually, in the last paragraph of his paper, Kao discusses jingjie briefly. He mentions that the concept of jingjie “has been translated as

112

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

‘world,’ ‘realm,’ and so on.”19 In Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, Stephen Owen translates jing eight times: six times as “world”20 and twice as “realm.”21 Actually there is not a meaningful difference between these two. Second, yijing can be translated as “world,” but not every world is yijing. Only a world that has something “beyond” or “otherworldly” can be identified as yijing. Therefore, yijing is not a world limited by this world, but a world beyond or open to other worlds. But the world beyond or the world open to other worlds is still a world, and “though elusive, can still be imagined.” As Liu Yuxi ࡈ⿩䭑 says, “The world is generated out of the image” (jingsheng yu xiangwai ຳ⭏Ҿ䊑ཆ). But what comes out of the image is still an image, and though obscure, it can still be perceived. As Sikong Tu ਨオമ says, there are “such images beyond the image and such scenes beyond the scene” (xiangwai zhi xiang, jingwai zhi jing 䊑ཆѻ䊑ˈᲟ ཆѻᲟ). In other words, such an image beyond any image is still an image and such a scene beyond any scene is still a scene.22 Third, there is the dynamics of or the exchanges between an image’s dissolving and an image’s emerging, a world’s disappearing and a world’s appearing. It is somewhat similar to the fade-in, fade-out and the dissolving of shots in cinematography. But the dynamic or generating of yijing is different from the changes in the shots that are taken. The former does not have a linear gradual process but rather a resonance in spatial dimensions. Fourth, philosophically speaking, the exchange occurs between the finite and the infinite. Putting it in Daoist words, that is that “something and nothing give birth to one another” (youwu xiangsheng ᴹᰐ⴨⭏). And putting it in Chan Buddhist words, that is “the visible presence is nothing but the invisible absence, and invisible absence is nothing but the visible presence” (se bu yikong, kong bu yise 㢢нᔲオˈオнᔲ㢢). However, something of the visible presence is never limited as a solid concrete thing, but is the thing with its “more,” “beyond,” or “atmosphere.” Gernot Böhme call it the thing’s ecstasies.23 As Böhme says: In the classical ontology of the thing form is thought of as something limiting and enclosing, as that which encloses inwardly the volume of the thing and outwardly limits it. The form of a thing, however, also exerts an external effect. It radiates as it were into the environment, takes away the homogeneity of the surrounding space and fills it with tensions and suggestions of movement.24 The thing’s ecstasies means that the existence of a thing should include both its solid concrete form and the uncertain atmosphere that radiates from it. On the other hand, the nothing or invisible absence is never totally

PENG FENG

113

unperceivable or imperceptible like the soul or the absolute or bare nothing. If there is the soul, mind, spirit, and so on, they can be detected from the body. Yijing is something between the something and nothing but never descends into the solid thing or ascends into an abstract nothing.

4. YIJING AND ONTOLOGY OF ART Now our intensional approach to yijing leads us to an ontological problem. Why is an adequate definition of yijing so difficult to find? The main reason is that the ontological status of yijing is problematic. Contemporary ontology of artworks has suffered from a similar problem. We cannot answer the central question in the ontology of art, that is, “What is art?” because we cannot clarify the ontological status of artworks. The standard divisions made by the Western metaphysics leaves no room for entities of art works. Artworks can neither be simply identified with mind-independent physical objects, nor be treated as merely imaginary objects. The entities of artworks seem to fall between these standard categories that are materially constituted by physical objects but also dependent on forms of human intentionality. As Amie Thomasson summarizes: We are now in a position to explain why an adequate ontology of art has proven so elusive: there has been a conflict between the demands of the problem and the materials available for a solution. For the central criterion of success for theories about the ontology of art is their coherence with the ordinary beliefs and practices that determine the kinds of entities works of art are. But although different philosophers have tried placing works of art in just about all of the categories laid out by standard metaphysical systems—categories like those of imaginary objects, purely physical objects, or abstract kinds of various sorts—none of those fits common-sense beliefs and practices regarding works of art. This explains both the diversity of solutions (as theorists turned from one category to another in search of an adequate solution) and the failure to find a completely satisfactory solution despite these diverse efforts.25 It seems that in order to accommodate paintings, sculptures, and the like, we must give up the simple bifurcation between mind-independent and mindinternal entities, and acknowledge the existence of entities that depend in different ways on both the physical world and human intentionality. Thomasson admits that the problem of entities of works of art forces us to “return to fundamental metaphysics, to rethink some of the most standard bifurcations in metaphysics and develop broader and finer-grained systems of ontological

114

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

categories”;26 in a word, to open up the system of ontological categories to accept entities that exist in-between the bifurcation of such categories. I have attempted to resolve the problem of ontology of artworks by borrowing the division of traditional Chinese metaphysics.27 The standard division in Chinese metaphysics is not bifurcation but trifurcation. Chinese metaphysics divides the entities into dao 䚃, xiang 䊑, and qi ಘ.28 According to the standard bifurcation, perhaps, we can say that dao is roughly the same as an abstract or mental object, and qi is the concrete or physical object. Xiang is something between dao, the abstract or mental object, and qi, the concrete or physical object. If xiang can be treated as a new entity that lies between the abstract or the mental and the concrete or the physical, and fits precisely the realm of artworks, the problem of ontology of works of art could be resolved. Pang Pu ᓎᵤ was the first scholar who was aware of the significance of the trifurcation of Chinese metaphysics especially in epistemology, in ethics, and in aesthetics. He points out that xiang is the soul of poetry and art.29 And so we can say that the ontological status of art works is xiang. By the same token, we can say yijing ᜿ຳ is a kind of xiang 䊑 or yixiang ᜿䊑, which are synonymous in Chinese aesthetics. Actually it is not difficult for us to regard yijing and yixiang as the same kind of thing in the Chinese context. Both yijing and yixiang are classified as aesthetic object.30 However, from the Chinese perspective, the indefinability of yijing is not a fault but a merit, since the unsettled discussion can lead us from Erkenntnis to Erlebnis in the German words. Curtis Carter introduces these German words to refer to two kinds of knowledge or knowing in art and aesthetics. Erlebnis, Carter writes, “is sometimes referred to as knowledge by acquaintance, is knowledge attained in the presence of an object or event . . . Erkenntnis is knowledge about something and consists of description and interpretation of an object or event. It is based on observation and reasoning processes such as association, comparison, appeal to prior knowledge, and judgment.”31 What we should get from artworks such as paintings and poems, according to Chinese aesthetics, is not Erkenntis but Erlebnis. The want of Erkenntis of yijing is a necessary condition for leading us to its Erlebnis. In order to linger in Erlebnis, sometimes we need to forget or get rid of Erkenntis. Yijing is a realm or world which is beyond Erkenntis and so it can only be understood through Erlebnis. Once when Ye Xie ਦ⠞ responds to his interlocutor’s objections he differentiates two kinds of principle (li ⨶), event (shi һ), and mood (qing ᛵ): one is actual and distinctive, the other is nonactual but clear. He says: In essence, when the writer of a poem describes actual principle, even, and affection which can be put into words, and those words can be fully

PENG FENG

115

understood, then we fully understand that this is the work of an ordinary scholar. But if it is that natural principle which cannot be given in definite, denotative language, if it is the kind of event that cannot be set out before the physical eye, if it is the kind of affections that cannot be instantly communicated, then the principle under consideration is hidden and elusive, the event is an image in the fantasy, and the affection is vague and indistinct. Only then do you have words that are the perfection of principle, the perfection of even, and the perfection of affection. Qualities such as these are not contained within the boundaries of ears, eyes, and thoughts of common scholars.32 The speakable principle, event, and inflection are not the object of poetry. Poetry presents the unspeakable but real principle, event, and affection. Yijing in Chinese aesthetics is used as an expression for this unspeakable but real realm. Rather than making the unspeakable yijing speakable through defining it, we should keep the concept open or even vague so that we can enter into this unspeakable but real realm. Our language-deprived anthropologist does not have the experience of yijing even if she can relate it to the realm properly. Our philosopher, the native speaker, might not have the experience of yijing either, even if she can say a lot about yijing. But what is most important for us is not to speak of yijing but to experience yijing. Therefore, both extensional approach and intensional approach have their limits. As Zhuangzi ᒴᆀ says, “The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you’ve gotten the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you’ve gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you’ve gotten the meaning, you can forget the words.”33 Perhaps we can add: in order to catch the meaning we must forget the words.

5. TENTATIVE TRANSLATION But it does not mean that yijing is an obscure or meaningless word. More precisely, yijing is used as an expression for something vague, but it does not necessarily mean that its meaning itself is vague. The word yijing consists of two characters, yi ᜿ and jing ຳ, that mean “meaning” and “world,” respectively, and so yijing can be translated literally as “meaningful world.” In everyday Chinese, yijing does not seem very difficult to understand. Yijing becomes ambiguous when it is used in the academic context such as aesthetics, literary theory, art theory, and so on. Now in mainland China yijing is mostly translated into “artistic conception” because of the influence of the Contemporary Chinese Dictionary (xiandai hanyu cidian ⧠ԓ≹䈝䇽ި). In its

116

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

Chinese–English edition, yijing is translated as “the mood of a literary work or a work of art; artistic conception; artistic mood.”34 But “artistic conception” is never accepted outside mainland China. Since conception means conceiving something, it is very different from yijing that has already been realized in paintings or poems. In the process of artistic creation, conception is the plan before execution, while yijing is the result after execution. There are different English translations of yijing. According to Adele Austin Rickett’s interpretation, yijing “combines the ideas of ‘content’ or ‘meaning’ (yi ᜿) and ‘the state in which this content exists or takes form’ (jing ຳ).”35 So she translates yijing as “meaning and [poetic] state.”36 Yu-Kung Kao suggests, inspired by Jonathan Culler, inscape to translate jingjie ຳ⭼; that is, almost a synonym of yijing. I am thinking of the word mindscape. I will add a section to discuss the translation. Kao quotes Culler’s definition of inscape: “moment epiphany . . . a moment of revelation in which form is grasped and surface becomes profundity.”37 Even if inscape is also obscure, it seems much better than artistic conception, if we understand it literally as internal world. But I just worry that its Christian implications might lead us astray. There should be many English translations of yijing by Western scholars, especially those expert in Chinese aesthetics and literary theory. But it is hard for us to identify them with yijing in English texts, since our Western colleagues believe that it means different things in different contexts and accordingly translate it differently. Roger Ames translates it as something like “aesthetic or literary inspiration.” He thinks that the appreciation of an artwork carries us to some higher literary mood. “Inspiration” and “aspiration” have the same root as spiritual.38 Karl-Heinz Pohl suggests “poetic idea” and “ideal state of mind” to translate yijing.39 Hans-Georg Moeller recommends that “one way of translating yijing may be ‘spiritual dimension,’ but only if ‘spiritual’ is understood in a philosophical-Hegelian way, and not in the more colloquial way of new-age religion.”40 In order to make yijing an aesthetic concept in English, I would like to translate it as “mindscape.” It consists of mind and scape. Mind can be translated back in Chinese as xin ᗳ. In consideration of yijing as landscape for or from the mind, not only for the eyes, and meaning, that is the literal meaning of yi ᜿, especially the business of the mind, or, put it another way, the spiritual affairs, mind is perhaps the appropriate translation of yi ᜿. Furthermore, -scape reminds us of “landscape” from which world, realm, space can be derived, which are normally used to translate jing ຳ, and especially yijing is the typical aesthetic property of Chinese landscape painting and landscape poetry. Therefore, mindscape can catch the point of yijing and will not lead us astray.

PENG FENG

117

NOTES 1. Wang Guowei ⦻ഭ㔤ljӪ䰤䇽䈍NJ, in Wang Guowei wenji lj⦻ഭ㔤᮷䳶NJ [Collected works of Wang Guowei] 1997 (Beijing. Zhongguo wenshi chubanshe ेӜѝഭ᮷ਢࠪ⡸⽮), 1997 2. Deng Yizhe 䛃ԕ㴠, Lun yishu zhi “ti,” “xing,” “yi,” “li” lj䇪㢪ᵟѻĀփā ǃĀᖒāǃĀ᜿āǃĀ⨶āNJ [“On the “body,” “shape,” “meaning,” and “reason” of art], in Dengyizhe quanji lj䛃ԕ㴠‫ޘ‬䳶NJ [The Complete Works of Deng Yizhe] 1998. Hefei, Anhui jiaoyu chuban she ਸ㛕ᆹᗭᮉ㛢ࠪ⡸⽮. Qiyun ≄严 is normally translated into English as rhythm; qiyunshengdong ≄严 ⭏ࣘ is translated as rhythmic vitality. For the discussion of English translation of qiyunshengdong, see Alexander C. Soper, “The First Two Laws of Hsieh Ho,” The Far Eastern Quarterly, vol. 8, no. 4 (Aug. 1949), pp. 412–423. 3. Zong Baihua ᇇⲭॾ, Zhongguo yishu yijing zhi dansheng ljѝഭ㢪ᵟ᜿ຳѻ䈎 ⭏NJ [The Birth of Chinese Artistic Conception] in Zong Baihua quanji ljᇇⲭ ॾ‫ޘ‬䳶NJ [The Complete Works of Zong Baihua] (Hefei, Anhui jiaoyu chubanshe), vol. 2 ਸ㛕ᆹᗭᮉ㛢ࠪ⡸⽮ㅜҼধ, 1994. 4. Li Zehou ᵾ⌭৊, Yìjìng zátán lj᜿ຳᵲ䈸NJ [Miscellaneous Talks on Yijing], in Mˇe ixué lùn jí lj㖾ᆖ䇪䳶NJ [A Collection of Aesthetics] (Shanghai. Shanghai wenyi chuban she к⎧к⎧᮷㢪ࠪ⡸⽮), 1980. 5. Li Zehou ᵾ⌭৊, Mei de licheng lj㖾Ⲵশ〻NJ [The Path of Beauty] (Beijing, Wenwu chuban she ेӜ᮷⢙ࠪ⡸⽮), 1981. Its English version The Path of Beauty was translated by Gong Lizeng and published by Oxford University Press, 1994. 6. Ye Lang ਦᵇ, Zhongguo meixue shi dagang ljѝഭ㖾ᆖਢབྷ㓢NJ [Outline of the History of Chinese Aesthetics] (Shanghai, Shanghai renmin chubanshe к ⎧к⎧Ӫ≁ࠪ⡸⽮), 1985. 7. Ye Lang ਦᵇ. Meixue yuanli lj㖾ᆖ৏⨶NJ [Principles of Aesthetics] (Beijing, Beijing daxue chubanshe ेӜेӜབྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮), 2009. 8. Luo Gang 㖇䫒, Yijing shuo shi deguo meixue de zhongguo bian ti lj᜿ຳ䈤ᱟᗧ ഭ㖾ᆖⲴѝഭਈփNJ, in Nanjing daxue xuebao ljইӜབྷᆖᆖᣕNJ 2011 ᒤㅜ 5 ᵏ. The same views can be found in German sinology. For details, see K-H. Pohl, Ästhetik und Literaturtheorie in China: Von der Tradition bis zur Moderne (Munich: K.G. Saur, 2007), pt. 6, ch. 6. 9. Morris Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 15, no. 1. p. 32, 1956. 10. George Dickie, “Defining Art: Intension and Extension,” in P. Kivy (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Aesthetics (Malden, Oxford & Carlton: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), pp. 47–48. 11. Dickie, “Defining Art,” pp. 52–54. 12. Chen Zhide 〻㠣Ⲵ, Guanyu yijing lj‫ޣ‬Ҿ᜿ຳNJ [About yijing], in “Meishu” lj㖾ᵟNJ, 1963 ᒤㅜഋধ. 13. A.H. Giles., An Introduction to the History of Chinese Pictorial Art, second edition (London: Bernard Quaritch, 1918), p. 122. Giles translates the method as “looking at big things as if they were small” (pp. 121–122).

118

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

14. G.W.F. Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, trans. T.M. Knox (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1975), vol. 1., p. 2. 15. 䛃ԕ㴠. 1998. p. 203. 16. Җ⭫ѻ࿉ˈᖃԕ⾎Պˈ䳮ਟԕᖒಘ≲ҏDŽцѻ㿲⭫㘵ˈཊ㜭ᤷ᪈ަ䰤ᖒ䊑ǃս 㖞ǃᖙ㢢⪅⯥㘼ᐢˈ㠣Ҿྕ⨶ߕ䙐㘵ˈ㖅㿱ަӪDŽྲᖖ䘌lj⭫䇴NJ䀰˖⦻㔤⭫ ⢙ˈཊн䰞ഋᰦˈྲ⭫㣡ᖰᖰԕṳǃᵿǃ㣉㫹ǃ㧢㣡਼⭫аᲟDŽ։ᇦᡰ㯿᪙䈈 ⭫lj㺱ᆹগ䴚മNJˈᴹ䴚ѝ㣝㭹ˈ↔ѳᗇᗳᓄ᡻ˈ᜿ࡠ‫ׯ‬ᡀDŽ᭵ަ⨶‫ˈ⾎ޕ‬䘕 ᗇཙ᜿DŽ↔䳮ਟо؇Ӫ䇪ҏDŽ O. Sirén, The Chinese on the Art of Painting: Translations and Comments (Peiping: Henri Vetch, 1936), p. 63. The English translation is modified by myself. 17. Y.-K. Kao, “The aesthetics of regulated verse,” in S.-F. Lin and S. Owen (eds.), The Vitality of the Lyric Voice: Shih Poetry from the Late Han to the T’ang (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2014). p. 373. 18. Kao, “The aesthetics of regulated verse,” pp. 42–43. 19. Kao, “The aesthetics of regulated verse,” p. 53. 20. S. Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1992), pp. 341, 446, 480, 536, 558, 576. 21. Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, pp. 530, 533. 22. For discussion of “world generating out of image” and “such image beyond image,” see Ye Lang ਦᵇ. 1985. pp. 267–271. 23. G. Böhme, Atmosphere as the Fundamental Concept of a New Aesthetics (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993). In thesis 11. no. 36., pp. 120–122. 24. Böhme, Atmosphere, p. 121. 25. A.L. Thomasson, “The Ontology of Art,” in P. Kivy (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Aesthetics (Malden, Oxford & Carlton: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), p. 88. 26. Thomasson, “The Ontology of Art,” p. 88. 27. Peng Feng, “Paths to the Middle,” in M. Wiseman and Y.D. Liu (eds.), Subversive Strategies in Contemporary Chinese Art (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011), pp. 271–281. 28. There are different interpretations of dao 䚃, xiang 䊑, and qi ಘ. In this context, they could be translated as abstract, image, and concrete, respectively. 29. Pang Pu ᓎᵤ, 1995. Yi fen wei san: Zhongguo chuantong sixiang kaoshi ljа࠶ ѪйüüѝഭՐ㔏ᙍᜣ㘳䟺NJ [One is Divided into Three-A Textual Research on Traditional Chinese Thought] (Shenzhen, Haitian chubanshe ␡ൣ˖⎧ཙࠪ ⡸⽮), pp. 232–235. 30. For details, see Ye Lang ਦᵇ 2009, p. 82. 31. C. Carter, “Arts and Cognition: Performance, Criticism, and Aesthetics,” Art Education vol. 36, no. 2., 1983. p. 61. 32. ਦ⠞lj৏䈇NJ˖㾱ѻˈ֌䈇㘵ˈᇎ߉⨶һᛵˈਟԕ䀰ˈ䀰ਟԕ䀓ˈ䀓ণѪ؇ ݂ѻ֌DŽᜏнਟ਽䀰ѻ⨶ˈнਟᯭ㿱ѻһˈнਟᖴ䗮ѻᛵˈࡉᒭⴷԕѪ⨶ˈᜣ 䊑ԕѪһˈᜍᙽԕѪᛵˈᯩѪ⨶㠣һ㠣ᛵ㠣ѻ䈝DŽ↔ኲ؇݂㙣ⴞᗳᙍ⭼࠶ѝᡰ ᴹૹ˛ For the translation and interpretation, see Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, pp. 493–581. Quotation from p. 537.

PENG FENG

119

33. The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, translated by Burton Watson, section 26, “External Things”, https://terebess.hu/english/chuangtzu3.html#26. 34. Xiandai hanyu cidian ⧠ԓ≹䈝䇽ި Contemporary Chinese Dictionary. Chinese–English edition. Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press. 2002. p. 2278. 35. A.A. Rickett, Wang kuo-wei’s jen-chien tz’u-hua Ӫ䰤䇽䈍 (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. 1977), pp. 24–25. 36. Rickett, Wang kuo-wei’s jen-chien tz’u-hua, p. 25. 37. Kao, “The Aesthetics of Regulated Verse,” p. 385. Quotation from Jonathan Culler, The Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics and the Study of Literature (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975). p. 175. 38. Personal communication, email of April 19, 2017. 39. Personal communication, email of April 25, 2017. 40. Personal communication, email of April 23, 2017.

BIBLIOGRAPHY ⦻ഭ㔤, ljӪ䰤䇽䈍NJ, in lj⦻ഭ㔤᮷䳶NJेӜѝഭ᮷ਢࠪ⡸⽮, 1997. 䛃ԕ㴠, lj䇪㢪ᵟѻāփāǃāᖒāǃā᜿āǃā⨶āNJ, in lj䛃ԕ㴠‫ޘ‬䳶NJਸ㛕 ᆹᗭᮉ㛢ࠪ⡸⽮, 1998. ᇇⲭॾ, ljѝഭ㢪ᵟ᜿ຳѻ䈎⭏NJ, in ljᇇⲭॾ‫ޘ‬䳶NJਸ㛕ᆹᗭᮉ㛢ࠪ⡸⽮ ㅜҼধ, 1994. ᵾ⌭৊, lj᜿ຳᵲ䈸NJ, in lj㖾ᆖ䇪䳶NJк⎧к⎧᮷㢪ࠪ⡸⽮, 1980. ᵾ⌭৊, lj㖾Ⲵশ〻NJ, ेӜ᮷⢙ࠪ⡸⽮, 1981. ਦᵇ, lj㖾ᆖ৏⨶NJेӜेӜབྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮, 2009. ਦᵇ, ljѝഭ㖾ᆖਢབྷ㓢NJк⎧к⎧Ӫ≁ࠪ⡸⽮, 1985. 㖇䫒, lj᜿ຳ䈤ᱟᗧഭ㖾ᆖⲴѝഭਈփNJ, in ljইӜབྷᆖᆖᣕNJᒤㅜ 5 ᵏ, 2011. 〻㠣Ⲵ, lj‫ޣ‬Ҿ᜿ຳNJ, in lj㖾ᵟNJᒤㅜഋধ, 1963. ᓎᵤ, ljа࠶ѪйüüѝഭՐ㔏ᙍᜣ㘳䟺NJ␡ൣ˖⎧ཙࠪ⡸⽮, 1995. Böhme, G., Atmosphere as the Fundamental Concept of a New Aesthetics, thesis 11, no. 36 Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993. Carter, C., “Arts and Cognition: Performance, Criticism, and Aesthetics,” Art Education, vol. 136, no. 2., 1983. Dickie, G., “Defining Art: Intension and Extension,” in P. Kivy (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Aesthetics, pp. 47–48, Malden, Oxford & Carlton: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Giles, A.H., An Introduction to the History of Chinese Pictorial Art, second edition, London: Bernard Quaritch, 1918. Hegel, G.W.F., Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, vol. 1, trans. T. M. Knox, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1975. Kao, Y-K., “The Aesthetics of Regulated Verse,” in S.-F. Lin and S. Owen (eds.), The Vitality of the Lyric Voice: Shih Poetry from the Late Han to the T’ang, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2014. Owen, S., 1992. Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992.

120

DEFINING MINDSCAPE

Peng Feng, “Paths to the Middle,” in M. Wiseman and Y.D. Liu (eds.), Subversive Strategies in Contemporary Chinese Art, pp. 271–281, Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011. Pohl, K-H., Ästhetik und Literaturtheorie in China: vom der Tradition bis zur Moderne, Munich: K. G. Saur, 2007. Rickett, A.A., Wang kuo-wei’s jen-chien tz’u-hua Ӫ䰤䇽䈍, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1977. Sirén, O., The Chinese on the Art of Painting: Translations and Comments. Peiping: Henri Vetch, 1936. Thomasson, A.L., “The Ontology of art,” in P. Kivy (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Aesthetics, Malden, Oxford & Carlton: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Weitz, M., “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 15, no. 1, 1956.

CHAPTER SIX

On the Notion of Xiang 䊑 (“ImagePhenomenon”) in Landscape Ink Painting MARCELLO GHILARDI

In Chinese traditional culture, painting and writing represent the apex of the civilization’s process, its grand accomplishment. In Japan too, there is such a consideration for the arts of the brush. Writing and painting are realized with the same materials and they are appreciated in a similar way.1 In the centuries of the past the literati were supposed to be skillful in these arts, even if their major profession was serving the emperor as officers or making war as generals. The Chinese verbs that express the activities of writing and painting, xie ማ (or also shu ᴨ) and hua ⮛, were traditionally intertwined and exchangeable. One can “write” a picture or “paint” a poem. In poetry, ink painting, and the art of writing, the work’s generative process springs out from a free encounter of forms, from between the ink’s black and the paper’s white and between the external environment and the artist’s interior. They are not separated, but poles of a vital flux or breath, called qi ≓. The essential dimension is always in the mode of a hint: it is an intense expression of the local and the global, the particular and the universal, of micro- and macro-cosmos. Every sign is a trace that reveals the whole. The notion of 121

122

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

qi appears in the first of the well-known “six rules” (liufa ‫ )⌅ޝ‬of painting, as they are formulated for the first time by Xie He (V–VI century): qiyun shendong ≓丫⭏अ (“spirit resonance, life-motion,” or “the resonance of breath gives birth to movement”) is a principle that will have a great influence and will be recalled in the following centuries by calligraphers and painters. The spiritual dimension is not something detached from the living world, located in a different ontological realm. Qi is in fact the vital energy that can assume a solid consistency, when it concentrates, or an invisible and intangible one, when it rarefies.2 Later, in his Bifaji ㅶ⌅䁈 [Notes on the Method of Brush], Jing Hao (IX–X century) pointed out six essential values, probably following Xie He’s liufa: breath-energy (qi ≓), rhythm or resonance (yun 丫), thought (si ᙍ), natural scenery (jing Ჟ), brushwork (bi ㅶ), and ink-tone (mo ໘).3 Jing Hao’s work is noteworthy because it is one of the first examples in Chinese history in which we can see the development of theoretical notions about the art of painting. In the fictitious dialogue between an old sage and a young apprentice, we are introduced to a definition of painting itself: “I said: ‘Painting is to embellish, to value likelihood in order to get the true. Isn’t it?’ The old man said: ‘It is not so, painting is giving a form’ ” [sou yue, bu ran hua zhe hua ye ਏᴠDŽн❦⮛㘵⮛ҏ]. The last sentence seems to be a tautology, or something trivial. But we can understand it in its full meaning if we consider the plurality of the character hua ⮛: to trace, to give a form, but also to plan, to inscribe, to determine, to limit. So, painting means: to define [to limit] the image of things, in order to get their truth [Du wuxiang er qu qi zhen ᓖ⢙䊑㘼ਆަⵏ] . . . You cannot confuse the adornment with reality. If you do not know the art, you can have likelihood, but the truth of figuration will not be grasped [bu ke zhi hua wei shi. Ruo bu zhi shu gou shi ke ye, tu zhen bu ke ji ye нਟว㨟⛪ሖDŽ 㤕н⸕㺃㤏լਟҏDŽെⵏнਟ৺ҏ].4 Painting is not only to give a shape or form to the vital energy (qi) on the paper, but also to enliven the breath that circulates through the landscape in order to express its “truth” (zhen ⵏ). A painted landscape, for instance, is “true” when formal resemblance and liveliness spring out. Let the ornament be the only interest of the painter, and the picture will be a dead one, without any transmission of breath (qi) and spiritual dimension (shen ⾎). Only “if you forget brush and ink do you have the true landscape” (ke wang bi mo er you zhen jing ਟᘈㅶ໘㘼ᴹⵏᲟ), finally says the old sage.5 There is no strong opposition between subject and object, or the painter and the

MARCELLO GHILARDI

123

landscape, I and world: all these conceptual pairs are crossed and permeated by the same living breath (shengqi ⭏≓). Thus, painting shows that Chinese thought did not figure out a “redoubling” of the world, between physical and metaphysical, material and spiritual plans—which was a decisive option for Western philosophy and art. In the dynamism of nature and life, in the Dao (or Tao 䚃,), every element or event manifests an imperceptible dimension. The invisible is not a separated plan, apart from the visible, but it is the other face of the visible, its hidden part. Visible and invisible are two phases of the same process, different moments of the same reality. That’s why in the gesture of painting a meeting happens: between the physical, external dimension and the spiritual, interior one, without any radical split. If one cannot perceive this continuity, he will not be able to make the qi flow, to display the living forms on the paper. Painting is a natural act, belonging to nature (in Chinese, ziran 㠚❦: literally, “what happens spontaneously, by itself ”). Only a spontaneous, natural painting can be vital and authentic as well, not a simple copy of the visible but an enhancement of the animating character of the world. Such a painting is able to catch the inner nature (xing ᙗ) of every image-phenomenon (xiang 䊑), (re)generating it on the sheet of paper or silk. If we choose to translate the term xiang by the conceptual pair image– phenomenon and plunge into Chinese aesthetic vocabulary we can appreciate a different way of understanding not only the painting’s procedures, but also the relationship with nature, with the world. Xiang is indeed not only “image,” or “shape,” “form,” or “appearance,” it can also be translated as “phenomenon,” i.e. the phenomenon whose image is painted, for instance, on the paper or silk. Originally, the character seems to have symbolized the shape of an elephant. In the Hanfeizi 七䶎ᆀ (chapter Jielao 䀓㘱, 24), we can read: Men seldom see elephant [xiang 䊑] alive, and when they find the skeleton of a dead elephant, they imagine [xiang ᜣ] (the animal) alive on the basis of its shape [tu െ]. This is the reason why what people imagine by intention [yi ᜿] is called image [xiang 䊑]. Even if the Dao cannot be heard or seen, the sage man see its form [xing ᖒ] by its effects. For this reason one says: form of the formless [wu zhuang zhi zhuang ❑⣰ѻ⣰], image with no thing [wu wu zhi xiang ❑⢙ѻ䊑]. What is interesting here is the coupling of two dimensions that Western culture, after Plato’s ontology, tend to separate: only the Ideas have a real ontological substance because they are eternal and incorruptible, and phenomena have a lower degree of substantiality, but are even more valid

124

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

and more substantial than their images. The phenomenon of a mountain will never be as “real” as its Idea, but that mountain’s image will be always less real than the phenomenon it represents. This kind of distinction, just like descending steps from the true reality to the false one, is ignored in Chinese and Japanese traditional thought. Image is as valid as the phenomenon it depicts. Every image is alive and contributes to the global flowing of the vital energy (qi) that permeates every single aspect of reality. Only an image that does not express that breathing character is far from the vitality of the phenomenon, but this fact doesn’t depend on its ontological dimension—it depends only on the painter’s skill level. If the painter is not able to convey in his picture the life of phenomena, the painting will be “dead,” detached from the general process of reality. What really counts is not the perfect, “photographic” representation. Figuration is rather the attuning to the movement of qi, to the dynamic character of life, expressed in this case as ink traces on the white page. Chinese tradition makes us think about another possible relationship between the “thing” and the “image” apart from that of a metaphysical or transcendent one between the phenomenon and the sign that stands in its place. Xiang, as we have just seen, can mean at the same time “image” and “phenomenon,” thus every perception of a dualism between the event and its representation is useless and “out of order.” Also the notion of mimesis (“imitation, representation”) falls and becomes out of order in this context. Painting is not imitating objects,6 persons, landscapes, giving the illusion of a new reality; image itself is already admitted to the realm of natural entities, it belongs to the same reality. Here we cannot find any dichotomy or tension opposing the physical to the intelligible world, the domain of appearance to that of essence. Xiang is considered an emergent formation, it is the process of “emerging” in the realm of visibility, guided and fostered by brushstrokes. It conveys the idea of a dynamic process that brings on the movements of a new, developing situation, of a relational system. The term could be translated also as “outlines”: this word corresponds precisely to xiang, since it expresses the first lines of a thing– situation under development which, as such, constitute its elementary, not yet totally explicit, traits and characteristics, whether of a style or of an aspect. As a result, “outlines” also belongs to a logic of engendering, whether in the case of the image reproduced or of its object. The outlines of a face, of a landscape, or of a drawing indicate something that has only just gained access to the visible, is simply sketched out, in transition from the formless to the formed, and which still consists fully in the movement of its genesis.7

MARCELLO GHILARDI

125

What is worthwhile in painting is making the breath circulate, transposing in images a way of living, a dimension of spirit (shen ⾎) not apart from that of matter. According to several texts by Chinese and Japanese artists, the external form (xing ᖒ) is not difficult to paint, but it stays fixed and dead if not internally animated by the energy of breath. At the same time, the two domains always communicate with each other. In painting a flower, for instance, one should be able to express the inner spiritual character (huashen 㣡⾎, the “flower’s spirit”) by the external form (huaxing 㣡ᖒ, the “flower’s form”). The dynamic of painting does not imply a descriptive action, such as the imitation of the external aspect of things, nor an analytical knowing process made by a subject observing an object. It is rather a breathing dynamic. Painting is like breathing because it expresses a rhythm, a polarity, an alternating movement. Expiration follows inspiration, inspiration follows expiration; emptiness comes before and after fullness. Painting brings its energy from an invisible qi in order to display visible images, the forms traced by ink and brush, while the higher order of painting, that which needs neither brush, paper, nor ink, is pure breathing, life itself in its happening, in its dying and renewing.

REPRESENTATION OR FIGURATION In this context the notion of “representation” loses its importance in the debates or research about art. In the Western history of art we can say that the image struggles to attain the true presence of the phenomenon, showing to what extent the thing really “is” and placing the thing itself in praesentia, but in Chinese and Japanese ink paintings the logic is different. Here, every single brushstroke expresses a relational system. There is not an “inside” and an “outside,” two detached domains, but an energetic process, flowing by the means of the painter’s hand and brush in the work. When we speak about representation we think implicitly of the notion of presence. It is the presence that we must re-present to the eye and to the mind. “Representing” means also bringing to a new presence what was concealed, hidden, or forgotten. The substance (ousia) should be taken in presence (par-ousia) in order to feel and live the actual living dimension of Being, of God. We cannot understand most of Western art without these links between ontology, theology, and aesthetics. But if we read some lines in one of the most important texts in the Chinese pictorial tradition, the Gugua heshang huayulu 㤖⬌઼ቊ⮛䃎ᖅ (Discourse on Painting by the Monk Bitter Cucumber) written by Shitao (1642–1708), we can find clues to get closer to the theory of East Asian image and art.

126

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

The inner nature of landscape [shanchuan ኡᐍ: lit., “mountains–rivers”] is caught by getting the universe’s intimate structure. Possessing the techniques of brush and ink, one realizes the external aspects of landscape . . . The landscape expresses the form and tensions of the whole universe . . . Before I was fifty, I was not generated in the landscape. It is not to say that I treated landscape as a meaningless thing, but I let it as an independent thing, on its own. Now the landscape speaks by me, it is expressed by me. It is generated by me, just like I am generated by the landscape.8 Only if we understand the structure, the inner principle of totality, can we discover the inner nature of landscape, its deepest quality. The landscape’s external form can be grasped and enhanced by technique, using ink and brush in the right way. But the external aspect of landscape is not only the way it appears to the sense of sight, which is also the superficial dimension of the pictorial activity. True painting means going beyond the images’ exteriority and being able to generate them as living forms; for this reason Shitao writes: “Landscape is generated by me.” The painter’s action brings a new birth, which at the same time is a regeneration of the landscape in the artist’s interior and a regeneration of the artist in the landscape’s dimension, in its rhythm and vital flux. If one gets what concerns the sea, failing to grasp the mountain’s quality, or if one gets the mountain but fails to get what concerns the sea, then he gets in a wrong way. This is my way: grasping the mountain as [it were]

FIGURE 6.1: Shitao, Lonely Mountain (1707). Alamy.

MARCELLO GHILARDI

127

sea, the sea as [it were] mountain. I perceive in the modality of mountainsea. Everything resides in the human being, through the free flowing of brush and ink.9 Just as for the wise man in Taoism for whom it is essential to see the high in the low, the light in the shadow, the warm in the cold, for Shitao there can be good painting only by understanding the quality of the sea in the other pole of the landscape, i.e., the mountain. If the two dimensions maintain seperation one could not foster the vital generation; every single brushstroke would stay rigid, even if technically perfect. “Mountain as sea, sea as mountain”: this is what really counts to feel. The identical in the different, the different in the identical. Every phenomenon is an unceasing movement that evolves and changes in another one. On the sea we get the element of the mountain—in the shapes of the waves, in its mass and strength—and in the mountain we perceive the dimension of sea—by the water of springs, the torrents, the mists and clouds, the humidity on the cliffs. “I perceive in the modality of mountain–sea” does not mean to feel one time the sea, and another time the mountain, but more—the perception is modulated at the same time on the sea and on the mountain, is mountain–sea as one (shanhai ኡ⎧). The two are never completely independent. The painter’s work is an ethical exercise indeed, in order to understand and live the cooperation of the extremes, the coincidence of opposites in the everyday immanence. The act of creating and perceiving images is portrayed as an exercise of discarding the possibility and the will to describe and define the limits and silhouettes of an object or an element in the landscape. What really counts is not tracing a large amount of lines and details, but reducing every strict determination to allow the observer to intervene. The onlooker must merge in the image, completing the empty spaces, making it a lively element of nature itself, “between” visible and invisible. Painting and looking at images becomes an ethical action because it frees the forms, it allows the breathing character of nature to circulate in the images themselves just as in phenomena. The painter does not have to block and define the brush’s strokes, but on the contrary he should make the traces fluid and nuanced. He paints it between “there is” and “there is not,” you and wu. In other words, the “there is” and its negation no longer stand in tragic opposition; they agree at the fundamental level and communicate. Between the “there is” that takes over presence and its complete dissolution in absence, the painter grasps forms and things surging up and fading away at the same time. He paints them on their way, not in relation to the category of being (or nothingness) but as a continuous process.10

128

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

It is a painting without “object.” It is not by chance that Shitao writes hua yu shan, hua yu shui: “painting what is concerned with the mountain, painting what is concerned with the sea.” He does not write directly “painting the mountain” or “the sea,” but what it is about those elements, in a biased way, offering some hints or traces to provide perception operative, energetic qualities. The work itself becomes a process, the image vibrates in a vital tension, but it stays fluid and moving. This tension is not that of a struggle, a fight between the artist and his work or inspiration. To become a master, the Chinese or Japanese artist has to learn a dis-tension: he must eliminate the destroying tension that often inhabits his soul, to fill with a living and positive tension in the image. In this way, the image will be really alive, not a copy or imitation, but a fragment of life, part of nature itself. About a great master such as Shitao, or as a remarkable painter and calligrapher of the Tang dynasty, Zhang Xu, we should say that His writing contained “the wind and the rain,” “water and fire,” “thunder, lightning, song and dance,” and transformed itself unceasingly in its encounter with life’s infinite dynamism. The profusion of things, the power of phenomena, all that thrills or provokes tears—the great calligrapher breathed them into his brushstrokes, so much so that “one loses sight of their end” and his work overflows with vitality.11

ARTISTIC CREATION AND ARTISTIC TRANSFORMATION Another important aspect to remember is that in these traditions art is not an absolute creation on the basis of the divine model of original Creation. Without the notion of a transcendent God, it was not developed according to the conception of an original poiesis, from which all the other forms of creation came down. In Eastern Asia, creation is indeed a modification, a transformation (in Chinese: bianhua ༹ॆ, zaohua 䙐ॆ): it is always the process, the Tao, at work. On its basis the artist has to model and shape his own work, attuning it on the natural dynamics. The purest form of action, even for that particular action that is artistic production and aesthetic experience, is the particular activity in which every imposition by a subject dissolves. The perfect action is the action without a subject: no-ego (muga), no-mind (mushin) are the terms usually adopted in Japanese art, mediated from Buddhist experience of meditation (zazen, in Chinese: zuochan). A Chinese expression from Taoist thought tells something similar: wu wei, er wu bu wei ❑⛪㘼❑н⛪, “no action, so that nothing is not realized.”12 In

MARCELLO GHILARDI

129

other words: everything will be accomplished if there is not a strong acting subject, an imposing subjectivity. The individual expression of the subject must merge in the global flowing of the process, in order to obtain the maximum effect. In this way not only the form of ink and the movement of brush are transformed, but so also are the artist’s and the onlooker’s identities. Life itself is transformed. Using Jonathan Hay’s words, The practice of painting as self-expression is understood to have its own reflexive significance, as a praxis that molds and construct the self. More broadly, as a defining feature of the educated person’s practice of culture in Ming and Qing China, the self-cultivation concept is the foundation on which current interpretations of the entire range of literati cultural practices have been developed, with their special attention to persona, identity, and other aspects of the representation of self.13 The image does nothing but offer to the eye this truth, exposing it in a visible figure. What is bad, the real mistake, is trying to fix the image, the life, the world itself, for no image can be perceived as a vital one in this fashion. Chinese and Japanese ink painting gives way to what we could call an aesthetics of transition, of passage. Animation is seen in the proceeding character of nature, in impermanence, in the value of continuous flowing of all the elements of reality. Thus images can display the animating qi flowing in all the aspects of the world, and are true expressions of its vitality. At the same time, they can convey the intention (yi ᜿) of the artist after his detachment from any personal, subjective, individual tension. Yi is rather the impersonal and global way that flows in every natural element, more than the personal intention. The artist has to refine his own understanding and ability to feel it, to be in accord with it and to be able to follow its movement between emptiness and fullness, definition and dissolution. Qian Wenshi, a famous painter who lived during the Song dynasty, wrote: The mountain in the rain or the mountain in the sunshine are easy to trace for the painter. But the changing from sunshine to the rain, or the changing from the rain to the sunshine . . . when the whole landscape melts down, merging-emerging, between being-there and not-being-there [you wu zhi jian ᴹ❑ѻ䯃]: that is difficult to trace.14 You wu zhi jian: “between being-there and not-being-there” points out again the polarity and the dialectics without any final sublation (the Hegelian Aufhebung), between concealment and manifestation, white and black, paper and ink, image and phenomenon. Images and phenomena could not exist

130

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

FIGURE 6.2: Shitao, Not Far From Mount Huang, the Buffalo in the Rice Field (1707). Alamy.

MARCELLO GHILARDI

131

without the active dimension of emptiness, for its transcendental value, as a condition for the possibility of the forms, and its dialectical value, that allows the yin–yang circulation of qi.15 The term wu ❑ designates voidness in relation with fullness, absence as correlated to a being-there (you ᴹ), and life spreads “between” concealment and manifestation; it is a continuous passing by, between different conditions in a dynamic balance. Wu is at the origin of every form and image, it is the matrix from which every image-phenomenon (xiang) emerges and melts down. But wu is not the absolute origin, the principle, or arché, independent from any fullness, rather it is indeed conditioned, determined, relativized by the fullness. Wu and you are inter- or co-dependent, just like ink and paper, or heart/mind (xin ᗳ) and hand (shou ᡻), the painter’s interiority and the landscape’s exteriority. Following this way of thinking, we can understand the apparently unintelligible sentence we find in Laozi’s Daodejing (§ 41): da xiang wu xing བྷ䊑❑ᖒ, “the great image has no form.” We have already seem the peculiar term xiang, “image/phenomenon.” What about xing? Like many terms in classical Chinese, it can be translated not only as a noun but also as a verb: xing is “form” or “formation,” and also “to form, to give form, to have (a) form.” In German, we could translate it as Gestalt, Bild as well as gestalten or bilden. The “great image” we find here is the true, the real one; it is what in Western tradition would be also called a “beautiful” image. It is in fact the image that cannot be stuck, or locked, but stays alive. But how can an image have no form? As an image, it should have a form, even if nuanced or not defined. That’s the point indeed: “having no form” means just not to be restricted, defined by a particular individuality; without a definite form, the true or great image can stay free and give birth to different perspectives, to several interpretations. It will not be inscribed in any particular scheme or fixed figuration. The perfect or great image is thus a flux, a process that gives way for something to happen. It is a system of variations, between apparition and hindrance, excluding any static figuration. The painter’s task thus is not representing the form, but enhancing and making the observer feel the qi in the image. Shitao underlines this issue many times, namely that the inner accord is the most important, far beyond the imitation of the external shape. True “similarity” with the living character of nature can be attained only by letting go of the concern for external figuration. The true, the great, the wonderful image must be an effective image, carrying on the spiritual dimension, vibrating with nature itself. It involves a different modality of seeing. What really counts is a participating look that embraces and is embraced at the same time by what lies beyond the onlooker, detaching him from the usual subject–object distinction.

132

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

The European consideration of painting has focused on the gaze and, in its quest for greater objectivity, has gone back to how the retina produces sight. It has shown little interest in the necessary condition of painting: not staring at something on the outside but purifying the inside, breaking free from the world and contemplating. The term “contemplation” (recueillement), as opposed to “gaze,” should be understood as a conjunction of two meanings: as contemplation of self, freed from importunities and uncleanness, and as a gathering up (the other sense of recueillement) of the landscape within oneself.16 The onlooker and the looked at, subjectivity and environment are elements inscribed in one another, their abstract division and separation only being formal, coming from the analytical necessity of language. But the deeper seeing also becomes a hearing, a touching, a form of contemplation, in resonance with the environment, and the onlooker is in his turn looked at, and heard, and touched, embraced in the same environment in which his gaze wanders, moves, circulates—just like the qi. The true act of seeing means to recognize themselves as one with what we see, parts of the whole rather than external elements apart from the scene. The image should foster an experience of exploration and familiarizing, or setting. By means of the image we can enter the landscape, becoming one with it and with all that encompasses us, finding our place. Landscape and painter, subject and object, I and thou penetrate each other, complete each other. This modality of experience of the world shows that looking at images, in particular through artistic expression and the creative movement it conveys, shows that the landscape—the supreme dimension of ink painting, for both Chinese and Japanese traditions—is not something to represent, but rather a way to see. How can we see such a reality? It will not be a simple ocular, retinoic vision, to keep in touch with the landscape, resonating with the circulating qi. The look, the gaze will be replaced by a form of meditation, of inner disposition; a sort of contemplation. We don’t have to stare, exhausting our eyes, in order to capture the forms that nature offers to perception but we have to “listen” to the landscape, feeling with our xin (heart/mind/soul/ emotion) vibrating with it. The term xin is difficult to translate, because it brings different meaning and faculties of human nature. It is simultaneously the heart as an organ, a muscle that pumps the blood in the veins; it is the mind, the intellective faculty; it is the soul, or the spirit, i.e. the inner, invisible, and intimate dimension of human being; and it is also used to indicate the “core” of a problem or the “essence” that defines a particular thing or aspect of reality. By this faculty man can place himself in a resonating

MARCELLO GHILARDI

133

disposition in which perception happens not only by the physical senses but also through the work of introspection. A great painter is thus able to paint an accomplished landscape without even seeing it. Expressing on paper the image of a stone, of a mountain, of a pond is important as far as re-creating the vital character, after having absorbed and transformed its qualities in his own inner dimension. Through the accord and harmony with the principle (li ⨶) that structures what he wants to re-enhance by ink the painter can transpose the yi—intention, internal disposition—naturally to his interiority, with a “formless figure” full of energy and breath. Pure attention is impersonal, and only by this kind of attention and care for the world will the onlooker be able to go beyond attachment to the form, to find in images the doorstep to link visible and invisible, art and morality, nature and ethics.

NOTES 1. Given that many notions that originally belong to the Chinese tradition were carried on in Japanese culture (the system of writing, and the arts such as ink painting, garden design, pottery, and poetry) in this chapter we will consider China and Japan from a common perspective. Our attention will be pointed more at the similarities than at the differences. 2. The “six rules” codified by Xie He and handed down by the Chinese tradition are: the above-mentioned qiyun shendong; gufa yongbi 僘⌅⭘ㅶ (“the method of bones,” adopted to trace the forms in a dynamic move); yingwu xiangxing ៹ ⢙䊑ᖒ (faithfulness to the object while tracing forms); suilei fucai 䳘于䌖ᖙ (conforming to genres and using colours); jingying weizhi ㏃⠏ս㖞 (adequate composition); chuanyi moxie ۣ〫⁑ማ (transmission by copies). See Xie He, Gu huapin lu ਔ⮛૱䤴 [Classification of ancient painters], in Yu Jianhua, Zhongguo gudai hualun leibian ѝ഻ਔԓ⮛䄆于㐘 [Theories on ancient Chinese painting], vol. I (Beijing: Renmin meishu chubanshe, 1998), p. 355. 3. See Yu Jianhua, Zhongguo gudai hualun leibian, p. 605. 4. Ibid. 5. Ibid., p. 608. 6. In classical Chinese, we do not find the notion of “object” as an ob-iectum opposed to the subject. Dongxi ᶡ㾯 is the term that designates the “thing,” expressing it in a relational way: “east–west,” i.e. a couple of cooperating poles. Only in modern Chinese, after the crossing with the Western philosophical tradition, we can find a new notion of object, such as “against-phenomenon”: duixiang ሽ䊑, what is opposed to the observer, to the subject. 7. F. Jullien, The Great Image Has No Form (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), p. 229. 8. See Han Linde, Shitao yu ‘Huayulu’ yanjiu ⸣☔㠷lj⮛䃎䥢NJ⹄ウ [Study on Shitao’s “Discourse on Painting”] (Nanjing: Meishu Chubanshe, 2000), pp. 199–200 (my translation).

134

ON THE NOTION OF XIANG

9. Ibid., p. 211. 10. F. Jullien, The Great Image Has no Form, p. 2. 11. F. Jullien, In Praise of Blandness, (Brooklyn (NY), Zone Books, 2004), p. 127. 12. Daodejing 䚃ᗧ㏃, XXXVII. 13. J. Hay, Shitao: Painting and Modernity in Early Qing China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 238. 14. See Yu Jianhua, Zhongguo gudai hualun leibian ѝ഻ਔԓ⮛䄆于㐘, p. 84. Also quoted in F. Jullien, The Great Image Has No Form, p. 1. 15. See F. Cheng, Souffle-Esprit (Paris: Seuil, 2006), pp. 173–182; Y. Escande, Le cœur et la main : L’art de la Chine traditionnelle (Paris: Hermann 2000); He Qing, Images du silence (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1999); G. Pasqualotto, Estetica del vuoto (Venice: Marsilio, 1992), pp. 5–73; O. Sirén, The Chinese on the Art of Painting (New York: Dover, 2005). See also the article by M. Paolillo, “Il ‘paesaggio vero’ nel Bifaji di Jing Hao,” in G. Samarani and L. De Giorgi (eds.), Percorsi della civiltà cinese fra passato e presente (Venice: Cafoscarina, 2007), pp. 329–344. 16. F. Jullien, The Great Image has No Form, p. 161.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Cheng, François, Souffle-Esprit, Paris: Seuil, 2006 (orig. ed. 1989). Escande, Yolaine, Le cœur et la main: L’art de la Chine traditionnelle, Paris: Hermann, 2000. Escande, Yolainde (ed.), Traités chinois de peinture et de calligraphie. Tome I: Les textes fondateurs (des Han aux Sui), Paris: Klincksieck, 2003. Ghilardi, Marcello, Il vuoto, le forme, l’altro, Brescia: Morcelliana, 2014. Ghilardi, Marcello, The Line of the Arch, Milan: Mimesis International, 2015. Han, Linde, Shitao yu ‘Huayulu’ yanjiu ⸣☔㠷lj⮛䃎䥢NJ⹄ウ [Study on Shitao’s “Discourse on Painting”], Nanjing: Meishu Chubanshe, 2000. Hay, Jonathan, Shitao: Painting and Modernity in Early Qing China, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. He, Qing, Images du silence, Paris: L’Harmattan, 1999 Jullien, François, In Praise of Blandness: Proceeding from Chinese Thought and Aesthetics, Brooklyn, NY: Zone Books, 2004. Jullien, François, The Great Image Has No Form: On the Nonobject Through Painting. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. Jullien, François, Living Off Landscape. Or the Unthought-of in Reason, Washington, DC : Rowman & Littlefield, 2018. Li, Zehou, The Path of Beauty: A Study of Chinese Aesthetics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988 (orig. ed. 1981). Paolillo, Maurizio, “Il ‘paesaggio vero’ nel Bifaji di Jing Hao,” in G. Samarani and L. De Giorgi (eds.), Percorsi della civiltà cinese fra passato e presente, pp. 329–344, Venice: Cafoscarina, 2007. Pasqualotto, Giangiorgio, Estetica del vuoto, Venice: Marsilio, 1992. Pasqualotto, Giangiorgio, Figure di pensiero, Venice: Marsilio 2006.

MARCELLO GHILARDI

135

Sirén, Osvald, The Chinese on the Art of Painting, New York: Dover, 2005 (orig. ed. 1938). Wohlfart, Günter, “Kunst ohne Kunst. Altchinesische Geschichten vom Koch Ding, von großen Tuschedummkopf Shitao und vom Harfenmeister Baiya,” in Rolf Elberfeld and Günter Wohlfart (eds.), Komparative Ästhetik: Künste und ästhetische Erfahrungen zwischen Asien und Europa, pp. 137–150, Cologne: Cho¯ra, 2000. Yu, Jianhua. Zhongguo gudai hualun leibian ѝ഻ਔԓ⮛䄆于㐘 [Theories on ancient Chinese painting], vol. I, Beijing, Renmin meishu chubanshe, 1998.

136

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nature as Not-yetexisting Beauty: Infra-thin Poetic Art of Enchorial-topia XIA KEJUN

Let us begin with a poem from Wang Wei: There are no people to be seen in the empty mountains, but their language resounds here. The rays of the sun penetrate the deep forest, reflecting off of the green moss. The title of this poem is Deer Park Hermitage, part of a series of Zen writings that Wang Wei (701–761) produced while on retreat in Wangchuan on Zhongnan Mountain: “There are no people to be seen in the empty mountains” is an abstract nondimensionality. The empty mountain is an empty mountain, but he also explains that there is no one to be seen. This seeming redundancy implies that because there are no people to be seen in the empty mountain, the mountain is even emptier.

137

138

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

In “but their language resounds here,” the “but” is a turn. There are still echoes of human speech, but they are indistinct, chaotic echoes, not clear voices. It is just resonance, pseudo-one-dimensionality. “The rays of the sun penetrate the deep forest” means that the light of the sun enters into the forest. This is the fourth dimension of time penetrating three-dimensional space. But this light is shadowy and diffuse, just an aura. This light has been stripped of its strength as it enters the forest, and so it is indistinct. “Reflecting off of the green moss” gives the impression that the moss, on which the light reflects, is even more dilute, producing an infra-mince layer (as the fifth dimension). The reflection is darker and allusive: the emptiness, the language, the light, it all reflects on the green moss, making it infra-thick. Thus, this “infra-green” is already gray. The elements of infra-mince are an abstract empty mountain, indistinct voices, the penetration of time, emptied thickness, all of which form the fifth dimension. We will use the concept of xu 㲋 (chora, tenuous-empty)1 to reinterpret this fifth dimension, as François Cheng said: Taking this into account, we have grounds to speak of a kind of fifth dimension, beyond space and time, that represents emptiness in its supreme degree. On this level, emptiness constitutes the basis of the pictoral universe, yet it is also transcends this universe and carries it toward the original unity. Level 5 (Fifth Dimension) is the void that transcends space–time, the supreme state toward which every painting that is inspired by the truth reaches. For this ultimate level, very few descriptive terms are adequate. It is perhaps fitting to cite two expressions used by the Chinese artist to gauge the value of a work and to indicate the ultimate aim of art beyond all notions of beauty: i-ching (density of soul) and shen yun (divine resonance).2 Regarding what is the empty or xu: In the Chinese perspective, emptiness is not, as one might suppose, something vague or nonexistent, it is dynamic and active. Linked with the idea of vital breaths and with the principle of the alternation of yin and yang, it is the preeminent site of transformation, the place where fullness can attain its whole measure.3 The greatest significance of this poem is that Chinese-language poetry focuses on nature (nondimensional) rather than mankind. Mankind has receded. It is blurry, like those echoes of human voices, as if it is not a human

XIA KEJUN

139

who is seeing this empty mountain, not the eyes of a poet. So whose eyes are they? The title of this poem is Deer Park Hermitage, which is of course a place name or obscure location in Wangchuan, perhaps the place where deer come up against a fence. Perhaps the subject in this poem is a lost deer? Is it a beautiful deer? Who is doing the seeing in this poem? It is nature looking at us. This is the coming of the natural aura described by Walter Benjamin. Here it is not man doing the looking. Nature is looking as the subject. Nature is looking at nature, observing nature through the eyes of nature. It is generated as an infra-image. Because nature is nondimensional, when nature appears as art it must maintain this nondimensionality and new openness and empty dimensionality, so art must provide the fifth dimension. This is also the generation of the infra-image: remnant emptiness, remnant echoes, remnant light or shadows, remnant colors. Is it possible for us to discover a new aesthetics of modernity from this infra-image of nature and the fifth dimension? This possible art is from the cipher of nature and not-yet-existing (die Chiffre des noch nicht Seienden),4 and it must happen through facing the crisis of modernity.

1 Modernity implies the breakdown and loss of the medium connecting the limited and the limitless, a “modernity of broken medium.” The predicament facing modern aesthetics is how to confront the duality pointed out by Charles Baudelaire in the “Modernity” chapter of his 1863 book The Painter of Modern Life: Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable. There was a form of modernity for every painter of the past; the majority of the fine portraits that remain to us from former times are clothed in the dress of their own day. They are perfectly harmonious works because the dress, the hairstyle, and even the gesture, the expression and the smile (each age has its carriage, its expression and its smile) form a whole, full of vitality. You have no right to despise this transitory fleeting element, the metamorphoses of which are so frequent, nor to dispense with it. If you do, you inevitably fall into the emptiness of an abstract and indefinable beauty, like that of the one and only woman of the time before the Fall.5 Here, Baudelaire points out the root problem of modernity: the duality of the limited and limitless awaits reconnecting, but the medium of this connection is lacking in modernity. In Baudelaire’s nineteenth century,

140

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

modernity was still waiting to be found, but for us in the twenty-first century modernity seems omnipresent, yet the problem has become more severe: how do we extract something poetic from the everyday life of trends or fashion, from the virtual technology of flowing images on the internet? How do we once again extract timelessness from the impermanent, the transient? This has become even more difficult: for those people who have given up on the pursuit of the timeless and immersed themselves in fashion, we can only call them one-dimensional nihilists; for those people who are still immersed in the religious belonging of the past, we can only keep a respectful distance and call them new dogmatists. The character of modernity is the acceptance of the breaking of the connections between the limited and limitless, and tolerance of this break has turned around to become the fundamental character of modernity. How can we live in the impermanent, the changing and the fleeting, yet also attain great happiness? If there is modern art criticism or aesthetic judgment, then it can only be as Baudelaire said, “to see the world, to be at the very center of the world, and yet to be unseen of the world.” The dual experience of modern life by art critics makes it so that they can only occupy the position of observer, but this observer “is a prince enjoying his incognito wherever he goes.” Of course, this prince who maintains revolutionary silence in everyday life is the self-effacing “dandy ascetic” from Foucault’s What is Enlightenment. The modern observer and ascetic must work at his desk when others are enjoying the day and sleeping at night. He fears the disappearance of the images of the day. He wants everything to be reborn. He produces illusions, forcing them into idealization, which is “the product of a childlike perceptiveness that is acute and magical by its very ingenuousness.” Such an ascetic and observer actually does not have his own place in this world, only a “virtual place.” Of course, such people do not have another world to which they can escape. They can only live within the break between the limited and limitless, enduring this break while unearthing within it a possible “chora (non-place place),”6 constantly letting others in by yielding their own positions. But now, who is this other? It is nature! Because the connection has been broken, the tragic caesura (Hölderlin’s diagnosis) of modernity is constantly expanding. Modernity is in a constant state of disastrous change, and “disaster modernity” has become the norm. This modern predicament of the duality between fleeting, impermanent change and timeless limitlessness, as well as the break of their internal connection, has its sources, in that after the Enlightenment Western modernity dissolved those subjects which used to serve as “medium” connections, from the “philosophers” of ancient Greece to the “sages” of the Middle Ages and on to the “sovereigns” of more recent eras. These mediums

XIA KEJUN

141

were critiqued by Kant’s enlightened reason, leading to the break between the limited and limitless, a break that became more acute in Hölderlin’s thinking on the caesura. The heavenly father in the sky turned his head, and the land was shrouded only in the grief and remembrance of the sacred. Then, after Nietzsche declared the “death of God,” the medium between the limited and limitless was torn, breaking, becoming an “interval emptiness,” an empty realm. Here, the empty abyss yawned open, and this interval emptiness refused to be filled by any medium. The aftermath of the Enlightenment is that each of us modern individuals possesses a certain duality. On one hand, that sacred medium of tradition has now descended to each of our individual bodies, but it is only as a trace of mourning and remembrance of this sacredness, nostalgia for that which has been lost. It will never again be the sole medium, or as Nietzsche said, the shroud or shadow of God will still enfold us for a thousand years. On the other hand, that spirit which has retreated, escaped, or died has become empty. The tomb of that spirit was empty long ago, and it is not certain when it will ever come back. That sacred position remains empty and open. This is not simple nihilism. Instead, it is that there is no longer a sole name for the spirit, no longer a spirit who can fill that void. There is waiting and calling, but we do not know for whom we wait. It maintains that emptiness and openness. Let this emptiness remain open. This “opening openness” becomes the new faith of the so-called postmodern—faith in an empty spirit, a “nondivine” sacredness, the retreat of divinity, or a state of retraction (Tzimtzum in the Kabbalah). Against the backdrop of the vacancy of medium, the cultural art in the West’s “interrupted modernity” fell into a double void: on one side, the limitedness, mortality, sense of loneliness, and singularity of the individual, which pushed the individual into the null experience of death as the subconscious was awakened, as revealed by the constant dissolution of form in expressionism and surrealism; on the other side, the emptiness in the position of the sacred turned the “inexpressible” and “invisible” into an empty abyss, which is seen in the works of American abstract expressionism, particularly the works of the Jewish painters Mark Rothko and Barnett Newman, who shifted toward black painting, raising the threat of the end of painting.

2 If we attempt to use “nature” as a medium for linking the limited and limitless, it will amount to the postmodern rediscovery of nature and a return to philosophical thinking. Philosophy will no longer be “metaphysics”

142

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

(or the transcendence of nature) but will set out from nature itself (infranature), permeating human history with nature and reconstructing the connection between the three worlds of implements, body, and nature. But why did Western modernity at its root overlook nature? That is because, beginning with ancient Greece, nature as desire was subservient to reason (logos) and law (nomos), and awaited regulation by the system. By the Middle Ages, nature was treated merely as a thing to be shaped, and possessed a lowly existence, awaiting elevation by grace. In the recent era, nature was regulated by mathematical models, only possessing realness as a subject of experimentation. The West’s discovery of “naturalness” began with Hölderlin and Nietzsche, and it was only then that a chaotic and sacred nature, a “nonhuman” and “nondivine” naturalness, began to emerge before mankind, revealing its existence. In terms of philosophical thinking, the basic model is the architecture of modernity built upon Kant’s three critiques. These three critiques have been transformed in our recounting of modernity as the tripartite world of “implement, body, and nature”: cognitive ability, the ability to feel joy and sadness, the ability to desire. These three abilities correspond to the three worlds opened up by modernity: cognitive ability corresponds to the produced nature of the “world of implements,” and is a more total realization of the technical application of the order of cause and effect in nature; the ability to desire corresponds to the “world of the body,” something lacking in Kant’s formalist moral order, and meant to resolve the issue of equilibrium between virtue and happiness; the ability to perceive joy appears to be connected to Kant’s purpose of the subject, but once sensibility is restored to the body, and the body is restored to its relationship with nature, particularly the internal connection between the critique of judgment and the critique of teleological judgment, it opens up a new “natural world,” a view of nature that is not based on cause and effect. Of course, this is a return to the original experience of facing the world itself: before devised man-made objects, there was only a natural world, but as man-made objects with functional aims emerged, there arose a world made of man-made things, where function bestows things with form, even if their materials derive from nature. Like the world of man-made things, the human body also differed from its previous animal state. It began to walk upright and divide according to labor. Like the implement, the human body was divided from the animals, and went on to construct human society according to relationships of desire. But the body still has latent aspects of nature. Whether in death or in sleep, the body still can gain new understanding of nature, through which a new natural world can be opened. This is no longer the previous hypothesized world before man, nor is it the low-level natural state, but a nature that is received again

XIA KEJUN

143

through produced technology and living technology. It is not the dominion over nature but the naturalization of technology and life. The construction of three worlds using Kant’s architecture is still intended to resolve the duality and paradox between the limited and limitless. In the first critique, Critique of Pure Reason, boundaries are set for knowledge. The abilities of knowledge must be limited to avoid falling prey to transcendental illusions. Once that boundary is crossed, we will fall into the opposition between the limited and infinite universes. The second critique, Critique of Practical Reason, establishes the free will and immortal spirit of reason itself. It also postulates the existence of God to ensure equilibrium between harmony and happiness, but this is merely a postulate, not a fact which can be experienced. Though practical reason opened up the dimension of the infinite, the question of how freedom can be experienced as a practical fact cannot be answered by practical reason. This led to the third critique, the Critique of Judgment, which attempted to find synthesis between aesthetic judgment and natural teleology. This synthesis predicted the predicament of the rift of modernity. This third, “extra” component, the medium that mends or links, includes two directions. One sets out from the subject, bringing inner functional harmony through elegance, combining sensibility and intellect, and establishing a sense of contactedness through reflective judgment and free imagination. It also uses the lofty sense of sadness to transcend naturalness and establish a moral will-subject, encompassing knowledge and reason, even though the sublime is derived from the experience of natural comparisons, such as snowstorms and cliffs. The sublime, as quantity and quality, catalyzes the moral will of the subject. The other sets out from natural teleology and attempts to reflect on the principles of judgment atop the foundation of objective material, beyond subjective form. Of course, this is just a regulative application, because owing to the serendipity and limitless multiplicity of natural experience, no matter how the subject establishes himself, when it is based on natural comparison, what he constructs is merely a state mechanism, a universal subject will (such as a state mechanism) of “comparisons” and “similarities.” It is not an internal construct of natural teleology, just regulative principle. How can we incorporate “nature” and “freedom”? In our modern recounting, in a retrospective that is linked through the medium of judgment, the cause–effect character of “nature” is an implementized construct of the world, because a mechanized view of nature is no longer effective, and yet it is necessary to reconsider the relationship between technology and nature. The cause–effect character of “freedom,” on the other hand, is a world of bodily will. It is no longer the formalization of pure moral order, but is instead fused with the material feel of “I can” and the texture of life. The

144

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

reconnection of “nature” and “freedom,” i.e. the fuse of the medium, is the question of the reconnection of aesthetic judgment and teleological judgment within Critique of Judgment, as well as the quest within the medium for possibility.

3 This will require new consideration of natural beauty within our predicament of “interrupted modernity” and “hybrid modernity.” In aesthetics, how do we ponder nature itself? As Kant said in Critique of Judgment: Nature is beautiful because it looks like art [zugleich als Kunst aussah]; and art can only be called beautiful if we are conscious of it as art while yet it looks like nature [als Natur].7 Later, he states again: The sense of purpose in the product of beautiful art, although it is designed, must not seem to be designed; i.e., beautiful art must look like nature, although we are conscious of it as art. But human teleology is mere analogy and likeness. It is aesthetic analogy. Human technological products, even when having a sense of beauty, are merely analogized with an organism, but it is nonorganic, just an analogy, just as the machinery of the state is merely analogized as having certain systematic properties. Kant believed that the human body is both a product of nature’s inner teleology as well as something crafted by the aesthetics of the moral subject, approaching a personified subject. Thus, humanity is itself the highest purpose of nature, but this human body itself is, like the forms presented in the tragic theater of ancient Greece and in sculpture, still just the personification of nature. Within this is the duality of the body: on one hand is the corporeal body of nature (still mortal), and on the other is the substance of social morality (the will of nature personifying the subject), which together construct a set of principles where analogy or likeness are more constitutive. Compared to the analogies of “likeness (as if),” this goes a step further within the construct of the sense of commonality. This is “technique” as described by Derrida, the replacing structure of living technology. The first path determined that in the West, from Hegel to the development of Marxism, and on to Jean-Luc Nancy and Derrida’s “bio-technology,” reason and technology, particularly scientific productivity, would be used to

XIA KEJUN

145

manifest the cleverness of historical reason, using conceptualism to ponder the replacement of human labor with machines. In the effort to realize an entirely mechanized world, naturalness has been constantly replaced by technology. The second path is a path of catalyzation of bodily desire and the will of life, beginning with Nietzsche. It is a revelation of Deleuze’s deployment or unfolding of the body’s desire in an effort to restore implements to the perceptivity of the human body, reconstructing the world through the body’s sense of touch. In aesthetics, it is the thinking of Lyotard and others on the sublime, the pondering of the “expression of the inexpressible” in abstract painting, even Lacoue-Labarthe’s thinking on Hölderlin’s tragic imitation and caesura.8 It still unfolds along this dimension, without touching on the relationship between the body and naturalness. And with Hölderlin, the tragic caesura can only find the possibility of redemption through a return to the sacredness of nature. This is something that Walter Benjamin began pondering in 1933, but Western thinking on the sublime did not touch on the question of nature. Thus, there is still a third path, as pointed out in Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s Course on Nature.9 Thinking on nature is not a mechanical theory produced by machines, or a teleology produced by the body. Though Merleau-Ponty has always been seen as the founder of the phenomenology of the body, in his late years he had already restored the body to its relationship with nature, where the body had become an elemental body. This natural elementality of the body awaits further reconsideration. Moreover, whether it is the regulative nature of external teleology or the inner teleology of the body, neither has left room for willlessness or emptiness. The production of implements has its teleology, even though the purposeful causes and formal causes of the artist differ from material causes. And though the body has been permeated by the unconsciousness, the emptiness of the unconscious, between the instinct of life and the instinct of death, possesses the return, via death, to inorganic things. Kant always treated organic things as the highest form of reference; how should we face inorganic things? The production of implements has always appeared to be nonorganic—but technology has always strived for meaning, from computers to the trend toward ecology in cognitive sciences, the purpose of humanity has fallen into anthropocentrism. Thus, if man can remove his will to dominate, he can connect with the nonorganic things of nature. This is something that Kant did not consider. It is the same for the nonobjective consideration of emptiness. If the technology of emptiness is combined with natural generation, such a view on nature will completely change Kant’s cause–effect order of nature, creating a will-subject that is not based on moral order. Kant pondered natural beauty:

146

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

Flowers are free natural beauties. Hardly anyone but a botanist knows what sort of thing a flower ought to be; and even he, though recognizing in the flower the reproductive organ of the plant, pays no regard to this natural purpose if he is passing judgment on the flower by taste. There is then at the basis of this judgment no perfection of any kind, no internal purposiveness, to which the collection of the manifold is referred. Many birds (such as the parrot, the hummingbird, the bird of paradise), and many seashells are beauties in themselves, which do not belong to any object determined in respect of its purpose by concepts, but please freely and in themselves. So also delineations à la grecque, foliage for borders or wallpapers, mean nothing in themselves; they represent nothing—no object under a definite concept—and are free beauties. We can refer to the same class what are called in music phantasies (i.e., pieces without any theme) and in fact all music without words.10 Flowers; how to think about flowers? Heidegger also considered flowers in his later years: “The flower doesn’t ask why; it just blooms.” This not asking is a respect for the non-will of nature. It is Heidegger’s “serenity.” When pondering Kant’s natural beauty, particularly pure beauty, flowers or tulips, Derrida used natural beauty to deconstruct artistic beauty. There is no science of beauty, and aesthetic distinctions are merely empty marginalia. But he still turned toward the technology of life, and did not discover natural beauty. The consideration of natural beauty is not the mechanical cognition and perception of the object, nor is it Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological intuition of body schema, but something which requires a new model of consciousness. This is Gaston Bachelard’s poetic imagination of elementality, or Merleau-Ponty’s later proposal of plasticity while considering Cézanne, meandering and elementality, a rift opened in the world, visible and invisible, intertwined and entangled. Perhaps it is the natural mimicry pondered by Roger Caillois, such as the religiosity of the praying mantis.11 The mantis’s mimicry of man and its related actions can inspire man to consider his own violence. Meanwhile, the mantis also mimics the butterfly, orchids mimic the butterfly, insects and plants resemble each other. . . These are not necessarily evolutionary survival strategies. Sometimes the markings on stones look “literary” or like a certain landscape or form, but these are merely the marks of natural erosion. There is no will involved. We must rediscover natural beauty. This begins with nature. As Ernst Bloch said, let nature be the subject (Natur-Subjekt).12 To reconstruct the relationship between nature and technology will require drawing from the shanshui landscape painting of Chinese culture in how it embodies the emptied, static mode of connection.

XIA KEJUN

147

4 In response to Baudelaire’s expectations of the modern hero, Walter Benjamin in the 1920s and 30s sensed a coming catastrophe for modernism, and sought out the possibility for redemption within the experience of aura in art. In 1929, he attempted to draw revolutionary energy from the intoxication of surrealism, but reality slipped into greater violence and genocide. How can we resist violence and find redemption in memory, retaining, within the revolutionary ideals of Marxism, the potential for a “transformation to silence”? In 1933, Benjamin discovered the “doctrine of the similar” and the “mimetic faculty” (Über das mimetische Vermögen) in nature.13 This similarity in nature differs from the Platonic “mimesis” used in Western technical production, as well as from the tragic machinations of the body’s desires on the stage. Instead, it takes us toward the mimicry of nature. Benjamin believed that nature produced mimicry, and used it to clear out similarity and mimetic faculty in the development of human history, from perceptive similarity to the similarity of nonperceptive signs. In remote antiquity, mankind was able to directly interact with the similarity of the constellations, and had the faculty of connection, what Baudelaire called natural correspondence (Diese natürlichen Korrespondenzen). Language has magical power, like the mysterious language in Genesis. In Baudelaire’s works, this view of the magic of reality formed a stark contrast to the rational intelligence of modern semiotic language. We must reawaken similarity, activate wild consciousness, restore markers to the kind of reading in children’s picture books, and rediscover those things that have never been written. The so-called aura is nothing more than a now virtually unconscious memory of lost happiness. But this metaphysical thinking about natural similarity and connections to the constellations was not put to full use. Few people have connected the aura to the similarity of nature, but instead tended to connect it to mechanical reproduction. In 1938, Walter Benjamin even noted that the secret of Chinese landscape painting lay in “resemblance”: Chinese calligraphy, this “ink play” . . . thus appears as something eminently in motion. Although the signs have a fixed connection and form on the paper, the many “resemblances” they contain set them moving resonance (dans cette atmosphere de ressemblance ou de resonance) . . . They become intermingled, constituting a whole that solicits thought the way a breeze beckons to a veil of gauze. The term xieyi (“idea painting”), which the Chinese reserve for this notation, is significant in this regard.14

148

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

Then, in Theodor Adorno’s Dialectic of the Enlightenment in the 1940s and Aesthetic Theory in the 1960s, he attempted to reopen this dimension of nature in the relationship between nature and mythology and between natural beauty and artistic beauty, making nature the subject. He believed that “Natural beauty is the trace of the non-identical in things under the spell of universal identity.”15 He believed that there was a code of nonhumanized and possible things, that there was an undefinable quality to natural beauty, a beauty like musical beauty, an instantaneous spark that disappears just as you grasp at it. Art cannot imitate nature. What art should imitate is natural beauty itself, but natural beauty is weak: The weakness of thought in the face of natural beauty, a weakness of the subject, together with the objective intensity of natural beauty demand that the enigmatic character of natural beauty be reflected in art and thereby be determined by the concept, although again not as something conceptual in itself.16 And the language of nature possesses an enigmatic quality, even keeps double silence as itself and as facing human language; therefore Adorno points out that we must rediscover the possibility of nature as a “cipher for redemption.” He writes: The dignity of nature is that of the not-yet-existing; by its expression it repels intentional humanization. This dignity has been transformed into the hermetic character of art, into—as Hölderlin taught—art’s renunciation of any usefulness whatever, even if it were sublimated by the addition of human meaning . . . The image of what is oldest in nature reverses dialectically into the cipher of the not-yet-existing, the possible: As its appearance this cipher is more than the existing; but already in reflecting on it this almost does it an injustice.17 In the realm of art, how do we retain that meaningful, silent after-image (Nachbild), those seemingly continuous, structured, or self-sufficient traits (see Aesthetic Theory Chapter 4, Section 9)? How can art deliver that possibility of happiness promised by nature? What in artworks is structured, gapless, resting in itself, is an after-image of the silence that is the single medium through which nature speaks. Visà-vis a ruling principle, vis-à-vis a merely diffuse juxtaposition, the beauty of nature is an other; what is reconciled would resemble it.18

XIA KEJUN

149

These ideas were not widely accepted in the West, nor were they applied in contemporary art criticism or theory. Thus, that other that bridges the divide between limited and limitless is no longer the sovereign of the past, or the transcendent, divine “great other” of Western monotheism. Instead, it is the unconscious nature and the “nonteleological” nature. Thus, the question is, can “nature” become the medium? It is not-yetexisting natural art! With nature as medium, it is no longer those mediums that mythologize individual man, and there is no risk of the voiding of individual life. Instead, “nature” is made to come and connect limited humanity with unlimited emptiness, because nature itself possesses duality, duality between the limited or fleeting nature of the animal life in the surrounding world and the limitless nature of elemental cycles and the heavens. The question is how to bestow this duality of nature with a new artistic language. This is a task that is as of yet uncompleted. As man steps aside to make room for nature, nature can take over this position of the medium, naturalizing man rather than the other way around. How can we rediscover “related naturalness” (between human and nature)? How do we ponder, from within nature, this naturalizing nature? How do we perceive nature? There are four forms of naturalness, and we must transform them level by level: 1. Active “correspondence” (this is the formalization of nature): This is the method of generalizing human technology. Man has been separated from nature. With his language and technology, man has overly objectified nature. Mankind cannot consider nature without language, and thus language has become just a human illusion or a certain material object of manipulation. 2. Passive “response” (natural elementality): The body has so passively been predefined internally by nature. This is a prior, preexisting definitive fact. Examples include women’s menstruation, people’s aging, the body’s inevitable death. This also includes the relationship between the body and the world around it, the elemental rhythms of nature’s elements, the temporal rhythms of the passing and coming of things in the heavens and on the earth. 3. No reaction (the diffusion of nature): No reaction takes place, but yet it seems that a reaction is still occurring, taking place within a “blurred” primordial chaos. This blurring is an allusion to diffusion. Only by preserving the diffuseness of the chaos can there be nature. Otherwise it would slip under the control of technology. 4. Regulative adaptation (the nullifying growth of nature): Because it has always remained within diffusion, there is a need, within

150

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

constant, non-reactive passivity, to have an active response, but this active response is merely regulating; it is not fixed, and it must maintain a state of growth, of change. This is the change of change, and so it does not possess a definite form. This nullified nature is a nature that is added into technical imagination, a transformation of technology toward regulation and elementality.

5 Setting out from the internal growth of nature, nature grows toward man, but it also transverses the bodily world of mankind as subject, penetrates the technologized world of implements and moves toward a world of activate natural generation. It does not negate technology but makes technology more active within biomimicry. What it aims to do is to transform the technology of the world of implements into pure time–space, and simplify it into pure emptiness, merely an empty construct. It also aims to integrate with nature, a nature that has been diffused. The emptying of technology, the randomization of nature, are aimed at confronting this empty nullification in Western modernity. In order to ensure that technology does not turn around and control mankind, technology must be emptied out. This is the “chora” in Plato’s Timaeus, as discussed by Derrida. This third kind is not perceptivity or intellect but a third, unnamable kind that existed before the two were distinguished. It is constantly fluctuating, uncertain, possessing a confused logic like that of dreams. This fluctuating, dreamlike third kind is perhaps an “in-between” state which allows technology and the interval it opens to become emptied. Chinese culture has its own thoughts about emptying: the dilution of nature—the natural chaos will swallow all living subjects. How to preserve the power of diffusion while also allowing for shifting generation is Chinese culture’s dilemma in Zhuangzi’s metaphor of the primordial chaos leading to the fragmentation and death of life. It uses emptying primordial chaos, but does not form into individual subjects, instead using nature as the body, united with change, particularly the shifts of the clouds. Here, there is both the ephemeral form of the instant, as well as an allusion to the limitlessness of the sky, or, as Zhuangzi said through a nameless person, “Let your mind wander in the blandness, blend with the vapor, allowing all things to take their natural course without selfish considerations, and you will govern the world.” This is the sense of contacting and emptying of the three worlds: the dilution of the subject’s mind, the diffusion of natural elementality, and the naturalization

XIA KEJUN

151

and connection of implements. Chinese culture, treating itself as the medium for regulation, has adapted to the principles of emptying. Thus, there is a need to incorporate the West’s emptying or “thinning out” of technology (with his “chora,” Derrida was attempting to connect living technology and this absence) and Chinese culture’s dilution of natural chaos (Françcois Jullien’s ideas of blandness and silent transformation19—it is the activation of the power of chaos, but it must be further emptied) to form a new “infra-mince” or “enchorial-topia.” Thus, when facing hybrid modernity, after minimalist art and after the death of art, art itself is nothing more than the experience of its own remnants or non-remnants: there are no more supple forms, only remnants of forms or images; the void can no longer be treated as a concept—there is only the non-remnant or phantom state of life brought about by technology; there is also no longer a self-sufficient natural world, only the remnant state of nature. Only when the remnant state is turned into art can art be possible. Beyond form and concept, if there is still art, then it is merely a remnant of art. We must turn these remnants into infinity. “Remnantization” is the extraction method of hybrid modernity. Then, when it comes to the art of modernity, beyond formal language or conceptual art, there is the possibility for a third kind of art, the mimicry of nature and restoration of its remnants to form infra-mince. Setting out from this infra-mince mimicry, is there a new possibility or not-yet-existing art? The possibility of integration between naturalization and the properties of writing has been restored to a certain extent in some recent Western art exhibitions. They are beginning to consider the natural elementality and poetic naturalness of late-period Turner, late-period Monet and late-period Twombly, rediscovering new relationships between technology and nature. Thus, there are two aspects of work involved. One is to continue shaping this modernity that has been suppressed in Western modernity. The other is to engage in a new understanding of the Chinese traditional view of nature. But this is not just a return to tradition. It is a rediscovery of naturalness in light of the changes brought by modern technology and the destruction of the natural environment. This is the new reconstruction of the commonality between the three worlds begun from the naturalness of nature: the implement world is ruled by technology, the body world is controlled by desire consumption, and the natural world is riddled with ecological destruction. The equalization of the destruction of the world has led us to need to begin to reconsider the overall problems of the world from nature. Thus, we propose a new possibility: emptied naturalism, or infra-mince naturalism, the new art of naturalism. So-called “enchorial-topia naturalism” is a kind of “infra-mince naturalism,” and so it could also be translated as “infra-naturalism.” Basically,

152

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

nature seems to consider itself to be derivative of mankind, but it is actually primary. It has just suspended itself within mankind’s subjectivity. This term “infra” comes from Duchamp’s secret notes on the infra-mince,20 an effort to surpass his previous conceptual art of the readymade, but he did not fully open it up. Meanwhile, naturalness is a correction of American abstraction, but it does not oppose abstraction, and it does not put technology to use. Instead, it requires an infra-mince transformation of technology. Thus, it is an integration between the two, though it also entails a fundamental variation, because it reactivates the active naturalness and diluted, transformed spirit of Chinese culture. Thus, infra-naturalism, or the enchorial-topia of nature (different from “Hetero-topia” in Foucault), is a form of transcendence which stems from nature itself. This nature is transformed by the Dao, and so it does not transcend, or go beyond nature. It is nature itself transcending. For this reason it is not the natural metaphysics of the West, not the objectification of nature by the natural sciences or the technological domination by the physical sciences, nor the phenomenological transcendental reduction of nature. It draws from the body’s sense of touch, returning to natural nature. But this is naturalness that has been emptied by technology, forming an “enchorial-topia” that bears a likeness to nature. If Nature beauty has a cipher for redemption, even not-yet-existing, we also must rewrite modernity beginning with it. Perhaps we should rewrite the slogan of Heidegger with this: only a natural art could save us!

NOTES 1. Edward Slingerland, Effortless Action: Wu-wei as Conceptual Metaphor and Spiritual Ideal in Early China (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), p.175. 2. François Cheng, Empty and Full: The Language of Chinese Painting, tr. Michael H. Kohn (Boston: Shambhala, 1994), p. 106. 3. François Cheng, Vide et plein, Le langage pictural chinois (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1979), p. 45. François Cheng, Empty and Full: The Language of Chinese Painting, tr. Michael H. Kohn (Boston: Shambhala, 1994), p. 36. 4. Theodor W. Adorno, Ästhetische Theorie, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995), p. 115. 5. Charles Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life, tr. P. E. Charvet (London: Penguin Group, 2010), p. 33. 6. For modern interpretations about Chora in Plato’s Timaues, see related texts from Derrida and Sallis: Jacques Derrida, Khôra (Paris: Galilée, 1993); Jacques Derrida, On the Name, ed. Thomas Dutoit, tr. David Wood (California: Stanford University Press, 1995); John Sallis, Chorology, On Beginning in Plato’s

XIA KEJUN

153

Timaeus (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999); John Sallis, The Return of Nature: On the Beyond of Sense (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2016); Henry Maldiney, Ouvrir le rien, l’art nu (Paris: Encre Marine, 2010). 7. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, tr. Werner S. Pluhar (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987), p.174, § 45. 8. Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, Heidegger, Art, and Politics: The Fiction of the Political, tr. Chris Turner (Oxford: B. Blackwell, 1990). 9. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Nature: Course Notes from the Collège de France, tr. R.Vallier (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern, 2003). 10. Kant, Critique of Judgment, p. 76, § 16. 11. Roger Caillois, Le Mythe et l’homme (Paris: Gallimard, 1972). 12. Ernst Bloch, Das Prinzip Hoffnung (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1985), S.786. 13. W. Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften II (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1991), SS. 204–213. 14. Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings, ed. Michael W. Jennings (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 2008). In “Chinese Paintings at the Bibliotheque Nationale,” p. 259. 15. Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, ed. and with a translator’s introduction by Robert Hullot-Kentor (Minnesota: Regents of the University of Minnesota, 1997), p. 73. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., p. 74. 19. See François Jullien, Les Transformations silencieuses (Paris: Grasset, 2009) (translated as F. Jullien, The Silent Transformations, trans. Krzysztof Fijalkowski and Michael Richardson (Kolkata: Seagull Books, 2011)). 20. Marcel Duchamp, Notes (Paris: Flammarion, 1999), pp. 19–47. Also see Marcel Duchamp, Duchamp du signe (Paris: Flammarion, 1994). Duchamp wrote his imagination experiment of “infra-mince” (forty-six notes from 1937 to1946), trying to open a virtual and thin between-space, in order to open the passage between readymade and painting, or open the new passage between anting and non-acting, a new kind of Taoism.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Adorno, Theodor W., Ästhetische Theorie, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995. Adorno, Theodor W., Aesthetic Theory, ed. and with a translator’s introduction by Robert Hullot-Kentor, Minnesota: Regents of the University of Minnesota, 1997. Baudelaire, Charles, The Painter of Modern Life, trans. P.E. Charvet, London: Penguin Group, 2010.

154

NATURE AS NOT-YET-EXISTING BEAUTY

Benjamin, Walter, Gesammelte Schriften II , Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1991. Benjamin, Walter, The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings, ed. Michael W. Jennings, Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 2008. Bloch, Ernst, Das Prinzip Hoffnung, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1985. Caillois, Roger, Le Mythe et l’homme, Paris : Gallimard, 1972. Cheng, François, Empty and Full: The Language of Chinese Painting, tr. Michael H. Kohn, Boston: Shambhala, 1994. Derrida, Jacques, Khôra, Paris: Galilée, 1993. Derrida, Jacques, On the Name, ed. Thomas Dutoit, trans. David Wood. California: Stanford University Press, 1995. Duchamp, Marcel, Duchamp du signe, Paris: Flammarion, 1994. Duchamp, Marcel, Notes, Paris: Flammarion, 1999. Jullien, François, Les Transformations silencieuses, Paris: Grasset, 2009. Jullien, François, The Silent Transformations, trans. Krzysztof Fijalkowski and Michael Richardson, Kolkata: Seagull Books, 2011. Kant, Immanuel, Critique of Judgment, tr. Werner S. Pluhar, Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987. Lacoue-Labarthe, Philippe, Heidegger, Art, and Politics: The Fiction of the Political, trans. Chris Turner, Oxford: B. Blackwell, 1990. Maldiney, Henry, Ouvrir le rien, l’art nu, Paris: Encre Marine, 2010. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, Nature: Course Notes from the Collège de France, trans. R. Vallier, Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2003. Sallis, John, Chorology, On Beginning in Plato’s Timaeus, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999. Sallis, John, The Return of Nature: On the Beyond of Sense. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2016. Slingerland, Edward, Effortless Action: Wu-wei as Conceptual Metaphor and Spiritual Ideal in Early China, New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Some Aesthetic and Artistic Categories in Chinese Painting and Calligraphy YOLAINE ESCANDE

Chinese theory of art in general is quite sophisticated and concerns four activities related to “art” (yi) in the sense of “self-cultivation”: poetry, music, writing, and painting. This chapter will consider the visual arts of writing (shu ᴨ) and of painting (hua ⮛), both of which are founded on the appreciation of the brushstroke. The aesthetic of these two arts must then be understood as the valuation of forms and their theorization. This valuation is not purely formal and does not strictly deal with “beauty.” Therefore, although “calligraphy” is mentioned, it is only for convenience. In Chinese, this art is called shufa ᴨ ⌅ (writing method, law, standard), which does not mean “to write in a beautiful way” but “writing discipline” or “method for writing.” As for painting, hua does not mean “to color” but “to trace, to delineate.” The etymology of painting, hua ⮛, is a hand (shou ᡻ or jin ᐮ) holding a brush (㚯) over a cultivated field (⭠). The term hua originally meant “to draw, to draw a map.” Later, the character’s meaning was “to do a painting” and the production of this activity. Thus hua indicates the act of painting, 155

156

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

together with its result, the brushstroke. Hence, the Tang theoretician of painting Zhang Yanyuan (ninth century) explains clearly the consequences of such a definition: the most important in the appreciation of a painting is the brushstroke.1 This aesthetic and the theory of these two visual arts target insiders, namely literati who practice writing and painting as “arts,” which is done in theory for their own “self-cultivation” and pleasure, yet also done in an amateur way during their leisure time. Aesthetic categories are useful for classification. They are the result of a complex network of aesthetic, social, political—in a word, cultural— conventions. The operation governing the setting of a classification goes generally unnoticed because the classifications are not consciously constructed and they use an empirical process resulting from a specific social apprenticeship. Jean-Marie Schaeffer determines two classification axes: the descriptive axis (such an object is a painting, a calligraphy, with such a form, such a color), and the evaluative axis (such an artwork is superior to another).2 In the Chinese tradition, making the experience of an artwork is not limited to the meeting of an autonomous object having aesthetic, ideological, moral, religious or didactic qualities, but it implies meeting its author. Thus, the “objective” description of artworks does not prevail in this theory. The aesthetic evaluation categories related to the classification, not of artworks, but of artists have been studied in the fields of poetry,3 of calligraphy, and of painting.4 The descriptive categories concerning the a priori formal appreciation of the brushstroke are of two types: firstly, the metaphorical description of visual forms referring to images from nature, for instance, in The Eight Secrets (Bajue), attributed to calligrapher Ouyang Xun (557–641), whose calligraphy is still adopted as a model today: “ˈ[the dot], [seeming] a boulder cascading down a high summit; а [the horizontal stroke], a battalion of clouds along ten thousand miles.”5 Such descriptions, both aesthetic (formal) and artistic (technical), have been studied by Chiang Yee.6 Secondly, the strokes constituting a calligraphy or a painting are described with, on the one hand, a “physiological” (not referred as such by the Chinese) vocabulary in terms of “flesh, bone, sinews,” etc.; on the other hand, with a “characterological” (not named so by the Chinese either) vocabulary, in terms of “strength, power, grace, elegance, etc.,” that can be either positive or negative. However, Chinese calligraphy and painting’s appreciative vocabulary does not aim at objectivity; it does not consider brushstrokes as autonomous objects, such as lines, which ought to be described from an external point of view. Unlike the Western graphological system that maintains an ideal of

YOLAINE ESCANDE

157

“objective” description and focuses on a precise and quantified analysis of “height,” “form” of lines, distance between up and downstrokes, transposition or projection of body, etc., the Chinese appreciative tradition describes the brushstrokes in terms of bodily-related vocabulary. Even if Chinese calligraphy and painting have not developed analyses for the strokes or the visual forms, unlike for instance Western graphology, as a counterpart they have definitely established methods passed down from masters to disciples over two thousand years without discontinuity. This knowledge consists in the accumulation of practical and concrete experiences that gave rise to a real tradition. Some principles, emerging from the practice of art, can be found in texts, and give birth to a precise vocabulary for the insiders which can be approached from the two terminological groups: physiological and charactorological. Practically the two are not opposed, or even separated, but used together. They will be presented successively only for the sake of clarity. These descriptive categories, although still in use today, are not much studied; they will be examined hereafter.

1. THE PHYSIOLOGICAL VOCABULARY The description of a calligraphic or pictorial brushstroke refers to bodily metaphors or to physiognomy. It appears frequently in the theoretical texts and is explained by Chinese artists and theoreticians in terms of blood (the ink), of breath (its energy), of flesh (its thickness), of bone (its structure), of nerve or sinew (its tension). For instance, the Five Dynasties painter and theoretician Jing Hao (ca. 870–ca. 930) declares: The brushstroke has four effects: the sinew (jin), the flesh (rou), the bone (gu), and the breath (qi). The stroke ends and the momentum is uninterrupted: this is its sinew. The thickness and thinness express the consistency of things: that is the flesh. Life or death, stiffness or rectitude of the stroke depend on the bone. When pictorial traces are flawless: that is the breath. Therefore, strokes bloated with too watery ink lose their body, like those with too fluid ink ruin their rectitude and breathe. A brushstroke with dead sinew has no flesh; interrupted, it has no sinew; if flattering, it has no bone.7 Just as the skeleton holds the human body, similarly, the bone is fundamental and an essential quality in the brushstroke. Therefore its presence or absence determines a stroke’s life or death. The artist must “ensure that the form [of

158

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

the characters] features a body,”8 not literally writing the image of a body, but giving the impression that the beholder is in front of an organic whole, functioning analogically as a human body. Thus, the terminology describing the brushstroke can apply to the artwork as much as to the artist. Tang dynasty theoretician Yu Shinan (558–638) explains in his On Quintessence of Brush the results of ways of handling the brush as such: If the writing is too slow, then the calligraphy is not tense (jin); but if it is too swift, the script lacks bone (gu). If the brush hair is aslant and the handle leans, the script is slow and flesh (rou) is plentiful; but if the handle is straight and the tip upright, the script is dry and the bone stands out.9 Writing too slowly induces an important quantity of ink on the paper that cannot be wholly absorbed, hence the stroke appears “blunt and fat” because the ink dribbles. When writing too quickly, on the contrary, the pressure on the brush hair is insufficient for the ink to penetrate into the paper; the brush glides on the paper, losing its grip. The writer or painter does not master their tip and the stroke seems evanescent. The image of the upright handle corresponds to the capacity of guiding the stroke and controlling it. The “bone” and the structure of the stroke depend on it. In Jing Hao’s words, the sinew corresponds to the stroke’s internal tension effect: it allows the viewer to visually follow the course of the brush. The flesh relates to the thickness and density of the stroke, while the bone references the structure, either of the individual stroke or of the calligraphic or pictorial composition. The breath depends on the movement that animates the stroke, connects a stroke to the following ones, and circulates across the whole composition. Two main qualities are required in brush writing: the sinew—the tension of the stroke, directly depending on the control of the gesture—and the bone—its structure, related to the brush hold. In contrast with the bone, the flesh is only a secondary element, as Tang calligrapher Xu Hao (703–782) explains: “When one engages in calligraphy, it is necessary to first master the sinew and the bone, otherwise, the flesh cannot attach.”10 Following Jing Hao, the flesh is expressed by “the thickness and thinness”; it complements and adorns the structure founded on bone and sinew. Yuan calligrapher and theoretician Chen Yizeng (active ca. 1334–1340) develops this: The characters are generated by ink, depending on water, the characters’ blood. If the brush tip absorbs little water, it will be dry after writing a single dot. If water and ink accumulate between the hair layers, at each pressure,

YOLAINE ESCANDE

159

the water penetrates into the paper, at each stop, it concentrates in it, and at each movement, it permeates it. The characters do not have real bones; what we call bones depends on the pressure of the thumb’s last phalange. The sinew of the character results from the tip that must be hidden when the movement of the brush stops, and which must connect strokes with one another. The flesh of the character relies on the brush hair: when a character has few strokes, going slowly allows thick strokes to be traced; in a character with many strokes, moving quickly produces thin strokes. If the water is too abundant, the flesh slackens; if it lacks, the flesh is dry. If the ink is insufficient, the flesh is superficial; with an ink too thick, it is excessively meaty.11 The hard consistency of the ink stick can be diluted thanks to water and become a liquid paste, soaking the paper through via the pressure of the brush hair on it, which is why it is called the blood of the characters. Chen Yizeng agrees with Yu Shinan when pointing out that the bone depends on the fingers holding the brush handle firmly. The bone thus corresponds to mastering the brush movement. As for the sinew, it expresses the script’s dynamism; it can be perceived in the direction changings. The flesh is mainly useful for the thickness of the strokes. In a character with few strokes and much blank space, like Ӫ for instance (Fig. 8.12), a slow script with a strong pressure emphasizes the strokes’ thickness and gives substance to the character. While in a very full character with numerous strokes, as 㾶 for instance, the risk is to produce an overly compact character, which can be avoided with a swifter and thinner script, with less flesh (Fig. 8.12). Ming dynasty’s theoretician Feng Fang (1491–after 1562) introduces clearly the technique linking the body posture and the brush maneuver: In calligraphy, there are the sinew, the bone, the blood, and the flesh: the sinew is generated by the hanging wrist’s strength, so that the tension networks visually transmit its dynamism; the fingers must be full so that the bone structure is solid and firm, without any weakness. The blood is produced by water, flesh by ink.12 This implies that the arm bearing the brush must not rest on the table, so that it fully transmits every movement of the body. The wrist must never move by itself, that is why it has “strength.” Qing calligrapher and theoretician Bao Shichen (1775–1855) also states: Whatever the style of the script, one must absolutely deliver the sinew, the bone, the blood, and the flesh. The sinew is given by the tip, the bone by the hair, the blood by water, the flesh by ink.13

160

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

Lady Wei (272–349), teacher to Chinese calligraphic tradition’s best-known calligrapher, Wang Xizhi (303–361), is considered to have authored a manual on calligraphy, the Battle Map of the Brush, which has been studied by generations of calligraphers. In it, she insists on the congruence between the technique and physiological terminology used in calligraphy: The calligraphers with a strong brushstroke produce characters with much bone (gu); those who lack strength do fleshy (rou) characters; those whose characters are full of bone with little flesh are said to have a muscular (jin) script; those whose characters are fleshy with little bone are called ink pigs. A solid script is made with strength and sinew; a script without strength and sinew is ailing.14 In this excerpt, Lady Wei points out the positive or negative importance of “strength” (characterological vocabulary), related to “bone” and “sinew” or “muscle” (physiological vocabulary). Let us take an example of two artworks still used as models for studying cursive script: in the work of Zhang Xu (ca. 675–ca. 749) (Fig. 8.1), the thick black script expresses flesh coating sinew, whereas in Huaisu’s (725–785) (Fig. 8.2), with thinner and drier strokes, bone and sinew are exposed. On this point, Song calligrapher Huang Tingjian (1045–1105) notices: “Buddhist monk Huaisu’s cursive script is accomplished in thinness, and that of Master Zhang in fatness. It is easy to render thinness hard, but to obtain sinew from fat, that is difficult.”15 In these examples, no moral expression, no spiritual values are mentioned. It even seems that bone, sinew, flesh, and blood refer only to the brush technique. The same terminology can also be found in painting. The Manual of the Seed Garden (Jieziyuan huazhuan) explains: “The sinew and the bone are inside [the strokes], the skin and the flesh outside. Sinew, bone, skin and flesh correspond to breath. Without breath, the object is dead.”16 In painting, the “skin” indicates the stroke’s smoothness or dryness; “the skin and flesh outside” means they are secondary compared to the sinew and bone, as in calligraphy. The breath, i.e., the energy acting in the script, depends on their quality. This vocabulary, however, while seemingly purely physiological or technical can, and must, be understood in a characterological perspective. These appreciations, apparently purely plastic or formal, are not limited to this first meaning. It is believed that the first role of writing is to embody one’s personality, as stated by the Tang dynasty theoretician Zhang Huaiguan (active ca. 724–760):

YOLAINE ESCANDE

FIGURE 8.1: Zhang Xu (ca. 675–ca. 749), Four Poems in Ancient Styles (Siti shushi), ink on paper, 29.5 x 195.2 cm, Shenyang, Liaoning Provincial Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

FIGURE 8.2: Huaisu (725–785), Autobiography (Zixu tie), ink on paper, 28.3 x 755 cm, Taipei, Taiwan National Palace Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

161

162

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

“Literature needs several words to express one’s feelings (yi), but in calligraphy (shu), one sole character suffices to expose one’s heart.”17 Zhang Huaiguan adds: “The acme of refinement in calligraphic and literary art is attained by expressing one’s deepest feelings (yi) and clearly rendering them visible at first glance.”18 Thus, reading a calligraphic work allows one to understand its author, as if one could meet them face to face. This is explained because any gesture, any calligraphic or pictorial form, is first conceived within the heart, considered the source of consciousness. This is formulated in the expression “intention precedes execution.” Yu Shinan explains the creative process, in a paragraph entitled “to show one’s intention,” in the following manner: The heart (xin) is the sovereign; its marvelous resources are limitless, that is why it is the sovereign. The hand is its assistant; its usefulness comes from its complete compliance when receiving orders. The strength is its task officer; it must not weaken, not even slightly, in order to develop the effect. The brush handle represents the supreme commander; it decides the principles of the implementation, it possesses the power to give life [to the characters] or to take it away; the empty heart is receptive to the living beings; it allows to faithfully abide by the rules of the hidden tip. The hair embodies the soldier; it carries out the task given by the handle; therefore, their [calligraphic] traces are not rigid . . . The intensity of the gesture originates in the heart and its marvelous application resonates in the hand.19 The process of painting or calligraphy is described in the Chinese tradition as following four phases: the heart, the hand, the brush, and the ink. In other words, the stroke begins in the heart, with an “intention” resulting from the “receptive” heart, and it orders the hand, while the hand transmits it to the brush and to the ink. The role of transmitter is played by the breath. In this excerpt, the “empty heart” can either be the calligrapher’s or the supreme commander’s, the brush’s. The ambiguity is purposeful. In practice, the calligrapher’s or the painter’s “empty heart” coincides with a full willingness to the movements of the universe and all “living beings,” acquired by a preparatory phase of meditation before writing or painting. This usually occurs when rubbing the ink cake on the ink stone, which takes at least ten to fifteen minutes. Technically, the “empty heart” of the brush means fluidity of the gesture due to the absence of tension in the palm of the hand and in handling the brush. This is called “having an empty hand” (zhang xu) in calligraphic practice. Implicitly, the heart of the brush is also the calligrapher’s; it is as if the brush is the extension of the painter’s or the writer’s heart. This

YOLAINE ESCANDE

163

confusion is grammatically possible because of the Chinese language not indicating the subject in the sentence. Therefore, it is impossible to separate the heart or the mind from the materiality of the brush. This might explain why the terminology describing the brushstrokes in calligraphy and painting can apply to the artwork as well as to the artist, the body of the characters as well as the human body. But this terminology can also be interpreted with a charactorological meaning, as Song dynasty calligrapher and painter Mi Fu (1051–1107) asserts: To avoid vulgarity, the characters need bone structure, the flesh must wrap the sinew, and the sinew must contain flesh, then elegance and smoothness appear, and the whole composition is even. If daring without transgressing, if being old without conservatism, if having smoothness without fat, then the variations value shapes but discredit labor and work, because labor gives birth to anger, and anger causes weirdness; labor leads rigidity, and rigidity is vulgar; all these characters are ailing.20 Calligraphic art is in a delicate balance between the writer’s technique and quality, requiring fluidity in the gesture and firm resolution in the personality. Mi Fu advocates for avoiding “vulgarity,” producing “ailing characters,” and describes this fault with the term “rigidity” (hua, literally “engraving”). Technically, it refers to a uniform aspect of the characters, for instance like in a printing block, where all the characters are identical and consequently lifeless. For Mi Fu, overwork in calligraphy goes against art. There must be a balance between mastery of the gesture and spontaneity of the expression. This excerpt again implies the art of writing is not only a question of technique, it first depends on what is called the “heart.” Thus, implicitly Mi Fu would have us understand that the physiological terminology reflects the writer’s characterological qualities. This explains why Yu Shinan’s most famous student, Tang Emperor Taizong (r. 626–649), declares that “It is the heart that gives sinew and bone; if the heart is not decided, the characters are not solid.”21 The visual effect of the script, expressed by tension and solidity, depends on the heart’s determination, i.e., on the character of the writer or the painter.

2. THE CHARACTEROLOGICAL VOCABULARY In the calligraphic or pictorial emulation, in the visual appreciation, or in art criticism the physical elements cannot be conceived separately from their moral signification. In calligraphy, Zhang Huaiguan explains, “The real

164

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

connoisseurs in calligraphy only consider the spiritual brightness (shencai), they do not look at the shape of the characters.”22 The “spiritual brightness” bears two meanings: firstly, it refers to the visual effect of the achieved characters leaving the viewer in awe with their quality, and secondly it reveals the interior brightness of their author. The connoisseur is interested in the personality of the artist, and not only in the artwork as an autonomous object. The object is valued only if it represents a spiritual quality (brightness, here) and not only a purely plastic or aesthetic quality. A well-known sentence, addressed by Liu Gongquan (778–865) to Tang Emperor Muzong (r. 821–824) as a critique, is a standard for all calligraphers. To Muzong when asked how he could write so well, he answered: “To a righteous heart, a righteous writing.”23 This answer has been interpreted technically and characterologically. It can signify that the heart of the brush must be held upright and straight, so that the writing is correct. It also can mean calligraphy is first of all a matter of inner straightness, righteousness. It certainly must be understood in both senses. Liu Gongquan is renowned for his severity and for his detachment from worldliness: he was aware his attendants stole from him, but he did not care.24 The double scope of the Chinese calligraphy and painting terminology vocabulary shows another particularity of this art: an artwork is never described or analyzed in terms of distance or length, but in terms of dealing with human qualities. Thus for a calligraphy or a painting, even today, the point is never about its “beauty” (mei);25 when completed it is called “good” (hao). For its flaws, it may be qualified as “affected, vulgar, shy, feeble, superficial, weak, pretty,” and for its positive qualities as “mature, elegant, serene, powerful, virile, delicate, exquisite, graceful, severe, strong,” and even “ugly.” These terms can be understood by making a few examples. Zhang Xu’s script is “strong, powerful, surprising, crazy” by contrast with Gaoxian’s (ninth century), considered “superficial, affected, flattering” since one of the greatest Tang dynasty’s authors, Han Yu (768–824) has put the two in opposition. Actually, the comparison is not incidental because Gaoxian wanted to equal Zhang Xu.26 If we consider Zhang Xu’s Four Poems in Ancient Styles (Siti shushi) (Fig. 8.1), still a model in cursive script apprenticeship today, it is representative of the expression of unbridled emotions and the absence of affectation because of the script’s roughness while maintaining thick flesh and its obvious bone and its sinew appearing everywhere. See the long vertical stroke of the second column, tense from the beginning to the end. By contrast, Gaoxian’s Ten Thousand Characters in Cursive Script (Caoshu qianziwen) (Fig. 8.3) seeks formal beauty, clearly

YOLAINE ESCANDE

165

FIGURE 8.3: Gaoxian (ninth century), Ten Thousand Characters in Cursive Script (Caoshu qianziwen), ink on paper, 30.8 x 331.3 cm, Shanghai, Shanghai Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

apparent in the ink’s shiny effects. The absence of spontaneity is visible in the numerous strokes executed in a similar way, and, for instance, in the long oblique stroke that lacks bone and sinew, visible at the bottom right of the image. By comparison, Zhang Xu’s script looks harsh and unpleasant, i.e. unwilling to be appealing, without any manifestation of skill or of technical virtuosity. It is even called “wild,” not because Zhang Xu was actually

166

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

foolish, but because his script looks hectic and is very difficult to read. However, as it became a model, it expresses technical rules that can be learned. As opposed to this, Gaoxian’s script is not a model. Song Emperor Huizong’s (r. 1101–1126) script is said to be “elegant and hard,” therefore it is called “emaciated metal” (shoujin); Liu Gongquan’s is “inflexible” because of its horizontal and vertical strokes, perfectly straight and tense, terminated by a sharp ending. Comparatively, Zhao Mengfu’s (1254–1322) is generally qualified as “elegant, gracious,” which can either be positive or negative. The visually pleasant formal harmony of his script appears clearly, but it often lacks bone and sinew. In the Record of the Miaoyan Monastery in Huzhou (Huzhou Miaoyansi ji) manuscript (Fig. 8.4), the right-hand ends of the horizontal strokes bend downwards repeatedly, and the termination of the oblique strokes seems broken upwards. By contrast, Yan Zhenqing’s (709–785) or Liu Gongquan’s are straight and tense to the end (Figs. 8.5, 8.6). Song dynasty poet, calligrapher and painter, considered the premier literati, Su Shi (1036–1101), explains in a short colophon the relationship between the artist and the artwork in the following words: “In ancient times, the critics in calligraphy discussed the life of the author too; if he did not behave properly, even if his art was achieved, it had no value.”27

FIGURE 8.4: Zhao Mengfu (1254–1322), Record of the Miaoyan Monastery in Huzhou (Huzhou Miaoyansi ji), ink on paper, 34.2 x 364.5 cm, Princeton University Art Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

YOLAINE ESCANDE

167

FIGURE 8.5: Yan Zhenqing (709–785), Altar for the Immortal Magu (Maguxian tan ji), each leaf 12.7 x 26.7 cm, Song dynasty ink rubbing. Wikimedia Commons.

Referring to the ancient tradition is merely rhetorical; the purpose is to give credit to his comments. For Su Shi, even if human and artistic values are two different things, the critics link them together and both have a mutual influence. In the treatises this human value is determined by classifying the artists from the higher to the lower level. A great part of art theory is constituted by this evaluative classificatory tradition. It explains why

168

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

FIGURE 8.6: Liu Gongquan (778–865), Mystery Pagoda (Xuanmita bei), 841, Song dynasty ink rubbing. Wikimedia Commons.

theoretical texts on painting, poetry, or calligraphy do not concern artworks, but artists. Ming calligrapher Xiang Mu (active ca. 1573–1620) further develops this form of evaluation: “Talking about calligraphy is talking about physiognomy: observing calligraphy means observing man.”28 Thus, the theoretical treatises on calligraphy and painting generally include the biography of the artists. The Chinese tradition seeks models that can be standardized and used in a filiation. Hence, Zhao Mengfu’s calligraphic softness, though admired for its formal qualities, is related to its author’s political attitude, especially since the advent of Communist China. Zhao

YOLAINE ESCANDE

169

Mengfu was a member of the former imperial Song dynasty family, toppled by the Mongols who founded the Yuan dynasty. The Mongols wanted to employ the Song dynasty’s high officials to legitimize their authority, but most of them refused and perished. Zhao Mengfu accepted to work for the new dynasty and existed during the origin of the aesthetic thought and the artistic expression of the Yuan dynasty. He was an exceptional calligrapher and painter, and his art embodied the literati’s theory. Later on, under the following Ming dynasty, the literati started to criticize his attitude and to oppose it to Yan Zhenqing’s. Yan is considered a loyal martyr of the Tang dynasty because he was detained and executed by rebels in 785.29 Earlier on he was leading an important garrison when a member of the imperial family tried to overthrow the Tang dynasty. His first cousins, father and son were executed in gruesome circumstances because the Tang armies did not come to their rescue, but he did not surrender and his attitude led the other Tang officers to remain loyal to the emperor.30 He composed this draft of a letter, probably preliminary for a more formal composition, the Draft of the Eulogy to My Nephew (Jizhiwen gao) in 758 (Fig. 8.7). The scroll reveals all the emotions overwhelming him as he was writing, visible in the columns, quite regularly parallel in the beginning with readable characters in running script on the right side of the scroll, then colliding more and more on the left with characters becoming difficult to decipher at the end. His qualities of righteousness, of loyalty, and of inflexibility are believed to be apparent in the tension of the vertical and oblique strokes, full of bone, sinew, and flesh. Thus, Yan Zhenqing is the perfect example of the loyal and upright minister. A comparison between Zhao Mengfu’s neat and clean script, fleshy but sometimes lacking bone, and Yan Zhenqing’s, rough and frank with solid bone and flesh yet not overweight, especially in the Altar for the Immortal Magu (Maguxian tan ji) (Fig. 8.5), has been traditionally drawn since the

FIGURE 8.7: Yan Zhenqing (709–785), Draft of the Eulogy to My Nephew (Jizhiwen gao), 758, ink on paper, 28.2 x 72.3 cm, Taipei, Taiwan National Palace Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

170

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

Ming dynasty. A moral reading of the physiological qualities described earlier can be made, and Ming painter and calligrapher Fu Shan (1606–1685) elaborates on it in his Poem Showing to my Children and my Grandchildren how to do Characters: The characters depend on personality: if one is exceptional, characters will naturally be “archaic.” When I was twenty, approximately, I copied all the regular scripts of Jin and Tang [masters] passed on to us, but I could not achieve anything like their characters. By chance, I obtained an autograph manuscript by Zhao Zi’ang [Zhao Mengfu] on Mount Fragrance (Xiangshan); I loved its flowing grace and its roundness; I then copied it and, in no time, I could produce misleading imitations. There was no other [reason for that]: wasn’t I acting like someone who wanted to model himself on an upright man but who, finding it too difficult to raise to his loftiness, abandoned all efforts and joined bandits, necessarily becoming familiar to them, to the point of finding their company natural? As I grew older, I came to despise [Zhao’s] behavior, and deeply hated his calligraphy, his superficiality and vulgarity: like King Yan of Xu [who refused to defend his kingdom when attacked by Chu during King Mu of Zhou’ reign, fifth century BCE], he has no bone. I then returned to the painstaking study of the Duke of Lu [Yan Zhenqing], like my ancestors for four or five generations. But my wrist had already been contaminated, and my [script] could not be as vigorous, slim, straight, and tense as my ancestors’. To associate with bandits has been so harmful!31 Interestingly, having “no bone” in the brushstrokes is directly related to what is understood as the writer’s cowardice. Fu Shan describes his own script as deeply imbued by Zhao Mengfu’s influence through the integration of his style. The study of Yan Zhenqing’s calligraphy is then experienced as a therapy against this pernicious influence. In other words, studying the style of a master is equivalent to assimilating his character. In the history of Chinese art, Zhao Mengfu’s paintings, like his calligraphies, have not been rejected globally. However, under the Ming dynasty theoretician, calligrapher, painter, and connoisseur Dong Qichang (1555–1636), who established the “theory of literati” of Northern and Southern schools of painting, cast suspicion upon Zhao.32 Until then, the Yuan dynasty’s four “great masters” who served as standards in painting were Zhao Mengfu, Huang Gongwang (1269–1354), Wu Zhen (1280– 1354), and Wang Meng (1308–1385). Dong Qichang replaced Zhao with Ni Zan (1301–1374). As opposed to Zhao’s cowardly decision, he chose a model of eremitism who had refused to work for the Mongols.33 By contrast,

YOLAINE ESCANDE

171

under the Qing dynasty, Zhao Mengfu was rehabilitated by all the Chinese literati who accepted serving the new rulers, the Manchu. Finally, in Communist China, Zhao was again considered a traitor and therefore studied less. As early as the Tang dynasty, calligrapher and theoretician Sun Guoting (ca. 648–ca. 702) provides examples of “sick scripts” made by writers who reproduce their own flaws: The one who has a straightforward character has a rigid, straight, and slack script. An inflexible and brutal person’s script is stubbornly hard and lacks smoothness. The ones of the quiet and restrained have the default of being blocked. The ones of the unmindful and changeable lack rules and methods. The ones of the gentle and adaptable suffer from softness. The script of the impetuous and of the valiant is too hasty. The hesitating tempers are entrapped in expectative and constrain. The slow and awkward characters have a script entirely uneasy and sharpless. The trivial and frivolous ones fall into vulgar scribes’ style. All those, because of their specific dispositions, indulge in their own defaults and run counter [the art of calligraphy].34 This excerpt clearly introduces the relationship between the writer and his or her expression. The slightest default in personality is automatically reflected in the script. Practicing calligraphy has thus become a way to work on one’s character and personality: the impetuous should study a soft and supple style, like Chu Suiliang’s (596–658), or a script helping them to channel their energy, like Ouyang Xun’s. On the contrary, a timid person should learn a vigorous style, like Yan Zhenqing’s or Liu Gongquan’s. Sun Guoting gives examples of characters who did not study the masters properly and who thus allowed their natural inclination to manifest itself. They did not improve their personality, though the practice of calligraphy should have helped them. That is exactly what happened to Gaoxian, a Buddhist monk criticized by Han Yu, because he compares himself to Zhang without becoming himself a Zhang Xu: The changes of all phenomena between heaven and earth, prompting happiness or fright, were all present in Zhang [Xu]’s script. That’s the reason why his script, which like devils and spirits transforms itself, is elusive. Therefore, he worked all his life and passed on to posterity. Now, Gaoxian, you devote yourself to cursive script, but do you have the heart (xin) of [Zhang] Xu? If you don’t have it and follow his tracks [taking him

172

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

only as a formal model], you shall not ever become a [Zhang] Xu. There is a way of becoming a Zhang Xu: benefits and disadvantages must be differentiated, no detail shall be neglected; you must feel burning inside, you ought to battle to advocate your interests and ambitions; in success or failure; never should you depart from your position; then only can you begin calligraphy, and approach [Zhang] Xu.35 Even though Gaoxian copied Zhang Xu’s calligraphy, he did not try to reach out to his heart, and therefore was not able to become a Zhang Xu, his script being far from his model’s. Now let us see what a calligrapher endeavors to learn in the emulation of a master’s character through the use of the brush. In copying the regular script of Chu Suiliang’s Preface to the Holy Teachings of the Wild Goose Great Pagoda (Da yanta shengjiao xu) stele (Fig. 8.8), described as “gracious and firm” with a bone structure solid and aerated, a tense sinew, a soft and supple flesh, the apprentice calligrapher works on the sinew and the bone with little flesh, but with elegance. In other

FIGURE 8.8: Chu Suiliang (596–658), Preface to the Holy Teachings of the Wild Goose Great Pagoda (Da yanta shengjiao xu), Song dynasty ink rubbing. Wikimedia Commons.

YOLAINE ESCANDE

173

words, he or she explores the qualities of force and discipline through supple and light shapes. This requires a great sensitivity of execution, especially in the use of the tip of the brush, noticeable in the great variations of the strokes and in the very airy composition of the characters. When copying Ouyang Xun’s Source of the Nine Times Perfected Palace Inscription (Jiuchenggong Liquan ming) (Fig. 8.9), described as “solemn, solid, and strong,” because of its seemingly static script and its very tense structure, the apprentice calligrapher trains to master the stability of a composition originating from apparent imbalances. In the stele Gratitude to the Many Treasures Pagoda (Duobaota ganying bei) (Fig. 8.10) written by Yan Zhenqing, a paragon of integrity manifested through the straight, tense, and thick strokes expressing a great inner rectitude, wrapped with flesh but lean, the apprentice calligrapher learns to master the gesture and to build up characters in a rigorous manner, tight in the middle of the character and blossoming to the outside.

FIGURE 8.9: Ouyang Xun (557–641), Source of the Nine Times Perfected Palace Inscription (Jiuchenggong Liquan ming), Song dynasty ink rubbing. Wikimedia Commons.

174

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

FIGURE 8.10: Yan Zhenqing (709–785), Gratitude to the Many Treasures Pagoda (Duobaota ganying bei), Song dynasty ink rubbing. Wikimedia Commons).

The characteristic of Liu Gongquan’s script, for example in his stele of the Mystery Pagoda (Xuanmita bei) (Fig. 8.6), is his bone. Through tracing his vertical and horizontal strokes, particularly straight-lined, one learns to hold on and to master the gesture. Although pictorial or calligraphic transmission is founded on the copy and imitation of the ancient masters’ works, the objective is not to reproduce forms identically but for every artist to appropriate the moral qualities of the ancient, embodied by their brushstrokes in their artworks. The main point in the apprenticeship, which can last a lifetime, is first the model. The artist as an individual, however paradoxical this may sound, is

YOLAINE ESCANDE

175

only secondary. The formal qualities embodied in the artwork, reflecting spiritual or ethical values, are primary. Thus, the autograph manuscript of Tang poet Li Bo (701–762), The Ascension of the Yang Terrace (Shang Yangtai tie) (Fig. 8.11), of very dubious authenticity, cannot be attributed to Li Bo for its ill formal quality reflecting a low spiritual value. The beginnings of the two long horizontal strokes of the characters 儈 and 㩜 in the first and second columns (beginning from the right) are absolutely identical; the horizontal stroke followed by a vertical one, giving the shape of a cross. The upper part of the second and the fourth columns are closely similar as well. Finally, the last character of the second column, with an oblique stroke going up to the right, is obviously defective. In such a small calligraphy (only twenty-five characters) tracing the same stroke or composing identical characters in two different parts of the work are normally unforgivable mistakes. All these observations about this autograph lead to the conclusion that Li Bo, considered a good calligrapher during the Tang dynasty as calligraphy reached its climax, could not have committed such careless blunders. Furthermore, Li Bo had a fanciful and changing character that cannot be detected at all in this autograph. This explains why this manuscript, though having the merit of being of the Tang dynasty and having survived to the present day, is not a model in the apprenticeship of calligraphy.

FIGURE 8.11: Li Bo (701–762), The Ascension of the Yang Terrace (Shang Yangtai tie) manuscript, ink on paper, 28.5 x 38.1 cm, Peking, Palace Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

176

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

By contrast, the Yinfu Classic in Great Characters (Dazi yinfu jing) (Fig. 8.12) and the Ode to Ni Kuan (Ni Kuan zan) (Fig. 8.13), both attributed to Chu Suiliang, serve as models because of their excellent features, although all calligraphers know the former is a very good copy made during the Song dynasty, and the latter is a splendid fake made during the Song dynasty as well. The Yinfu Classic in Great Characters is taken as a model for the bone and sinew qualities it embodies, and also for the airy aspect of its structure, expressing detachment, fluidity, and naturalness. The Ode to Ni Kuan, though a fake, embodies the virtues attributed to Chu Suiliang: “softness, sinew, strength, elegance, detachment, grace, tension.” A consequence of such an artistic conception is the filiation of the artists, namely the transmission or the relationships between artists, the masters, and models which are always mentioned. The brushstroke as “an imprint

FIGURE 8.12: Attributed to Chu Suiliang, Song dynasty copy, Yinfu Classic in Great Characters (Dazi yinfu jing), ink on paper, 21 x 394 cm, San Francisco, Asian Art Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

YOLAINE ESCANDE

177

FIGURE 8.13: Attributed to Chu Suiliang, Song dynasty fake, Ode to Ni Kuan (Ni Kuan zan), ink on paper, 24.6 x 170.1 cm, Taipei, Taiwan National Palace Museum. Wikimedia Commons.

from the heart” (xinyin),36 following Song theoretician Guo Ruoxu (ca. 1023–ca. 1085), is believed to be the visible expression of the artist’s human and moral qualities. This explains why the models are morally irreproachable personalities, at least in the idea one has of them. Thus, the role of calligraphy is not the only expression of one’s emotions, and it is not the channel of communication of one’s inner state of mind or feelings either. The transmission of moral, ideological, ethical, or aesthetic values is essential. Hence, in practice, the artwork as a material object is not fundamental, because what counts is the qualities the apprentice calligrapher integrates. The greatest model in the history of Chinese calligraphy until today is still Wang Xizhi. Unfortunately, although no authentic artwork of this artist has survived, his stylistic norms have been transmitted across generations until today by the copying of what is considered the greatest artwork of all times, the famous Preface to the Orchid Pavilion (Lanting xu, 353), which disappeared as early as the seventh century. The reason why this artwork has always been the model par excellence is probably related to what its author represents: loyalty and respect toward power. Wang Xizhi was a high-ranking official and a well-known general, but also maintained the

178

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

capacity to distance himself from power and to create masterpieces outside any official commission. He showed his spiritual and moral independence, and embodied the ideal of the upright, yet free, scholar.37 Beside Wang Xizhi, the calligraphers taken as references generally are always the same across Chinese art history. Each dynasty, however, plays a major role in determining the political and aesthetic trend of the time.38 There are two exceptions that prove the rule regarding this model. Cai Jing (1047–1126) or Cai Xiang (1012–1067), and Wang Duo (1592–1652). For the Song dynasty, according to Chinese art history, “four great masters” stand out in calligraphy whose family names are “Cai, Huang, Mi, Su.” Huang is Huang Tingjian, Mi is Mi Fu, Su is Su Shi, but for Cai the tradition has established the “good” Cai, i.e., Cai Xiang, a loyal and honest minister. There was, however, another Cai who was an exceptional calligrapher, Cai Jing. He was corrupt and manipulative, and thus his name has been written out.39 As for Wang Duo, a minister under the Ming dynasty, he accepted working for the Manchus when the Ming were overthrown, yet his calligraphy is brilliant. Twentieth- century scholar Hsiung Ping-Ming explains this contradiction, visible in his script, by the fact Wang Duo is one of the first “modern” artists, torn between his duty and his art. It is significant that in contemporary calligraphy and painting the physiological and characterological terminology has not changed in describing artworks. This reveals its validity and efficacy, while underlining the continuity between the pictorial and calligraphic arts, despite the social and political turmoil.

NOTES 1. See Zhang Yanyuan’s Famous Painters of Successive Dynasties Annals (Lidai Minghua Ji, 857), in Yu Jianhua (ed.), Chinese Treatises on Painting by Categories (Zhongguo hualun leibian), 2 vols. (Peking: Renmin meishu chubanshe, 1977), vol. 1, p. 28: “The [dictionary called] Theory of Primitive Graphs (Shuowen) says: ‘Hua means to limit, to delineate; It figures the path that separates fields, it is the reason why it is a layout (hua)’.” All the translations are mine unless mentioned otherwise. 2. See J.-M. Schaeffer, “System, History, and Hierarchy: The Historicist Paradigm in Art Theory,” in Think Art, Theory and Practice in the Art of Today, ed. J.-M. Schaeffer (Rotterdam: Witte de With, 1998), pp. 23–27. 3. See John Timothy Wixted, “The Nature of Evaluation in the Shih-p’in (Grading of Poets) by Chung Hung (A.D. 469–518)”, in Susan Bush and Christian Murch (eds.), Theories of the Arts in China (Princeton: Princeton Universtity Press, 1983), pp. 225–264. 4. See Y. Escande, “Tang Dynasty Aesthetic Criteria: Zhang Huaiguan’s Shuduan,” Journal of Chinese Philosophy, vol. 41, issue 1–2, March–June 2014, pp. 148–169; “Yipin as an Aesthetic Category: From Calligraphy to Painting in the Chinese Art

YOLAINE ESCANDE

179

Theory,” in Kambayashi Tsunemichi, Kaya Noriko, and Tsunoda Katsuhisa. (éds.), Tradition and Transformation in Aesthetics of East Asian Calligraphy (Tokyo: Sangensha, 2016), pp. 112–143. 5. In Huang Jian (ed.), An Anthology of Treatises on Calligraphy of Successive Dynasties (Lidai shufa lunwen xuan) (Shanghai: Shanghai shuhua chubanshe, 1979), 2 vols., vol. 1, p. 98–99. 6. Chiang Yee, Chinese Calligraphy. An Introduction to its Aesthetic and Technique (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973) (1st edition Methuen, 1938), especially pp. 111–124. 7. Jing Hao, The Technique of the Brush (Bifa ji), in Yu Jianhua (ed.), Chinese Treatises on Painting by Categories, vol. 1, p. 605. 8. Wang Xizhi, On the Dispositions of the Brush (Bishi lun), in Huang Jian (ed.) Anthology, vol. 1, p. 31. 9. Yu Shinan, Bisui Lun, in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol.1, p. 111. 10. Xu Hao, On Calligraphy (Lunshu), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol.1, p. 276. 11. Chen Yizeng, Essential Secrets of the Brush Forest (Hanlin yaojue), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol.1, pp. 482–483. 12. Feng Fang, Secrets of Calligraphy (Shujue), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol.2, p. 506. 13. Bao Shichen, Annals of the “Oars for the Boat of Arts” (Yizhou shuangji) (Taipei: Huazheng shuju, 1980), p. 51. 14. Lady Wei, Bizhen Tu, in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 22. 15. Huang Tingjian, Shangu’s Statements on Calligraphy (Shangu lunshu), in Wu Tianhan (ed.), An Anthology of Treatises on Calligraphy of Successive Dynasties Continuation (Lidai shufa lunwen xuan xubian) (Shanghai: Shuhua chubanshe, 1993), pp. 65–66. 16. Yu Jianhua (ed.), Chinese Treatises on Painting, vol. 1, p. 196. 17. Zhang Huaiguan, On Writing (Wenzi lun), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol.1, p. 209. 18. Zhang Huaiguan, Debate on Calligraphy (Shuyi), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol.1, p. 145. 19. Yu Shinan, On Quintessence of Brush (Bisui lun), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 110, 111. I underline. 20. Mi Fu, Haiyue’s Famous Words (Haiyue mingyan), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 362–363. 21. Taizong, To Show One’s Intention (Zhiyi), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 120. 22. Zhang Huaiguan, On Writing, vol. 1, p. 209. 23. Liu Gongquan, Tang Old History (Jiu Tangshu) (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1975), 165, p. 4310. 24. Guo Ruoxu, Notes on What I Have Heard and Seen on Painting (Tuhua jianwen zhi), in Wu Mengfu and Guo Yin (eds.), Chinese Treatises on Painting (Zhongguo hualun) (Hefei: Anhui Meishu chubanshe, 1995), p. 365.

180

AESTHETIC AND ARTISTIC CATEGORIES IN PAINTING

25. The European languages’ term for “beauty” is usually translated as mei in Chinese. 26. Han Yu, Farewell Preface to Monk Gaoxian (Song Gaoxian Shangren Xu), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 292. 27. Su Shi, On Calligraphy [from the Manuscripts] of Six Masters [Owned by] Sir Tang (Shu Tangshi liujiashu hou), in Yan Zhongqi (comm.), Su Shi’s Statements on Literature and Arts (Su Shi lun wenyi) (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 1985, p. 238). 28. Xiang Mu, Elegant Statements on Calligraphy (Shufa yayan), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 2, p. 537. 29. For more details, see Amy McNair, The Upright Brush: Yan Zhenqing’s Calligraphy and Song Literati Politics (Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1998), pp. 140–142. 30. See McNair, The Upright Brush, pp. 38–42. 31. Fu Shan, Zuozishi ersun, in Hou Wenzheng (transl. and comm.), Fu Shan’s Statements on Calligraphy and Painting (Fu Shan lun shuhua) (Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1986), p. 1. 32. See Xie Zhiliu, “The Ch’an of Painting in Tung Ch’i-ch’ang’s theory,” in Ho Wai-kam and Judith G. Smith (eds.), The Century of Tung Ch’i-ch’ang, 1555– 1636, 2 vols. (Kansas City and Seattle: The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art and The University of Washington Press, 1992), vol. 1, pp. xxxv–xxxvi. 33. Dong Qichang, Eyes of Painting (Huayan), in Deng Shi and Huang Binhong (eds.), Compilation of Treatises on Arts (Meishu congshu), 3 vols. (Yangzhou: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1986), vol. 1, p. 132, f. 12b. 34. Sun Guoting, Treatise of Calligraphy (Shupu), in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 130. 35. Han Yu, Song Gaoxian Shangren Xu, in Huang Jian (ed.), Anthology, vol. 1, p. 292. 36. Guo Ruoxu, Tuhua jianwen zhi, in Yu Jianhua (ed.), Chinese Treatises on Painting, vol. 1, p. 59. 37. For more details, see Escande, “Tang Dynasty Aesthetic Criteria.” 38. On Tang and Song dynasties models, see McNair, The Upright Brush, pp. 4–15, 118–139; Adele Schlombs, Huai-su and the Beginnings of Wild Cursive Script in Chinese Calligraphy (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner (Münchener ostasiatische Studien, band 75), 1998), pp. 152–153. 39. Xiong Bingming (Hsiung Ping-Ming), “Writing and Man” (Shu yu ren), Collection of the International Conference Texts on Calligraphy (Guoji shuxue yantaohui lunwenji) (Taipei: Guoli Taiwan yishu jiaoyuguan (Ministry of Taiwan Artistic Education), 1997) pp. 20–25.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bao Shichen (1775–1855), Annals of the “Oars for the Boat of Arts” (Yizhou shuangji), Taipei: Huazheng shuju, 1980.

YOLAINE ESCANDE

181

Bush, Susan; Murch, Christian (eds.), Theories of the Arts in China, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. Chiang Yee, Chinese Calligraphy. An Introduction to its Aesthetic and Technique, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973 (1st edition Methuen, 1938). Dong, Qichang, Eyes of Painting (Huayan), in Deng Shi and Huang Binhong (eds.), Compilation of Treatises on Arts (Meishu congshu), 3 vols., Yangzhou: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, vol. 1, 1986. Escande, Yolaine, “Tang Dynasty Aesthetic Criteria: Zhang Huaiguan’s Shuduan,” Journal of Chinese Philosophy, vol. 41, issue 1–2, pp. 148–169, March–June 2014. Escande, Yolaine, “Yipin as an Aesthetic Category: From Calligraphy to Painting in the Chinese Art Theory,” in Kambayashi Tsunemichi, Kaya Noriko, and Tsunoda Katsuhisa (eds.), Tradition and Transformation in Aesthetics of East Asian Calligraphy, pp. 112–143, Tokyo: Sangensha, 2016,. Guo, Yin and Wu, Mengfu (eds.), Chinese Treatises on Painting (Zhongguo hualun), Hefei: Anhui Meishu chubanshe, 1995. Hou, Wenzheng (transl. and comm.), Fu Shan’s Statements on Calligraphy and Painting (Fu Shan lun shuhua), Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1986. Huang Jian (ed.), An Anthology of Treatises on Calligraphy of Successive Dynasties (Lidai shufa lunwen xuan), Shanghai: Shanghai shuhua chubanshe, 2 vols, 1979. Liu Xu (ed.), Tang Old History (Jiu Tangshu), Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1975. McNair, Amy, The Upright Brush: Yan Zhenqing’s Calligraphy and Song Literati Politics, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1998. Schaeffer, Jean-Marie, “System, History, and Hierarchy: The Historicist Paradigm in Art Theory,” in Think Art, Theory and Practice in the Art of Today, ed. J.-M. Schaeffer, pp. 23–34, Rotterdam: Witte de With, 1998. Schlombs, Adele, Huai-su and the Beginnings of Wild Cursive Script in Chinese Calligraphy, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner (Münchener ostasiatische Studien, band 75), 1998. Wu Tianhan (ed.), An Anthology of Treatises on Calligraphy of Successive Dynasties Continuation (Lidai shufa lunwen xuan xubian), Shanghai: Shuhua chubanshe, 1993. Xie Zhiliu, “The Ch’an of Painting in Tung Ch’i-ch’ang’s theory,” in Ho Wai-kam and Judith G. Smith (eds.), The Century of Tung Ch’i-ch’ang, 1555–1636, 2 vols., pp. xxxv–xxxvi, Kansas City and Seattle: The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art and The University of Washington Press, vol. 1, 1992. Xiong Bingming (Hsiung Ping-Ming), “Writing and Man” (Shu yu ren), in Collection of the International Conference Texts on Calligraphy (Guoji shuxue yantaohui lunwenji), Taipei: Guoli Taiwan yishu jiaoyuguan (Ministry of Taiwan Artistic Education), 1997, pp. 9–27. Yan Zhongqi, Su Shi’s Statements on Literature and Arts (Su Shi lun wenyi), Peking: Beijing chubanshe, 1985. Yu, Jianhua (ed.), Chinese Treatises on Painting by Categories (Zhongguo hualun leibian), 2 vols., Peking: Renmin meishu chubanshe, 1977.

182

CHAPTER NINE

What is “The Aestheticization of Everyday Life”? ZHOU XIAN

China has witnessed epoch-making changes in the past forty years, progressing from an impoverished country to the world’s second-biggest economy, and gradually entering consumer society. Actually, since the second half of the 1990s, the aestheticization of everyday life has been a hot topic in the Chinese academia of aesthetics. The heated discussions on the topic reflect the profound transformation of Chinese culture and society, and demonstrate the keen perception of academia and its theoretical reponses to this. As we know, the conception of the “aestheticization of everyday life” is not a Chinese invention, but originated in British cultural sociology. In the 1980s, the conception first appeared among sociologists and cultural researchers centering around Theory, Culture & Society, and then developed into a keyword that was used to describe Western consumer society and postmodern culture. In a dictionary definition, it refers to: The claim that the division between art and everyday life is being eroded. There are two senses: (1) artists are taking the objects of everyday life and making them into art objects; (2) people are making their everyday lives into aesthetic projects by aiming at a coherent style in their clothes, 183

184

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

appearance and household furnishings. This may reach the point where people see themselves and their surroundings as art objects.1 In this sense, “the aestheticization of everyday life” refers to, first of all, the transformation of banal objects into works of art, which is definitely an important trend in modern art. It made its debut in the readymade art of the French artist Marcel Duchamp at the beginning of the last century.2 One obvious trend of modernist art is its cultural orientation toward elitism, purism and aestheticism, separating art from life in its pursuit of purity. However, Duchamp’s sensational art, like a thunderbolt, wakens people to the fact that art is more than delicately carved novelty; art can find its way into our daily life, into everyday appliances. In postmodernist pop art, this kind of challenge is anything but scarce. It is exemplified in the art of Andy Warhol, an American artist famous for his artwork of soup cans, beer bottles, news photos, and package boxes. Anything can be made into art. His bold challenge led to the birth of the theory of the artworld in contemporary Western aesthetics.3 However, in my view, as far as the aestheticization of everyday life is concerned, this challenge is far less important than the above-mentioned second aspect, that is, our changing everyday life into an aesthetic project. Aestheticization has always been a prospective target with utopian overtones in the history of aesthetics, which, especially since modern times, has developed into the trend of either hunting for inspiration in the remote ancient Greek era, or hoping for a beautiful future yet to arrive. It seems impossible to associate aestheticization with trivial and insipid daily routine in serious aesthetics. One of Max Weber’s famous assumptions about modernity is that aesthetics is endowed with the secular power of salvation to rescue people from the “iron cage” of everyday life under modernity.4 According to Weber, The development of intellectualism and the rationalization of life change this situation. For under these conditions, art becomes a cosmos of more and more consciously grasped independent values, which exist in their own right. Art takes over the function of this-worldly salvation, no matter how this may be interpreted. It provides salvation from the routine of everyday life, and especially from the pressures of theoretical and practical rationalism.5 According to Weber, the aesthetic is different from everyday life. Does it mean that this assumption ceases to be effective if everyday life is aestheticized today? Or is it possible to say that everyday life is no longer characterized by the depressive nature of the “iron cage”?

ZHOU XIAN

185

CONSUMER CULTURE IN THE “POST-REVOLUTIONARY ERA” What is at stake is the implication of the “aestheticization of everyday life” in these discussions. Does it imply the realization of aesthetic utopia, or the aestheticization of the everydayness of contemporary social life itself? In his Consumer Culture and Postmodernism (1991), Mike Featherstone elaborates on this conception, and points out that the aestheticization of everyday life involves two key terms: consumer culture and postmodernism. In his view, the conception can be understood as follows: First, modernist art strives to “efface the boundary between art and everyday life.” On the one hand, it calls into question the traditional definition of works of art by replacing them with ready-made objects of daily life; on the other hand, it emphasizes the notion of the omnipresence of art. Secondly, it transforms everyday life into art. This dual focus on a life of aesthetic consumption and the need to form life into an aesthetically pleasing whole on the part of artistic and intellectual counterculture should be related to the development of mass consumption in general, and the pursuit of new tastes and sensations, and the construction of distinctive lifestyles which have become central to consumer culture. The third aspect is “the rapid flow of signs and images which saturate the fabric of everyday life in contemporary society.”6 From Featherstone’s perspective, the trend of the aestheticization of everyday life has appeared in China with its progress toward a consumer society and culture. In his description of the aestheticization of everyday life, Featherstone points out that a wide range of images, from urban planning to department stores and shopping malls, from architecture to advertisements, from commodity packing to personal clothing, have all been endowed with beauty and provided with aesthetic values. “It is this double capacity of the commodity to be exchange value and ersatz use value, to be the same and different, which allows it to take up an aestheticized image, whatever may be the one currently dreamt up.”7 Clearly, the consumer society and its culture constitute an important context for the aestheticization of everyday life. To be specific, the aestheticization of everyday life brought about by commodity and service has been quite distinct from the aestheticization with utopian connotations in the aesthetic sense. Commodity + image = beauty. This equation has distilled the essence of the aestheticization of everyday life in the contemporary world. The French philosopher Guy Debord, who disclosed this social feature with the notion of “the society of the spectacle,” went so far as to hold the view that

186

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

the first phase of the domination of the economy over social life brought into the definition of all human realization the obvious degradation of being into having. The present phase of total occupation of social life by the accumulated results of the economy leads to a generalized sliding of having into appearing, from which all actual ‘having’ must draw its immediate prestige and its ultimate function.8 He noted in particular that the production, circulation, and consumption of commodities in capitalist society have partly changed into those of spectacles. “The world at once present and absent which the spectacle makes visible is the world of the commodity dominating all that is lived.”9 In other words, a world made visible by “spectacles” must be one dominated by commodities. In this world, what people consume is not so much the commodities themselves as their image or symbolic value, which are more important than their use values. Such world-renowned brands as Coca-Cola, Hollywood movies, McDonald’s, Nike, BMW, and Chanel have larger image values than their use values. Consequently, aestheticization leads to imperceptible aesthetic fetishism in daily life, as commodity and service gradually assume the attraction of spectacles in accordance with the principle of attention. Recently, one book that focuses on this aspect of aestheticization has gained popularity in the West. This book is titled The Substance of Style: How the Rise of Aesthetic Value is Remaking Commerce, Culture and Consciousness (2003). The author, Virginia Postrel, stresses the urgency of contemporary aesthetics in the narrowness of the definition of beauty in traditional aesthetics, which cannot cater to the needs of contemporary society. The notion of aesthetics she wants to focus on bears the denotation of the object’s appearance appeal and the subject’s pleasure. She declares that aesthetics has grown so important that it has become part of the job for engineers, designers, real-estate developers, and business managers, instead of aestheticians alone. “Aesthetic creativity is as vital, and as indicative of economic and social progress, as technological innovation.”10 In spite of the absence of a clear definition of the aestheticization of everyday life, the whole book involves profound explications of, and associations with, this notion. From product design to environmental improvement, from daily appliances to image decoration, aesthetics in the Hegelian sense has been totally secularized into everyday-life appearances. Therefore, bidding farewell to abstract philosophical exploration to enter real-life practice is one of the important implications of the aestheticization of everyday life. It is an undeniable fact that China has become a consumer society. A careful examination of the prevalence of this notion will find its connection

ZHOU XIAN

187

with the flourishing of cultural studies in China and its close relation with the growth of consumer society in China. Currently, the much-debated phenomenon of the aestheticization of everyday life in the West seems to exist in different degrees in China, as well. If every era has its own topic (or subject), one of the post-revolutionary era is the aestheticization of everyday life. Since the middle of the nineteenth century, China has undergone too much suffering. The radical reforms to build China into a strong country in order to expel foreign invaders have been welcomed as the most appealing social development strategy. In post-revolutionary China, communist radicalism and idealism determined people’s understanding of “aesthetics” and totally reformed their mind and body in some “unaesthetic” way. Besides, “revolutionary aesthetics” often evolved into a powerful collusion between knowledge and power, leading to the appearance of one kind of deformed “cruel aesthetics,” which propounded the notion that “the more radical and revolutionary something is, the more aesthetic it becomes.” Consequently, everyday life, fraught with violence, subversion, and destruction, was politicalized to the extent that all the older ways of life were completely changed as everyday life itself must be lived like making a revolution. This situation reached its climax during the Cultural Revolution with the disappearance of all aesthetic appreciation in its real sense. Revolutionary excitement replaced aesthetic pleasure, the impetuous desire to destroy took the place of aesthetic contemplation, and a unique revolutionary lifestyle characterized by thrift and poverty became the order of the day. The advent of the post-revolutionary era suggests the arrival of a new way of life. Opening-up and reform have reshaped Chinese people’s daily life. “Allowing some people to get rich first” is more of a way of life than an economic or political policy. The call to build a well-off society is not so much a quantitative index of annual per capita income as an outline for a new lifestyle. Social progress manifests itself as a constantly changing process, such as the improvement of social productive forces and people’s living standards. On the other hand, it also brings about sudden changes in people’s psychological experience and mindset. Now that the people’s long-suppressed desire for material comfort during the revolutionary years has erupted, it can never be held back, like the evils from the opened Pandora’s Box. For the urban middle class, the lifestyle in the well-off society has nothing to do with poverty and thrift. Chinese people nowadays are enjoying various conveniences through new technology, from television to the internet, from mobile phones to home theaters. On the other hand, in the new consumer

188

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

society, some old-fashioned entertainment and ideas in the past in accordance with Chinese hedonist traditions are now on the market again. These traditional forces, more deeply rooted than revolutions, will come to the spotlight in one way or another if conditions permit. Thus revolutionary radicalism is replaced by material consumerism, and revolutionary idealism by secular hedonism. Whether in regard to the reality of social development or to people’s psychological needs, “the aestheticization of everyday life” has to be brought to the agenda. It goes without saying that it represents the typical lifestyle in this “post-revolutionary era.”

“EXPERIENCE” AND “TASTE”: WHAT IS AESTHETICIZED? The aestheticization of everyday life in the post-revolutionary era has always been connected with two keywords—experience and taste. One feature of contemporary consumer society and its culture is the tendency toward a pleasant “experience” of consumption. The concept of “experience” is closely linked with aesthetics. It is a process of obtaining pleasure via the senses. Thus, experience belongs to the subjective category as it involves the subject’s feelings toward the external physical world. In a consumer society, however, as consumer goods are transformed into “spectacles” and design becomes part of everyday life, aestheticized experience has turned into a requirement of lifestyles, objects, and surroundings. Material life has accordingly changed into people’s sensual pleasure of consumer goods and lifestyles. For this reason, the aestheticization of everyday life is, in essence, the pleasure of gaining perceptual experience by means of consumption. The spiritual orientation of aesthetic experience is gradually changing into the pleasure and gratification of the senses, and manifests itself as fastidiousness of the senses toward consumer goods (commodities or surroundings), from the taste of drinks or food, the sight of images, clothing, environment, and HDTV, to the touch of the material and texture of banal objects. Experience has penetrated into every aspect of life and has become a key index for happiness and gratification of aestheticization. Compared with “experience” as an internal process, “taste” literally refers to one kind of sensual response. They are two sides of the same coin. In aesthetics, “taste” in English is generally translated as quwei in Chinese, which originally meant the taste or flavour or a certain experience of food. It then comes to carry the meaning of a certain capability, preference, and judgment in art or aesthetic appreciation due to the efforts of such modern philosophers as Kant. Nowadays, this notion has penetrated into daily life and has become a symbol of certain aesthetic capability in clothing, art, diet,

ZHOU XIAN

189

and family life. The dichotomy between good and bad tastes embodies the distinction between superior and inferior ability in aesthetic appreciation. The life of “experience” regards “taste” as the standard and pursues a lifestyle of good taste. Noticeably, “taste” has become a cover for commodity fetishism in consumer societies. A close study of advertisements shows that more and more commodities try to associate themselves with “taste” (or “good taste”). A life of good taste has become the best representation of aestheticization. The desire to consume inspired by “taste” is something more than owning goods or enjoying service; it shows off the symbolic values of the goods or services as well. In the qualitative descriptions of goods and services, flaunty words such as “noble,” “elite,” “white-collar,” “petit bourgeois,” and “aristocrat” are frequently used. Some vague words like “royal pattern” and “French flavor” symbolize the life of the upper class or exotic beauty. When it comes to family life and entertainment, “artistic temperament” or “poetic and picturesque beauty” are more appealing. All these lay emphasis on the cultural implications of goods and services, which shows that “taste” and “experience” are the core of the aestheticization of everyday life. But the problem is how to develop “taste” and how to have the experience. First of all, is the “taste” overly advertised and emphasized by the mass media of consumer society commonly shared by all human beings? Is it innate or acquired? For this, Karl Marx proposes two different views. He believes that the nature of human beings determines that “objects are shaped according to the law of beauty.” On the other hand, he stresses that even the most beautiful scenery will not attract the attention of people living in complete destitution. The first point tells us that “love of beauty is common to all men,” while the second focuses on other social conditions of the appreciation of beauty. It can thus be deduced that “taste” is by no means a tendency or capability that all men are born with or commonly share. Pierre Bourdieu, a French sociologist, gave a profound historical critique of taste. He held the view that taste is a product of society, culture, and education. He once wrote that [C]onsumption is, in this case, a stage in a process of communication, that is, an act of deciphering, decoding, which presupposes practical or explicit mastery of a cipher or code. In a sense, one can say that the capacity to see is a function of the knowledge, or concepts, that is, the words, that are available to name visible things, and which are, as it were, programmes for perception.11

190

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

His words merit deep thought. His first point is that consumption is not a natural, but a decoding activity. In other words, the choice of what to consume is a cognitive process in the same way that reading is, which requires familiarity with a certain amount of words and relevant background knowledge. Secondly, he points out that a certain “ability of judgment,” or ability of choice of taste, is a prerequisite for consumption. It has something to do with cognition, which means that the good ability of choice of taste belongs to the cognitive category. It seems certain that “taste,” which is not innate, and the “ability of choice of taste,” which needs a cultivating process, are products of certain education and other systems, and are closely connected with cultural capital in the sociological sense. Here, Bourdieu actually emphasizes that the core of “taste” is cultural capital, which has four aspects: firstly, it is objective knowledge of certain art and culture; secondly, it reflects taste or preference of certain culture; thirdly, it has the capability of judging certain cultural skills (e.g., the ability to play a musical instrument; the piano has grown to be an aesthetic symbol, a sign for “taste” in everyday life in China); finally, it is the ability to distinguish the good from the bad, or the so-called judgment between good and bad tastes (a case in point is Hollywood’s awards to the best- and worst-dressed stars). We have reasons to believe that innate and common aesthetic standards are nowhere to be found in any society. What we can find is nothing more than various tastes that accord with cultural capital or social status. Therefore, “taste” is more a category of distinguishability than a commonly shared standard. In the following paragraph, Bourdieu clearly presents his point of view: The primary differences, those which distinguish the major classes of conditions of existence, derive from the overall volume of capital, understood as the set of actually usable resources and powers—economic capital, cultural capital, and also social capital. The distribution of the different classes (and class fractions) thus runs from those who are best provided with both economic and cultural capital to those who are most deprived in both respects. The members of the professions, who have high incomes and high qualifications, who very often (52.9 percent) originate from the dominant class (professions or senior executives), who receive and consume a large quantity of both material and cultural goods, are opposed in almost all respects to the office workers, who have no qualification, often originate from the working or middle classes, who receive little and consume little, devoting a high proportion of their time to car maintenance and home improvement; and they are even more opposed to the skilled or semi-skilled workers, and still more to unskilled

ZHOU XIAN

191

workers or farm laborers, who have the lowest incomes, no qualifications, and originate almost exclusively (90.5 percent of farm laborers, 84.5 percent of unskilled workers) from the working classes.12 According to this point of view, we may ask: Whose tastes are those “elegant” tastes widely advertised in the media and consumer culture in the process of the aestheticization of everyday life in China? Or, to whom does the aestheticization of everyday life belong?

MIDDLE CLASSES AS AESTHETICIZED SUBJECTS Here comes an inner paradox of aestheticization: as far as aesthetic pursuit is concerned, integrity of humanity is the ultimate goal. In other words, aestheticization shared by all men is aestheticization in its real sense. In a highly stratified society, aestheticization of this kind is nowhere to find. Lowincome families and people who live on minimum assurance cannot afford “elegant” taste. They have no cultural capital and no cultivation of judgment of taste, not to mention economical capital. The “aestheticization” promoted by Chinese mass media and all sorts of marketing strategies represents only middle-class tastes and lifestyle. Although the definition of the “middle class” is still controversial, it is without doubt an important social class, or, to use other appellations, “the elite class,” “the professionals,” “the white collars,” “the intelligentsia,” etc. Let us first turn to the situation in the West. According to the observations of Featherstone, who has made an in-depth study of the aestheticization of everyday life, some of the important motives or agents are the various new cultural roles assumed by groups of people, such as “the new petites,” “the new intellectuals,” “the new cultural intermediaries” (from marketing personnel to advertising agents, from television producers to other professionals). Interestingly, the so-called yuppies are “selfish perfect consumers,” a bunch of “narcissistic, calculating hedonists”13 and could be classified as “the new middle class.” They have formed a new and unique kind of sensibility for consumer society, which is actually the endless pursuit of various experiences offered by a new lifestyle. “It can be argued that the sector of the new middle class, the new cultural intermediaries and the helping professions will have the necessary dispositions and sensibilities that would make them more open to emotional exploration, aesthetic experience, and the aestheticization of everyday life.”14 To adapt these observations to the context of contemporary Chinese culture, we will find a similar group in the process of the aestheticization of everyday life, who may not necessarily be of the same kind as the middle

192

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

class in the developed societies in the West. Instead, they are the localized middle class, a special social group that grows out of a “well-off ” society. They enjoy relatively higher income, better education, and more cultural capital, and thus ask more from the “experience” and “taste” of everyday life. Although no analysis of social classes is attempted here, it is necessary to point out the agent of the aestheticization of everyday life in the sociological sense. I believe that the aestheticization of everyday life per se is not an undifferentiated process of universalization, but a battlefield of fights between culture and ideology. The dominant social force in this field is the middle class. The promotion of the aestheticization of everyday life is the reflection of the actual situation and the cultural interest of a certain social group. But what is more thought-provoking is that the aestheticization demands of the middle class often show a common social and cultural tendency. Or, to be more specific, the mass media and the cultural industry usually generalize this aestheticization with social stratification implications as a common culture shared by all people of all social classes. In this way, the specific cultural tastes of certain social classes are transformed into the common demands of the entire society, thus masking the reality of differentiation in social stratification, cultural capital, and even social justice. This is to say that the aestheticization of everyday life is, as a matter of fact, one kind of ideology of contemporary consumer society that has the function of universalization. The consumer society has a contradictory trend: social stratification leads to social separation and consumers form different consumption preferences and orientations according to their different cultural capital (as the idiom goes, “each to his own”); on the other hand, the aestheticization of everyday life, as the cultural dominant, has the trend of dedifferentiation and, masking or suppressing different consumption taste, promotes certain fake common taste, thus leading to the false impression that “love of beauty is common to all men.” As Terry Eagleton suggests, ideology, as a means of power struggle in expressive activities of culture, would inevitably cause the dominating process of certain expressive activity, because different social classes occupy different social positions, and the privileged ones will exact leadership from other classes. More importantly, “ideology is commonly felt to be both naturalizing and universalizing. By a set of complex discursive devices they project what are in fact partisan, controversial, historically specific values as true in all times and all places, and so as natural, inevitable and unchangeable.”15 From this perspective, the topic of the aestheticization of everyday life as one kind of ideology in a consumer society is the consumption orientation

ZHOU XIAN

193

and lifestyle of the middle class that steals into the mind of common people, thus becoming the way of life for more and more people. Different social classes, in pursuing the aestheticization in this sense, are assimilating the consumption taste of the middle class without objection while assuming they are shaping their own lifestyle. It’s reasonable to say that a certain invisible shift has taken place in the aestheticization of everyday life in China today. Lately, there has been a popular notion in the media—the so-called “petit bourgeois.” People of the older generation would dismiss it with a wave of the hand because this term reminds them of a lifestyle and ideology severely attacked during the revolutionary era. The popularity of this notion today deserves close study because it reflects the arrival of a “post-revolutionary” consumer society. In a popular pamphlet entitled Understanding Petit Bourgeois, “petit bourgeois” are defined as follows: their background should include good cultural cultivation and college education (or even familiarity with Western culture and talking with intermingling Western language), their middle-class economic status should be way above that of the common people, and their lifestyle should embody the tastes and interests typical of “petit bourgeois sentiments.”16 There are many other interesting qualities attached to the definition of this concept, such as romantic taste, love of classical music or the blues, purchase of goods of famous brands only, hanging around in expensive pubs, reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Norwegian Wood, working in high-class (warehouse) offices, and wearing perfect tailor-made suits, etc. Based on these descriptions, we can tell that the “petit bourgeois” in the East is no different from the “yuppie” in the West. At a time when revolutionary turmoil is already a thing of the past, the pursuit of a delicate life experience and the aestheticization of everyday life, whether in work or at leisure, have become the indispensable cultural demands of these special agents of consumer society. The so-called “petit bourgeois sentiment” is nothing more than the representation of the aestheticization of everyday life. It is not only a spiritual yearning, but also a very concrete material need. Here, the aestheticization of everyday life most clearly shows its traits of “experience” and “taste.” One thing that needs to be pointed out is that behind this fastidious choice of life experiences, there lurks a fetishist tendency full of insatiable desires. Alas! In the current aestheticization of everyday life, aesthetics—having bid farewell to the abnormal pleasures taken in violent destruction and in living the most frugal of lives in those turbulent yet ascetic years of revolution—has rapidly turned into superficial pleasures taken in the mere pursuit of material enjoyment. What ought to perform the function of spiritual sublimation has degenerated into a means of gratifying the senses.

194

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

CONCLUSION: A FEW MORE QUESTIONS The aestheticization of everyday life in “the post-revolutionary era” is obviously a very complicated cultural phenomenon. There is no way back to the bygone revolutionary era; neither is it possible to give positive or negative appraisal to “the aestheticization of everyday life” by employing the values of that era. We have to adopt a new idea or a new perspective. The burgeoning of the middle class in China is a growing tendency to be welcomed. The universalization of their aesthetic taste has positive influences and is an inevitable demand of everyday life in the process of social development. But not all problems can be solved by affirming their positive sides. Some stickier issues need further study. First of all, is “the aestheticization of everyday life” consistent with the aesthetic ideals pursued by numerous sages in history? Does the gratification that people find in material things signify the fact that we are losing some more important things in aesthetics? The trend of commodity fetishism brought along by “the aestheticization of everyday life” runs counter to the nonutilitarian nature of the aesthetic spirit. In other words, “the aestheticization of everyday life” as we see it today may not be a healthy trend that may lead to an ideal state of aesthetic appreciation. In the process of social development in China, fetishism, in its endless pursuit of luxury, has given rise to a number of disconcerting trends that have outpaced the development of society and have gone beyond what the ecological environment would and could allow, thereby creating a variety of unparalleled potential crises. Next, does “the aestheticization of everyday life” still maintain the qualities of equality, justice, and freedom indispensable to the aesthetic spirit? Based on the above argument, does “the aestheticization of everyday life” reflect a new power relation in the context of sharp conflicts between the rich and the poor in a highly stratified society? Are some more important things covered by the flashy appearances of this aestheticization, such as social injustice and the plights of the underprivileged? We should delve deeper into the social implications of this aestheticization and care for those social groups deprived of the opportunities of experiencing the same aestheticization in a generous show of humanity essential to the nature of the aesthetic spirit. Finally, another important theoretical problem needs consideration. From the perspective of traditional philosophical aesthetics, the underlying judgment of everyday life in the context of modernity is that it always sees a repression of instrumental rationality and therefore becomes more and more rigid and tasteless, so much so that it is almost like an “iron cage” (in Weber’s words). The lifestyle of the middle class often becomes the object of satire for writers, artists, and aestheticians.17 Aesthetics, therefore, often appears as

ZHOU XIAN

195

a means of counteracting the restrictions of daily life. Weber’s aesthetic “salvation,” Martin Heidegger’s favored “poetic dwelling,” and Foucault’s “aesthetics of existence” all involve relentless attacks upon modern everyday life. On the basis of the three aspects of Featherstone’s definition of the trend of the aestheticization of everyday life mentioned above, does it remain to say that modern daily life has been transformed by aesthetics to be less repressive and restrictive? In other words, has the dilemma of modernity been tided over in the process of the aestheticization of everyday life?

NOTES 1. N. Abercrombie, S. Hill, and B.S. Turner, The Penguin Dictionary of Sociology (London: Penguin Books, 1994), p. 8. 2. Marcel Duchamp’s most famous and controversial readymade artwork is a urinal which he named Fountain. 3. American philosopher and esthetician Arthur Danto reflects on Warhol’s Brillo Box and concludes, “To see something as art requires something the eye cannot descry—an atmosphere of artistic theory, a knowledge of the history of art: artworld.” See A.C. Danto, “The Artworld,” in C. Korsmeyer (ed.), Aesthetics: The Big Questions (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1998), p. 40. 4. M. Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (New York: Dover, 2003), p.181. 5. H.H. Gerth and C.W. Mills (eds.), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1946), p. 342. 6. M. Featherstone, Consumer Culture and Postmodernism (London: Sage, 1991), pp. 66–67. 7. Ibid., pp. 76–77. 8. G. Debord, Society of the Spectacle (Canberra: Hobgoblin, 2002). p. 9. 9. Ibid., p. 12. 10. V. Postrel, Substance of Style: How the Rise of Aesthetic Value is Remaking Commerce, Culture and Consciousness (New York: Harper Collins 2003), p. 16. 11. P. Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), p. 2. 12. Ibid., p. 114. 13. Featherstone, Consumer Culture, p. 44. 14. Ibid., p. 45. 15. T. Eagleton, “Ideology,” in S. Regan (ed.), The Eagleton Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), p. 236. 16. See S. Hui (ed.), Understanding Petit Bourgeois (Beijing: China’s Industrial & Business Press, 2002). 17. See C. Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays (London: Phaidon, 1995).

196

“THE AESTHETICIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE ”

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abercrombie, N., S. Hill, and B.S. Turner, The Penguin Dictionary of Sociology, London: Penguin Books, 1994. Baudelaire, C., The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, London: Phaidon, 1995. Bourdieu, P., Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984. Danto, A.C., “The Artworld,” in C. Korsmeyer (ed.), Aesthetics: The Big Questions, Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1988. Debord, G., Society of the Spectacle, Canberra: Hobgoblin, 2002. Eagleton, T., “Ideology,” in S. Regan (ed.), The Eagleton Reader, Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. Featherstone, M., Consumer Culture and Postmodernism, London: Sage, 1991. Gerth, H.H. and C.W. Mills (eds.), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, New York: Oxford University Press, 1946. Hui, S. (ed.), Understanding Petit Bourgeois, Beijing: China’s Industrial & Business Press, 2002. Postrel, V., Substance of Style: How the Rise of Aesthetic Value is Remaking Commerce, Culture and Consciousness, New York: Harper Collins, 2003. Weber, M., The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, New York: Dover, 2003.

PART THREE

Aesthetic Practices and Exercises

197

198

Editors’ Introduction to Part Three MARCELLO GHILARDI

The third section broadens the themes and notions that have been analyzed in the second section, shifting the focus from notions to artistic practices. The reader will be confronted with some of the main arts cultivated by generations of artists and studied by Chinese theorists over the centuries. These artistic practices—music, ceramics, theater, literature, art of Rock Gardens, martial arts—constitute the thematic background and the field of study in the following chapters. Without claiming to be an exhaustive account, the essays deal with emblematic experiences in art, parts of a whole, each one reflecting the complexity of the general frame of aesthetics. In this section, too, the basic idea of the contributions is providing effective interpretative perspectives or keyotes. Taking into account definite artistic expressions, and thus digging to the roots of Chinese culture, the chapters help the reader to understand some patterns of interpretation and some inner meaning of the works of art. In doing so, a reader should become more skillful and able to intertwine and to make dialogical aesthetic reflections and practices that were born in different contexts. For instance, reflecting on classical Chinese music, or on a particular genre of theater or literature, allows us to envision the experiences that originated and developed in the Western world with a renewed and expanded conceptual frame. Similarly, by focusing attention on ceramics, dry gardens, or martial arts, we can reflect on the very meaning of the notion of art in relation, for example, to those of craftsmanship, ethical behavior, or self-cultivation.

199

200

CHAPTER TEN

The Aesthetics of Music in the Ethical Discussion in Early China ELISA LEVI SABATTINI

INTRODUCTION This chapter focuses on the aesthetic of music in early China (roughly the last five centuries BCE) according to Confucian tradition.1 Applying the term “aesthetic” and “beauty” to early Chinese thought can be misleading and needs clarification here. In Chinese, the term “aesthetic” (meixue 㖾ᆨ, literally “the study of beauty”) did not exist in pre-twentieth-century Chinese texts. The meaning of the term “beauty” (mei 㖾) was also different from the modern meaning, influenced by the Western philosophical category of aesthetics. In this study, when using the expressions “aesthetic experience,” I will not refer to the modern meaning, but to the experience of being exposed to and embodying social harmony, which are considered to be, from Confucian tradition, the essence of beauty. In classical Chinese music is joy by definition (yue zhe le ye ′㘵′ҏ, “music is joy”). Therefore, music is deeply connected to emotions. Different sounds can evoke different emotions in those who listen to them, a key idea in musical theory in early China. In Confucian works, the term yue ′ refers not only to music strictly speaking, but also to dance (wu 㡎), poetry (shi 䂙), songs (ge ⅼ), the instruments of music and ritual, and, more generally, to 201

202

THE AESTHETICS OF MUSIC

ritual and musical choreography. For this reason, I think that the best translation for yue is musical performance or ritual music. Guo Moruo defines it as follows: The word yue covered a very wide field in ancient China. It goes without saying that music, singing, and dancing were included, as these are three in one; but painting and the plastic arts such as sculpture, engraving, and architecture were also included. Even hunting, good food, and ceremonial rites were implied by the word. Yue meant joy, so broadly speaking anything that made people happy, that provided sensory enjoyment, could be called yue. But there is no doubt that it referred primarily to music.2 Musical performance is one of the “Six Arts” (liuyi ‫ޝ‬㰍)3 to which Confucius (551–479 BCE) refers as tools to cultivate the self in order to become the “exemplary person” (junzi ੋᆀ). The transformative potential acquired by the practice of music is not only theoretical. The practical part of the performance is fundamental to transform the people and the society. This idea is very well revealed by the expression of xiuji ‫؞‬ᐡ (self-cultivation). Even if musical performance plays such an important role in early discussion, early Chinese texts do not explain how to actually play music. The most ancient transmitted source that deals with the musical system is the Yinlü 丣ᖻ (Notes and pitches) section of the Lüshi chunqiu ੲ∿᱕⿻ (Spring and Autumn of Mr. Lü, third century BCE). The ideas contained in this section are also part of the Lüshu ᖻᴨ (Documents on pitches) of the Shiji ਢ䁈 (Records of the Historian) of Sima Qian ਨ俜䚧 (145–86 BCE). However, even if they give technical information about musical theory, they do not discuss how to play it. The discussion on music is mostly dedicated to what I have previously called aesthetic experience.

MUSICAL PERFORMANCE AND RITUALS The discussion on music in a Confucian context must be understood within the idea of ritual (li ⿞). In a very well-known passage of the Lunyu 䄆䃎, we read that: The Master said: “[Emotions] arise from poetry; they are led by rituals, and completed by music.” ᆀᴠ㠸ᯬ䂙ˈ・ᯬ⿞DŽᡀᯬ′DŽ4

ELISA LEVI SABATTINI

203

Confucius infuses the term yue with practical and pedagogical values. Musical performance goes beyond sounds and becomes essential for the social realization of the individual as part of a group. The Master said: “Rituals! Rituals! Is it all about jade and silk? Music! Music! Is it all about bells and drums?” ᆀᴠ⿞Ӂ⿞Ӂˈ⦹ᑋӁѾૹ"′Ӂ′Ӂˈ䩈啃ӁѾૹ˛5 The ultimate meaning of rituals cannot be limited to jade and silk; just as musical performance cannot be reduced only to bells and drums. Both rituals and music are tools that mold the people, physically and mentally, and eventually the society. Jade and silk, bells and drums are only means to reach something greater: humanity (ren ӱ). In practice, rituals give the person the knowhow while music allows him to express his emotions properly according to the situation. Rituals represent the ethical aspect of the practice, music the aesthetic one. Rituals and musical performance are the two sides of the same coin. Both co-create the social person, who finds his best expression in humanity. The Master said: “A person without humanity, how can he relate to rituals? A person without humanity, how can he relate to music?” ᆀᴠӪ㘼нӱˈྲ⿞օ"Ӫ㘼нӱˈྲ′օ"6 Musical performance becomes the personification of concrete values expressed in the ritual practice.. In order to find social balance, the external form (ritual) needs to match the internal joy, expressed through music.7 Ritual is the foundation of an ordered society, and for this reason the aesthetics of music is deeply connected to the ethical thought. Borrowing Pierre Hadot’s words, musical practice is a “spiritual exercise” that has the aim of transforming the self—meaning both the bodily part and the psychological one—as a sort of therapy of passions and instincts. Hadot’s meaning for “spiritual practice” allows us to clearly understand the profound impact that the arts have on the whole psychism of the person.8 In Confucian tradition, music has not got the function of suppression of sensory desires; it guides them, becoming a powerful instrument to embody ethical values. Many pre-imperial works, such as Xunzi 㥰ᆀ, stress psychological experience and satisfaction in social and ethical issues. Human emotions find expression and satisfaction in the practical psychology and ethics of social life.9 Due to its connection to ritual practice, music enters the field of political thought as a powerful educational instrument: music stimulates the heart—

204

THE AESTHETICS OF MUSIC

where thoughts and emotions dwell—and changes characters; and if it is properly regulated, it can bring social harmony and political stability.10 Rites work on social distinctions (yi ⮠). Ritual distinguishes what is correct and what is not, meaning that, just as it defines everybody’s different role within the ritual ceremony, it does the same within the society. Ritual gives order by differentiating.11 Musical performance gives the rhythm to ritual practice, and it guarantees harmony (he ઼) among individuals.12 Harmony is the expression of the consonance of the five sounds, and every musical note corresponds to a specific social role. According to the Yueji ′㌰ (Records on Music), transmitted as chapter of the Liji ⿞䁈 (Records on Rituals), the ascendant order of sounds is made equal to the social descendent order: gong ᇞ is the prince, shang ୶ is the minister, jue 䀂 is the people, zhi ᗥ is the state affairs, and yu 㗭 is the whole thing (ᇞ⛪ੋ୶⛪㠓䀂⛪≁ᗞ⛪һ 㗭⛪⢙DŽ).13 Based on this assumption, the social-political order replies with one of the five sounds and vice versa: a well-governed state needs to have the characteristics of a harmonious piece of music, where everyone performs according to his role, to have a common equilibrium. On the contrary, if sounds are chaotic and they do not respect the balance established by ritual and music performance, licentious sonorities are born, which bring the destruction of the realm. The disorder in costumes brings excessive sonorities due to the loss of the right measure.14

MUSICAL PERFORMANCE AND ETHICAL THOUGHT The ethical role of music in early China is well explained within the discussion related to musical contamination into ritual music. The early discussion on music is part of the construction of the political ideology that would eventually shape the ethics of the Han empire. Music has the power to influence an enormous group of people easily and quickly. By unifying musical customs, the government—or the ruler—can manage its control over the population, not only those groups that live near the court, but also those that live far away. In early Chinese texts we read about “new music” (xin yue ᯠ′) and “ancient music” (gu yue ਔ′). Confucians underline the importance of keeping a clear separation between these two different type of music. In the Confucian tradition, musical performance, or ritual music, is also defined as “ancient music” (guyue ਔ′) and “virtuous music” (yayue 䳵′). These expressions very often refer to “correct music” (zhengyue ↓′) or “correct sonorities/notes” (zhengshen ↓㚢), and have “new music” (xinyue ᯠ′) or “new sounds” (xinsheng ᯠ㚢), “sounds of Zheng and Wei” (Zheng Wei zhi sheng 䝝㺋ѻ㚢), “lascivious sounds” (yinsheng ␛㚢) as their

ELISA LEVI SABATTINI

205

opposite. These categories are the foundation of the discussion on what, in musical terms, is ethically appropriate. “New music” is the music played in a popular context, mainly love songs or more generally mundane music. It becomes the symbol of what is not correct according to ritual order. The problem probably arises when at court this kind of music is preferred to ritual ones. Also, it is important to underline that by unifying musical standards, it is possible to unify habits and customs, realizing political unity within the state or empire. In the Lunyu, we read about the “sounds of Zheng” (Zheng sheng 䝝㚢) on different occasions, and all references relate to confusion in ritual etiquette associated to chaos within the society.15 The earlier text that offers better information about what is the idea of the sounds of Zheng—and Wei—is the Yueji. It states that “the melodies of Zheng and Wei are the melodies of chaotic age” (䝝㺋ѻ丣Ҳцѻ丣ҏ). In the dialogue between Marquis Wen of Wei (Wei Wen you 兿᮷‫ )ן‬and Zi Xia ᆀ༿, we read: Marquis Wen of Wei asked Zi Xia: “When I wear the clothing and headgear for the ceremony and listen to ancient music (gu yue), then I only fear I will fall asleep. But with the melodies of Zheng and Wei, I do not know fatigue. May I ask why ancient music makes me feel like this? Why does new music make me feel like this?” 兿᮷‫୿ן‬Ҿᆀ༿ᴠNj੮ㄟ߅㘼㚭ਔ′ࡷୟ 㠕㚭 䝝ǃ㺋ѻ丣ˈࡷн ⸕ٖDŽᮒ୿ਔ′ѻྲᖬօҏ"ᯠ′ѻྲ↔օҏ?16 From this passage we do not understand what was the difference between ancient and new music. The dialogue between Marquis Wen and Zi Xia continues: Now, regarding ancient music, [dancers] move forward and backward at unison; harmony and accuracy [of these movements] pervades everything . . . The exemplary person discusses the meaning, speaks about the Way of the ancients, cultivates himself within his family, endures standards in the world: this is the influence of ancient music. Now, regarding new music, [dancers] move forward and backward bonding; it is full of lascivious sounds that overwhelm [the people] endlessly, reaching the point of jesters, midgets, and monkeys with confusion between men and women, and distinction between father and son is ignored. When music reaches the end, you cannot speak about its meaning nor about the Way of the ancients. This is the result of new music. Now, you asked about music (yue), but what you love is melodies (yin). Music and melodies are close,

206

THE AESTHETICS OF MUSIC

but different.” Marquis Wen asked: “May I ask why so?” Zi Xia replied: “In the past, Heaven and Earth were in harmony and the four seasons were equal. People were virtuous and five cereals abounded. Sufferance and illness were not produced and there were no extraordinary events. This is what is meant by “the great equanimity.” Only then sages created common commands in order to define roles of father and son, superior and inferior. When common commands were correct, the world was stable. Only after the world was stable, the six pitches were correct, the five notes were in harmony, odes and hymns chanted with string instruments . . . This is what is meant by “virtuous melodies.” Virtuous melodies is what we call “music” (yue). Ӻཛਔ′ˈ䙢᯵䘰᯵઼↓ԕᔓ(...)ੋᆀҾᱟ䃎ˈҾᱟ䚃ਔˈ‫؞‬䓛৺ᇦˈ ᒣ൷ཙлˈ↔ਔ′ѻⲬҏDŽӺཛᯠ′ˈ 䙢‫؟‬䘰‫ˈ؟‬ဖ㚢ԕ☛ˈ⓪㘼н →ˈ৺‫ݚ‬ǃֿˈ⦦䴌ᆀྣˈн⸕⡦ᆀDŽ′㍲ˈнਟԕ䃎ˈнਟԕ䚃ਔDŽ ↔ᯠ′ѻⲬҏDŽӺੋѻᡰ୿㘵′ҏˈᡰྭ㘵丣ҏDŽཛ′㘵ˈ㠷 丣⴨䘁 㘼н਼DŽ᮷‫ן‬ᴠ Njᮒ୿օྲ"njᆀ༿ሽᴠNjཛ ਔ㘵ཙൠ丶㘼ഋᱲ ⮦ˈ≁ᴹᗧ㘼ӄば᰼ˈ⯮⯒н֌㘼❑࿆⾕ˈ↔ѻ䄲བྷ⮦DŽ❦ᖼ㚆Ӫ֌⡢ ⡦ᆀੋ㠓ԕ⡢㌰㏡ˈ ㌰㏡ᰒ↓ˈཙлབྷᇊˈཙлབྷᇊˈ❦ᖼ↓‫ޝ‬ᖻˈ ઼ӄ㚢ˈᕖⅼ䂙ǃ丼(...)↔ѻ䄲ᗧ丣ˈᗧ丣ѻ䄲′DŽ17 The purpose of new music and ancient music is different. Ancient music, which is musical performance, is much more than sounds and melodies, and it is played at court in a ritual context.18 New music is a source of entertainment. The idea of beauty coincides with a properly performed musical representation played in accordance with ethical values and needs. The Shuowen jiezi 䃚᮷䀓ᆇ etymological dictionary compiled in the second century CE by Xu Shen 䁡᝾ (ca. 55–149), registers “good” (shan ழ) and “beauty” (mei 㖾) as synonymous. Beauty is perceived in terms of outpouring of virtues. This is fundamental for the musical representation to be considered “good.” Sentiments and behaviors such as emulation, respect, and admiration need to be created among the people through inspiration to have harmony and moderation within society. What is aesthetically beautiful coincides with what is ethically good. The idea of good is formally expressed throughout etiquette and norms as a foundation of the society; beauty is the proper behavior, both physical and mental, in relation to musical and ritual canons. In early China, the idea of beauty is conceived as a total embodied condition. Art in general is an important ingredient of the people–society relationship. Texts such as Xunzi and Yueji explain the relationship between sounds and the heart (xin ᗳ). Emotions are the response to

ELISA LEVI SABATTINI

207

external circumstances. Sounds are the vocal expression of emotions. Due to the origins of sounds and the fact that the musical performance is the result of ritual and music instruments together, both musical and emotional worlds are combined. Both rite and music have a transformative force that aims at confining lascivious behavior and at forging human disposition. Melodies arise from the heart of the person. The movements of the heart of the person are created from the outside world. When the heart senses the outside world, it is moved [by it], hence it shapes sounds. Sounds echo each other, hence they create changes. When changes succeed to be upright, it is what we call melodies. What we call music, it is shields and lances, feathers and quills. ࠑ丣ѻ䎧ˈ⭡Ӫᗳ⭏ҏDŽӪᗳѻअˈ⢙֯ѻ❦ҏˈᝏᯬ⢙㘼अˈ᭵ᖒᯬ㚢DŽ 㚢⴨៹ˈ᭵⭏䆺ˈ䆺ᡀᯩˈ䄲ѻ丣DŽ∄丣㘼′ѻˈ৺ᒩᡊǃ㗭᯴ǃ䄲ѻ ′DŽ19 Similarly, in chapter “Yuelun” ′䄆 (On Music) of Xunzi we read: Music is joy. Being an essential part of man’s emotional nature, it is, by necessity, inescapable. This is the reason why people cannot do without music. Where there is joy, it will issue forth in the sounds of the voice and be manifest in the movement of the body. And it is the Way of Man that singing and movement, which are excitations of man’s emotional states according to the rules of inborn nature, are fully expressed in music. Hence, since it is impossible for people not to be joyful, where there is joy, it is impossible that it should not be given perceptible form. But if its form is not properly conducted, then it is impossible that disorder should not arise. ཛ′㘵′ҏӪᛵѻᡰᗵн‫ݽ‬ҏ᭵Ӫн㜭❑′DŽ′ࡷᗵⲬᯬ㚢丣 н′′ࡷн㜭❑ᖒᖒ㘼н⛪䚃ࡷн㜭❑ҲDŽ20 Through constant practice, people assimilate the proper rules of musical and ritual expression in order to know how to behave. Xunzi articulates this idea: When people have emotional impulses of like and dislike but have no means of responding with joy and anger, then there will be disorder. The Former Kings hated such disorder; thus, they reformed their own conduct and made their music correct so the whole world became obedient.

208

THE AESTHETICS OF MUSIC

Hence, garments for fasting and mourning and the sounds of lamentation and weeping cause the heart of people to [properly express] sadness; donning armor and strapping on helmets with songs sung by marching columns cause the heart of people to be roused. Seductive looks and the songs of Zheng and Wei cause the heart of people to be dissipated . . . Thus, the exemplary person will not let his ear hear lewd sounds, his eyes gaze on the female beauty, his mouth utter evil words. About these three matters, the exemplary person is careful. ཛ≁ᴹྭᜑѻᛵ㘼❑ௌᙂѻ៹ࡷҲ‫⦻ݸ‬ᜑަҲҏ᭵‫ަ؞‬㹼↓ަ′ 㘼ཙл丶✹DŽ᭵啺㺠ѻᴽଝ⌓ѻ㚢֯ӪѻᗳᛢDŽᑦ⭢ᅠ߁ⅼᯬ㹼 Խ֯Ӫѻᗳۧညߦѻᇩ䝝㺋ѻ丣֯Ӫѻᗳ␛ . . . ᭵ੋᆀ㙣н㚭 ␛㚢ⴞн㿆䛚㢢ਓнࠪᜑ䀰↔й㘵ˈੋᆀ᝾ѻDŽ21 Music as a political tools aims at using its natural power to harmonize the people’s behavior. In order to do so, the unity of music and joy allows music to be conceived as the expression of emotions and vice versa. From one side, music influences the people’s hearts, meaning that according to the music we play we know the emotions we are going to create; from the other side, the music played by the people reveals their attitude and ethical degree. Sounds influence people in a good or bad way, according to what melodies we hear. The effect produced by music, given by the measure of the different elements in the performance, had a similarity with medicine. Yao 㰕 means “remedy, medicine,” and it is formed by ′ and the radical cao 㢨 (grass). If we consider that music can influence the psychophysical conditions of a person, the idea expressed by yao can easily be explained with the idea of “preventive medicine.” Emotions are the manifestation of qi ≓, the vital energy that permeates the universe. In the Zuozhuan ᐖۣ we read about physician He—yi He 䟛઼ (Doctor Harmony)—who has to pay a visit to Duke Ping in the state of Jin. According to He, the vital balance of Duke Ping is compromised by excessive behavior and lifestyle. In order to explain the danger of such a life, Doctor He says that lascivious sounds give origin to disorder and compromise the harmony of the body–mind system. Ancient music, to the contrary, moderates all excesses and preserves the balance of the body and the heart, the seat of thoughts.22 Rite and music are tools for moderation and order, jie ㇰ. The first meaning of jie is “measure,” and can also refer to the “section” or “part” of something, or the “time division.” It can be translated as “to moderate, to temper, to regulate.” Originally, the term jie referred to the bamboo joints which were used to give the rhythm in music, like the ritual object made of a cow’s tail and feathers used to provide the rhythm for holidays.23

ELISA LEVI SABATTINI

209

CONCLUDING REMARKS The discussion of music reveals the turbulent and effervescent political debate in early China. The aim was to reinforce Confucian practice at court during a period of great debate among different traditions,24 at a time when different customs were coming together. Ritual and musical knowledge was preserved by Confucian experts. It was in their own interest to make sure the ruler would keep the practice at court. With so many interactions with different people, diversity became an issue when dealing with social and political unification. Therefore the necessity arose to unify culture, of which aesthetic and artistic perceptions are the formal expression. Starting from the beginning of the imperial era (first unification of the empire by the Qin in 221 BCE) onwards, the unification of culture, meaning customs and habits, became a tool to govern the people who were far away from the central court. Music, and art in general, are not external forms, but stress the emotional characteristics of aesthetics. Using Li Zehou’s words: “The emotional influence exerted by the arts and aesthetics is closely related to both social life and political activities.”25 In early China, the aesthetic experience in Confucian tradition has the direct goal of molding characters. The aim is to bring humanity into society in order to guarantee harmony. What is vulgar, in the sense that it does not respond to the orthodox idea of social order and humanity, and does not produce this effect, cannot be considered ethically acceptable. In this regard we can conclude by quoting the words of Zhu Guangqian ᵡ‫▋ݹ‬, which capture the fundamental meaning of aesthetic experience and can also be applied to classical Chinese thought: When the mind is exposed to a beautiful image, it remains imbued with it, and can, therefore, even free itself from turbid and impure thoughts. A poem by Su Dongpo states: “It is better not to eat meat / than live without bamboo. / Without meat, man loses weight, / without bamboo, he becomes vulgar.” Bamboo is just one of the beautiful forms, but each beautiful thing brings about this result: it does not make man vulgar.26

NOTES 1. For the sake of simplicity, I use the term “Confucian” for the Chinese ru ݂. In pre-imperial China (before 221 BCE), the ru were those who mastered the ancient knowledge of ritual and music from earlier texts. In Han time (202 BCE–220 CE), the term can also refer to those who were committed adherents of Confucius’ teachings, and to government officials. See Michael Nylan, A Problematic Model:

210

THE AESTHETICS OF MUSIC

The Han “Orthodox Synthesis,” Then and Now, in Qi Haiwen ⽱⎧᮷, Rujia yuejiao lun ݂ᇦ′ᮉ䄆 (Zhengzhou: Henan renmin chubanshe, 2004), pp. 18–9); and for a whole discussion about the problem related to the term, see: Nicolas Zufferey To the Origins of Confucianism: The Ru in pre-Qin Times and During the Early Han Dynasty (Bern: Peter Lang, 2003). 2. Guo Moruo 䜝⋛㤕 (Gongsun Ni Zi yu qi yinyue lilun ‫ޜ‬ᆛቬᆀ䕯ަ丣′⨶䄆, in Zhao Feng 䎥⋘ (ed.), Yueji lunbian ′䁈䄆䗟 (Beijing: Renmin yinyue, 1983), pp. 1–18, particularly pp. 5–6). Translated by Gong Lizeng: Li Zehou (1988, p. 72). 3. The “Six Arts” were music, rituals, calligraphy, archery, chivalry, and math. 4. Lunyu, VIII.8. 5. Lunyu, XVII.11. 6. Lunyu, III.3. 7. The Mengzi (ascribed to Mengzi ᆏᆀ, 372–289 BCE) recalls the ruler’s attention to the musical norms of the ancients; rituals reveal the type of government and music its virtues. Mengzi zhengyi ᆏᆀ↓㗙 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), p. 217. 8. See Pierre Hadot, Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique (Paris: Albin Michel 2002). Hadot’s words refer to ancient Greece, but his definition can easily be used also in the Chinese context. 9. On this, see Li Zehou, The Path of Beauty: A Study of Chinese Aesthetics (Beijing: Morning Glory 1988), p. 71 10. See Xunzi, Yuelun chapter. For a comparison with ancient Greece, see Damone’s theories (second half of the fifth century BCE). Damone focused on the ethical approach of the Pythagorean conception of the Wirkung of sounds, and classified melodies on the basis of their psycho-kinetic efficacy and of their specific pathos. 11. Liji, Yueji, p. 986. See also Xunzi 㥰ᆀ, Yuelun ′䄆 (Treatise on Music). Xunzi jijie 㥰ᆀ䳶䀓, Zhonghua shuju, Beijing 1988, p. 382. 12. Xunzi jijie, 20: p. 382. See Liji jijie ⿞䁈䳶䀓 (Taibei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1972), 19: 986. 13. Liji jijie, 19: 978. 14. Liji jijie, 19: 978–80. 15. Lunyu X.6; IX. 15; XV.11; XVI.5; XVII.18. 16. Liji jijie, p. 1013. 17. Liji jijie, pp. 1013–1015. 18. In this passage it refers to odes (shi) and hymns (song), which happen to be also two sections of the Shijing 䂙㏃ (Classic of Odes). 19. Liji jijie, p. 976. 20. Xunzi jijie, 20: 379. 21. Xunzi jijie, 20: 381. 22. AA.VV., Chunqiu zuozhuan zhu zi suo yin ᱕⿻ᐖۣ䙀ᆇ㍒ᕅ, 2 vols (Hong Kong: Shangwu yinshu guan, 1995), B10.1.12/319/19–26.

ELISA LEVI SABATTINI

211

23. See Luci Rault, Musiques de la tradition chinoise (Paris: Cité da la Musique/ Actes sud, Paris, 2000), pp. 62–65. 24. The traditional approach is to divide early discussion into “schools” (jia ᇦ). However, a better translation of the term jia would be “experts.” 25. Li Zehou, The Path of Beauty, p. 72. 26. Zhu Guangqian ᵡ‫▋ݹ‬, “Xu” ᒿ, Tan mei. Gei qingnian de shisan feng xin 䃷㖾˖ 㔉䶂ᒤⲴॱйሱؑ (On Beauty. The Thirteenth Letter to Young People) (ShanghaiL: Kaiming shudian, 1932 (1949)), p. 29. The quote is from Su Dongpo 㰷ᶡඑ (1037–1101)’s verses, “Ning ke shi wu rou, bu ke shi ju wu zhu, wu rou ling ren shou, wu zhu ling ren su” (ᆱਟ伏❑㚹ˈнਟት❑ㄩDŽ❑ 㚹ԔӪⱖˈ❑ㄩԔӪ؇DŽ), come from the poem Yuqian seng lü yun xuan Ҿ▌ ‫ܗ‬㔯㆐䖙 (Visiting a Buddhist Monk’s Green Bamboo Pavilion in Yuqian ). Zhu Guangqian offered a variation of the first two verses, which in the original are “Ke shi shi wu rou, bu ke shi ju wu zhu” ਟ伏伏❑㚹ˈнਟ伏ት❑ㄩDŽ See Songshi jianshang cidian ᆻ䂙䢤䌎䗎ި (Shanghai: Cishu chubanshe, 1987), pp. 349–351. This passage is translated in Elisa Levi Sabattini and Mario Sabattini (eds), Life and Philosophy of Zhu Guangqian (Leiden: Brill, 2021).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Cai Zhongde 㭑Ԣᗧ, Yinyue zhi dao de tanqiu – lun Zhongguo yinyue meixueshi ji qi ta 丣′ѻ䚃Ⲵ᧒≲̢䄆ѝ഻丣′㖾ᆨਢ৺ަԆ, Shanghai: Shangai yinyue chubanshe, 2003. Guo Moruo 䜝⋛㤕, Gongsun Ni Zi yu qi yinyue lilun ‫ޜ‬ᆛቬᆀ䕯ަ丣′⨶䄆, in Zhao Feng 䎥⋘ (ed.), Yueji lunbian ′䁈䄆䗟, Beijing: Renmin yinyue, 1983, pp. 1–18. Hadot, Pierre, Qu’est-ce que la philosophie antique?, Paris: Gallimard, 1995. Hadot, Pierre, Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique, Paris: Albin Michel, 2002. Hanshu ╒ᴨ (Qian Hanshu ࡽ╒ᴨ) (ed.) Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1962. Kern, Martin, The Stele Inscriptions of Ch’in Shih-huang: Text and Ritual in Early Chinese Imperial Representation, New Haven: American Oriental Society, 2000. Levi Sabattini, Elisa, “Le melodie degli stati di Zheng e di Wei e l’idea di musica lasciva nel peri- odo pre- imperiale,” in Andreini A. (ed.), Trasmetto, non creo. Percorsi tra filologia e filosofia nella letteratura cinese classica. Venice: Cafoscarina, 2012, pp. 193–212. Levi Sabattini, Elisa (ed.), Mario Sabattini, Zhu Guangqian and Benedetto Croce on Aesthetic Thought. With a Translation of the Wenyi xinlixue ᮷㰍ᗳ⨶ᆨ (The Psychology of Art and Literature), Leiden: Brill, 2019. Levi Sabattini, Elisa and Mario Sabattini (eds.), Life and Philosophy of Zhu Guangqian, Leiden: Brill, 2021. Liji jijie ⿞䁈䳶䀓, Taibei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1972. Liji yijie ⿞䁈䆟䀓, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2001. Li Zehou ᵾ◔৊, The Path of Beauty: A Study of Chinese Aesthetics, Beijing: Morning Glory, 1988. Li Zehou, Liu Gangli ☿㏡㌰, Zhongguo meixueshi ѝ഻㖾ᆨਢ, Anhui wenyi chubanshe, 1999. Lunyu yizhu 䄆䃎䆟⌘, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980.

212

THE AESTHETICS OF MUSIC

Mozi xiangu ໘ᆀ䯃䁱, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2001. Nylan, Michael, A Problematic Model: The Han “Orthodox Synthesis,” Then and Now, in Qi Haiwen ⽱⎧᮷, Rujia yuejiao lun ݂ᇦ′ᮉ䄆, Zhengzhou: Henan renmin chubanshe, 2004. Rault, Lucie, “L’harmonie du centre, aspects rituels de la musique dans la Chine ancienne,” Cahiers de Musiques Traditionnelles, vol. 5, 1992, pp. 111–25. Rault, Lucie, Musiques de la tradition chinoise, Paris: Cité de la musique-Actes sud, 2000. Shiji ਢ䁈, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1982. Wu Wenzhang ੣᮷⪻, Xunzi de yinyue zhexue 㥰ᆀⲴ丣′ଢᆨ, Taibei, 1983. Lüshi chunqiu ੲ∿᱕⿻, Taibei: Sanmin shuju, 1984. Xunzi jijie 㥰ᆀ䳶䀓, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988. Zhu Guangqian ᵡ‫▋ݹ‬, Wenyi xinli xue ᮷㰍ᗳ⨶ᆨ, Shanghai: Kaiming shudian, 1936. Zhu Guangqian ᵡ‫▋ݹ‬, “Xu” ᒿ, in Tan mei. Gei qingnian de shisan feng xin 䃷㖾˖㔉䶂ᒤⲴॱйሱؑ, Shanghai: Kaiming shudian, 1932, ed. 1949. Zufferey, Nicolas, To the Origins of Confucianism: The Ru in pre-Qin Times and During the Early Han Dynasty, Bern: Peter Lang, 2003.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Mechanics of Change: The Aesthetics of Chinese Ceramics in the Northern Song (960–1127) and Early Jin (1127–1234) Dynasties SABRINA RASTELLI

Song dynasty (960–1279) ceramics are often considered the most accomplished in the history of this material in China,1 although in recent years the market has favored later wares produced at Jingdezhen for the imperial house of the Ming (1368–1644) and Qing (1644–1911) periods.2 Song manufacture was indeed impressive in terms of quality, variety, and quantity, as reported in many literary documents written over the centuries by eager connoisseurs and confirmed by archaeological excavations carried out since the 1950s. The approach adopted in this chapter rests mainly on archaeological data; that is, it will analyse production in the eleventh and early twelfth centuries relying on excavated evidence to understand the mechanics of aesthetic change.3 For too long the appreciation of Song wares 213

214

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

and the interpretation of archaeological results have been subordinated to scholarly writings which can offer some guidance, but are not consistent. Song records are scarce and tend to be rather concise; Ming and Qing texts are more numerous, but less reliable, as the time gap is wider and, rather than reflecting the appreciation of ceramics in the Song dynasty, they mirror the admiration that later connoisseurs had for Song wares—or what they thought was Song. As such, it is a very interesting phenomenon, worth studying in relation to appreciation and collecting in the Ming and Qing dynasties, but it should no longer be applied to interpret Song ceramics. Ceramic production was presumably determined by the available raw materials and technology, and by “market” requirements. Techniques were tested and improved constantly by trial and error, while market demands depended on the function the objects were destined to serve and their aesthetic qualities. The remarkable increase in output registered in the eleventh century at all the main ceramic manufacturers and the incremental rise in the number of kilns was the result of a combination of social, economic, technological, and cultural factors. Favorable circumstances caused a surplus in production (both agricultural and industrial) and demographic growth (which in turn stimulated the economy). Excess products were traded at home and abroad, thus increasing wealth and bringing relative stability to the country; urbanization turned cities from political-administrative centers into commercial, financial, and production hubs swarming with teahouses, restaurants, gardens, entertainments, workshops, and shops of all kinds.4 All these aspects were essential to the development of the ceramic industry in the Song period, but maybe the most significant one was the stratification of Song society and within it the emergence of two specific social classes: the literati and the merchants, beside the imperial court. The administration of the state was shared by the emperor with officials from the sixty most important families in the country who had direct and hereditary access to bureaucratic careers, but whose knowledge was tested through the civil examination system.5 This method was also applied to recruit the best candidates from less privileged social classes, who, thanks to government policies and the more widespread distribution of wealth and publications, had access to education. Although divided into two bitterly opposing factions since ⾎ᇇ Shenzong’s reign (1067–85), these civil officials constituted an educated élite, legitimized by a system based on merit (not just privilege),6 with a specific cultural agenda aimed at defining their identity as a social group distinct from the emperor. Art theory and practice played an important role, and particularly influential in this respect was the group of intellectuals that gathered around 㰷䔮Su Shi (1037–1101).7 The qualities

SABRINA RASTELLI

215

they promoted were spontaneity and simplicity, which doubled as both aesthetic and ethical values, while they rejected anything artificial and ornamental. Collecting (and writing about it) was another defining activity of the men of culture, competing for supremacy in this field against the emperor. The main guiding principle was supposed to be the advancement of learning and morality,8 therefore books (representing knowledge), calligraphy (also in the form of the rubbings from stones amassed by ↀ䲭‫؞‬ Ouyang Xiu (1007–72) and in the form of inscriptions on bronzes), paintings, and antiquities were the approved categories.9 Ceramics were not collected because they were not antiquities; however, they were used in many aspects of daily life, and although the literati pursued learning and morality, they certainly did not reject beauty. Furthermore, in defining their distinguished identity, aestheticized living was important and each activity (such as tea drinking) demanded specific sets of tools, including those made of ceramics. In the Song period domestic and international private trade reached unprecedented volumes and it even superseded that managed by the state. Merchants, traditionally disparaged by Confucian ethics, became more respected, as the government—desperate to increase its revenues—entrusted to them certain undertakings (related to gain procurement and the monopoly of salt, tea, and wine) and granted them preferential tax rates.10 Traders increased in numbers, accumulated fortunes, and augmented their prestige in society also by collaborating with the gentry in activities benefiting the general public.11 The New Policies of Wang Anshi⦻ᆹ⸣ (1021–86), aimed at curbing the power gathered by merchants with their successful enterprises and money-lending services, probably had the effect of drawing them nearer to orthodox Confucian literati who opposed government interference in the private economic sector.12 Traders were likely to emulate the educated élite in the cultural sphere to show that their taste was refined too. Collecting was a way for people who did not hold government posts to gain status as men of culture and thus be respected.13 Archaeological evidence shows that in this period ceramic production flourished in an unprecedented way. Kiln centers manufactured products of different quality in order to cater for various social classes, each with its own taste and financial possibilities:14 tableware for busy restaurants and teahouses needed to be more durable than that used in wealthy homes. But generally speaking, quality improved and the amount of excellent products increased remarkably. It is difficult to determine what stimulated what, but market demands are always a good drive. Beside the imperial family, wealthy landowners, and the very top echelons of the clergy, the growing class of the literati had the taste and the means to acquire high-quality ceramics to use in their homes not only with practical purposes in the dining room or the study,

216

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

but also for decoration. Merchants may have had a less sophisticated taste than the literati, but they had the financial means to buy expensive ceramics, and the desire to emulate the educated élite may have increased the demand for certain high-quality vessels. In general terms, the main feature common to the leading kiln centres of the eleventh century, namely Ding, Yaozhou, and Cizhou in the north, and Yue and Jingdezhen in the south, is the embellishment of vessels with ornamental motifs. Objects were decorated in earlier times too, but while before only a minority of pieces was ornamented in comparison with the total output, in the eleventh century the percentage reversed and the variety of patterns was considerably widened. The peony became the most common motif incised, carved, printed, molded, or painted on ceramics. This craze can be attributed to the publication of several treatises dedicated to either the tree (typical in Luoyang) or the herbaceous plant (widespread in Yangzhou).15 As Ronald Egan explains, in the Northern Song dynasty a substantial corpus of literature on the aesthetics of flowering plants, rather than on their nutritive and pharmaceutical qualities, appeared. Peony, chrysanthemum, plum, crab-apple, rose, camellia, rhododendron, lotus, and orchid were all the subject of monographs, but the peony surprises because while the chrysanthemum, the plum, or the orchid were associated with the moral qualities of the Confucian gentleman, the peony was the symbol of feminine sensuality and allure. At least since the Tang dynasty there were peony festivals in spring attracting crowds of people from all walks of life, but it was not until intellectuals of the caliber of Ouyang Xiu16 wrote about it that, although retaining its voluptuous charm, it became a frequently represented subject (Fig. 11.1). Of course peonies were not the only popular motif: many other flowers were carved, incised, painted, and later on impressed on ceramic wares, each carrying symbolic meaning. The lotus, for example, was linked to Buddhism and, as a matter of fact, it often appears on objects found in Buddhist contexts as a symbol of spiritual enlightenment and purity, while in a lay environment it represented modesty and harmony (being homophonous with these very words). The chrysanthemum, plum, orchid, and bamboo were known as the “four gentlemen” (ഋੋᆀsi junzi), each of them representing a moral virtue of the ideal Confucian man, namely intellectual achievement, courage, refinement of the superior (educated) man, and endurance. Animals were also depicted, mainly fish and birds that populated gardens, but also dragons with their auspicious meaning, and children at play to wish a copious progeny. The tendency that seems to emerge is one where decorative patterns appear and gradually become more common, varied, and appreciated for their symbolic connotation.

SABRINA RASTELLI

217

FIGURE 11.1: Bowl decorated with large peony spray. Stoneware with blue-green glaze, Yaozhou ware, Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), excavated at the Yaozhou kiln site, Yaouzhou Museum. Photograph by the author.

If the proliferation of treatises on flowering plants played an important role in the preference for ceramics decorated with ornamental flower motifs, were it not for the wide circulation of manuals and catalogs they might have proved less effective. The distribution of all kinds of texts in the Song period is directly linked to the spreading of printing technology, another commercial activity greatly developed at the time to the point that many urban centers included a publishers’ district,17 and paper-making became a specialization in as many as eight prefectures.18 Displays of floral beauty, which may have encouraged the fashion for decorated ceramics, were central to gardens that developed greatly in the Song dynasty and were viewed as a direct expression of their owner’s mind.19 Either urban or rural, they were not simply outside spaces in which to enjoy fresh air. They were meticulously designed to offer breathtaking views from elaborate buildings, areas to entertain friends, and secluded spots to be alone with one’s thoughts. Ponds, rocks, trees, ornamental flowering plants, and buildings were all essential elements whose distribution was carefully planned. For the educated élite the garden was the space for self-cultivation, studying, practicing the arts, meeting with friends, and, if in office, making political alliances.20 Scholars, who often adopted the name of their garden as

218

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

their style name, referred to these special outdoor spaces in their writings, but in 1095 ᵾṬ䶎 Li Gefei (fl. 1090) was the first to make them the subject of a book, Account of Famous Gardens of Luoyang (⍋䲭਽ൂ䁈 Luoyang ming yuan ji), in which he described in detail eighteen estates belonging to eminent officials, including ਨ俜‫ ݹ‬Sima Guang (1019–86).21 In the 1070s Luoyang (famous for its peony trees) became one of the favorite destinations for the retirement of banned officials, hence the proliferation of famous gardens there. Suzhou was another sought-after location and the capital Kaifeng naturally became home to many scholar-officials, who tended to live in the east section of the city, where land was available. Through their estates, merchants showed off their wealth and of course emperors spared no efforts in creating astonishing parks. At the Yaozhou complex, potters resolved to decorate objects encouraged both by the growing fashion and by necessity. The forest depletion in the area forced them to substitute wood with coal as fuel in the kilns. This apparently innocuous change had significant repercussions on the visual aspect of Yaozhou blue-green ware (䶂⬧qingci): deliberate fast cooling at the end of very lengthy firings (caused by the very long final soak at full temperature required in coal-stocked kilns) prevented devitrification, thus causing glazes to become transparent.22 Roughly at the same time, a change in the glaze recipe increased the level of titanium dioxide, causing the glaze to assume an olive green tone.23 This color and the transparency of the glaze made plain vessels rather dull and so embellishing them with decorative motifs, carved and/or incised under the glaze, became a question of survival for the Yaozhou kilns. This does not mean that decoration appeared on Song vessels because of the introduction of coal as fuel: Ding kilns also adopted it, but as the glaze had always been transparent, there was no change in this respect. Ding objects began to be decorated with finely incised or carved motifs because fashions were changing. Bold decoration in contrasting colours is the distinguishing feature of Cizhou ceramics, despite the fact that their main output consisted of whitewares, either made from white clays (like Ding) or from impure materials that needed to be concealed by a layer of slip in order to appear white.24 Cizhou ware has been classified as “popular”25 and described as sturdy, lively, and utilitarian—basically a not very refined genre that appealed to common people with unsophisticated taste. However, on deeper (and unbiased) reflection, it appears that Cizhou pieces shared many ornamental motifs with Ding and Yaozhou wares, and some of the decorative techniques were indeed rather laborious, thus affecting the price of the final product. As to their imperfect execution, it may have enticed the attention of the educated class who favoured spontaneity over affectedness to grace their dinner table.

SABRINA RASTELLI

219

Tea consumption became even more widespread than in the Tang and Five Dynasties periods, and indeed tea became a state monopoly as early as 965.26 The beverage was prepared according to the “whipped method,” consisting of whisking powdered tea and hot water following a specific process, until a thick froth formed on the surface.27 The method had been developed in monasteries where medicinal drinks were prepared in the same way, but Song literati turned tea drinking into an aesthetic experience, made of a series of precise gestures, in which not only the quality of tea, but also its taste, fragrance, and appearance were essential. Tea connoisseurship became one of the lesser aesthetic pursuits that helped the “men of understanding [to] lodge their minds in things to release their discernment” and advance in the mastery of the Way.28 The crucial aspect in the preparation of tea was the foam firmness which, if not persistent, would subside, exposing the liquid below (䴢㞣ᮓyunjiao san or dispersed cloud feet). The froth was so central that a competition (兕㥦doucha or tea contest) evolved around it.29 To guarantee successful whipping, certain requirements had to be met: water at the right temperature had to be poured at a specific rate inside a warmed-up bowl and to accomplish this, the shape and texture of bowls and ewers were crucial.30 Visual gratification was an integral part of the aesthetic experience and according to 㭑㽴 Cai Xiang (1012–67), revered as one of the most famous calligraphers of the Northern Song dynasty, the consistent white foam was best set off by stout, conical, black bowls with “hare’s fur” (‫∛ބ‬tu hao) or “oil spot” (⋩┤you di) effects manufactured by the Jian kilns (Fujian); these particular vessels were also valued for their ability to retain the heat.31 Jian tea bowls became very famous and were imitated by many kilns in Hebei, Henan, Shanxi, and Shaanxi provinces, adding blackware to the main genres circulating in the Song period. The hare’s fur effect, which results from “phase-separated glazes super-saturated with iron,”32 was never successfully reproduced by northern kilns, which nevertheless developed other attractive, mostly abstract patterns. The Jizhou kilns in the southern province of Jiangxi also distinguished themselves for their output of black tea ware, characterized by lively effects resulting from inventive decorative techniques, but this happened in the Southern Song period. The fact that Cai Xiang extolled the qualities of Jian ware does not mean that only blackwares were chosen in tea drinking: conical bowls with comparatively large mouths, cupstands, long-spouted ewers, and warming basins were also produced by Ding, Yaozhou, Cizhou, and Jingdezhen kilns (Qingbai ware), thus showing the enormous influence that tea drinking had on ceramic production in the Song dynasty. If this fashion for tea drinking was relatively new, alcohol made from fermented grains had a much longer history. It was drunk from small cups

220

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

placed on a stand similar to that used under tea bowls, but wine cups were smaller, as wine did not need whisking. Alcohol was served warm from longspouted ewers placed in matching basins to keep the beverage at the right temperature. This kind of ewer was probably also used for pouring hot water on to tea paste, in which case the two routines shared the same kind of vessel. A shape connected to wine consumption is the so-called meiping, actually a flask for storing wine, later adopted as a vase to display blooming prunus sprigs. To increase production, expanding the factories and employing more workers are the immediate options, but technological advances can be much more efficacious. Once the execution of decorative motifs became fashionable, impressing them from a stamp or mould, rather than incising or carving them, considerably speeded up the process.33 The introduction of decorated hump moulds to impress patterns on the inner surface of a vessel at the Ding and Yaozhou kilns from the late eleventh century coincides with the augmented complexity of the designs, thus showing a change of taste at the end of the Northern Song period from large and supple motifs to dense and intricate designs (Fig. 11.2). According to Qin Dashu, at the Ding centre the hump mould technique developed from the previous use of plain moulds employed to make the size

FIGURE 11.2: Hump with large peony spray. Stoneware, Yaozhou kiln, Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), excavated at the Yaozhou kiln site. Yaozhou Museum. Photograph by the author.

SABRINA RASTELLI

221

FIGURE 11.3: Drawing of upside-up firing (left) and upside-down firing (right) adopted at the Ding kilns. From Huang Xin, “Dingyao wai gua youqi zhuangshi fangfa tanxi,” in Zhongguo Dingyao, ed., Beijing Yishu Bowuguan (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), 293.

of bowls and plates perfectly standardized. This was an essential requirement for firing open vessels upside-down (㾶⠂fushao) on circular step setters arranged on top of each other and then placed inside a sagger (Fig. 11.3).34 The upside-down firing technique was another invention of Ding craftsmen challenged by the problem of pyroplastic distortion: because of their very thin body, objects easily deformed during firing, therefore potters started to place them upside-down resting on the mouth rim (rather than on the foot) to spread the weight over a wider circumference. A secondary advantage of the fushao method was that, as the vessels were stacked very close to each other, a greater number of pieces could be loaded in the same batch, thus increasing the final output.35 The unglazed and thus rough mouthrim, inevitable with upside-down firing, has been suggested as the reason why the Song court refused to use Ding ware and accepted instead vessels made by the Ru kilns.36 However, well before the invention of fushao, Ding objects presented a rough mouth and Ding pieces were still used at court during ᗭᇇ Huizong’s reign (1100– 26) in the Departments of Food and Medicines, as some marked vessels testify.37 In order to disguise the unglazed mouth, the lip was covered with a metal rim. Some Yue, Xing, and Ding specimens from the late Tang and Five Dynasties periods show metal bands (usually silver or gold) applied mainly on the mouth, but sometimes also around the foot, to make them more precious. Moreover, in the early Northern Song period, when upside-down firing had not yet been invented by Ding potters, two thousand pieces of Ding porcelain with a golden rim were sent to the Chongde Hall in 980.38 Some of the gorgeous Yaozhou specimens emerged from the cemetery of the Lü family in Xi’an and dating to the eleventh and early twelfth century have their lip bounded in silver.39 As Yaozhou kilns never adopted upside-down

222

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

firing, it appears that metal rims were applied to enhance their preciousness and not to cover a defect. By the end of the eleventh century the most influential ceramic genres were Ding white porcelain, Yaozhou blue-greenware, Cizhou colorful pieces, and blackwares with abstract decorations, all produced at many kilns distributed all over the country.40 Of these many manufacturing sites, the one located at Qingliangsi, in today’s Baofeng county (Henan), was destined to make history. Established in the Northern Song period to produce Yaozhoutype qingci (also made in the nearby Linru kiln),41 its potters experimented with translucent bluish glazes, some showing opalescent effects, and rapidly developed an unusual genre, distinguished by a sky-blue glaze enhanced by the presence of crackles and the absence (in most cases) of decorative motifs. This new type was called Ru ware from the name of the prefecture under whose administration Qingliangsi fell at the time. What prompted Ru potters to create such a subtle and apparently unassuming ceramic is difficult to ascertain;42 the aesthetic and technological precedent can be traced in Five Dynasties Yaozhou blue-greenware, which was fully glazed, fired on spurs, sky blue, and unadorned. Whatever the cause, Ru ware completely broke with the late eleventh century fashionable style of Ding, Yaozhou, and Cizhou wares. Concerning the production date of Ru ceramics from the 1080s, scholars seem to agree since the astonishing archaeological campaign carried out in 2000–02 confirmed Qingliangsi as the manufacturing place of the Ru pieces kept in the most important museum collections in the world.43 However, the situation is much more complex and can only be understood through a careful evaluation of the archaeological results of the whole area (not just the portion of locus IV) excavated in 2000–02 together with the discoveries of the 2012–14 campaign.44 Qingliangsi locus IV seems to have been set up slightly later than the others and in its early stage, while producing Yaozhou-type, white and black wares (like the other loci so far excavated), it also developed Ru glaze, which in the following phase virtually became the only genre manufactured here. The concentration on one single type of excellent quality and its further technological advancement45 reveal that Ru ware attracted some sort of special attention and no effort was spared to improve it over a short period of time. The stratigraphic sequence of locus IV is reasonably clear, while the absolute dating of the layers is more challenging. Archaeologists have relied on excavated coins: one from the ‫ݳ‬䊀 Yuanfeng era (1078–85) of Emperor Shenzong reign found in the lower levels (labeled as “early phase”) and a few dating from the ‫ݳ‬ㅖYuanfu era (1098–1100) of Emperor ଢᇇ Zhezong (r. 1085–1100) and the ઼᭯Zhenghe era (1111–1118) of Emperor Huizong in strata above (grouped together as the “mature phase”).46 If we accept this dating method, it is

SABRINA RASTELLI

223

possible to conclude that locus IV was set up as an expansion of the Qingliangsi kiln not earlier than 1078, and sometime between 1111 and 1118 it specialized in the firing of Ru ware. Particular aspects of the production mode, such as the manufacture of one single ware of superb quality, the practice of rejecting imperfect objects (found as a thick layer of discarded fragments), and the presence of all the production features from preparing the clay to kilns, suggest a commission of imperial nature. Production at Qingliangsi continued on an even larger scale after the escape of a scion of the Song court to the south, when northern China fell to the Jurchen in 1127. Locus IV made a kind of ceramics almost identical to Northern Song Ru ware, which the archaeologists who excavated the site have decided to label as “Ru-type,” to distinguish it from that produced in the late Northern Song period. This was manufactured at least until the end of the Jin dynasty, when the production of locus IV merged with the rest of the Qingliangsi kiln which, in the meantime, had been firing high-quality blue-green, Jun, and Cizhou black-painted-on-white wares.47 Roughly 50 kilometers from the Ru kilns, the Shenhouzhen manufactory in today’s Yuzhou also developed translucent, sky-blue glazes, but the kind with opalescent effects, destined to be known as Jun ware, rather than the Ru variety made at Qingliangsi. The traditional dating of Jun ceramics, which attributed the flowerpots sub-type to the Northern Song period and classified it as imperial ware, was unsettled by the archaeological campaign carried out in 2001.48 The excavation results showed that Liujiamen potters in Shenhouzhen developed a ware characterized by a rather thick and coarse stoneware body coated with a relatively thick layer of opal-blue glaze (which would have made any carved decoration useless). Objects were fully glazed and fired on large spurs or on a glaze-free footrim. Very soon Liujiamen craftsmen were creating stunning visual effects by adding abstract purple splashes on the dry blue coating; these pieces could also be fully glazed and fired on spurs. Both monochrome and splashed specimens of extremely high quality have emerged from the bottom layers of the Liujiamen kiln site together with Yaozhou-type qingci (which constituted the main output), also of exquisite workmanship. The team of scholars who excavated the site dated these strata to the first quarter of the twelfth century, that is, to Emperor Huizong’s reign, on the basis of careful stratigraphic analysis, presence of coins, comparisons between excavated pieces and datable ones, and historic context—so far not taken into account. Not everybody agrees with this dating: the Henan Cultural Relics and Archaeology Institute, for example, suggests revising the periodization of the lowest levels of the Liujiamen site in relation to the inferior strata they revealed at the Donggou site in Ruzhou, whose content is very similar to that at Liujiamen, but the

224

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

dating cannot precede the Jin dynasty on the basis of a coin of the Jianyan era (1127–30).49 Coins are undoubtedly useful in dating, but their exact position at the time of discovery must be carefully considered in order to avoid hasty conclusions. In archaeological stratigraphy, it is impossible to identify the line clearly dividing one dynasty from the next, unless major changes occurred, and as archaeological excavations at many kiln sites all over northern China have demonstrated, in many cases production under the Jin dynasty continued following in the footsteps of the Song,50 to the point that objects displayed in museums or published in catalougs bear a caption suggesting the period from the end of the Northern Song to the beginning of the Jin dynasty. Maybe the initial phase of the Donggou kiln ought to be put forward to the last years of the Northern Song and considered as one of the many sites established in the area after Liujiamen to produce Jun ware, before this genre became extremely popular in the Jin period, when it was made at tens of manufactories in Henan province and then also in Hebei, Shanxi, and even Inner Mongolia.51 Why Jun ware was developed is difficult to establish, but what is undeniable, despite the coarser body, opal-blue glaze, and large spurs, is the connection between monochrome Jun and Ru ware. In 2014 I had the opportunity to examine Jun sherds recently excavated in Baofeng and to compare them with Qingliangsi Ru ware and Zhanggongxiang samples:52 I was struck by the visual similarities between Jun and Ru glazes and their superb quality. As early as 1951, after an extensive surface investigation that took him from Linruzhen to Yuzhoushi, Chen Wanli䲣㩜䟼 (1892–1969) concluded that blue Jun appeared when Ru ware declined—that is, after the collapse of the Northern Song dynasty—while splashed Jun was a Yuan production.53 Archaeological evidence available at present (almost seventy years after Chen Wanli’s pioneering work) shows that opal-blue Jun began to be made in the early twelfth century, maybe just slightly later than Ru ware, but at least for a few years at the end of the Northern Song dynasty they were both fired at nearby kilns. What induced Liujiamen potters to develop the opalescent blue glaze rather than the crackled, light sky-blue coating characteristic of Ru ware may not be easy to pinpoint, although Nigel Wood has suggested that Jun glazes may have appeared naturally as a result of slight changes concerning raw materials—in particular the wood ash component—used for Northern Song blue-green glazes.54 It could be the unavailability of materials with specific characteristics that prevented Liujiamen craftsmen from accomplishing the Ru glaze,55 or they may have been forbidden from doing so. Whatever the case, their inspiration came from Ru, as the technique of full glazing and firing on spurs, albeit large, suggests.56 The overall effect of Jun ceramics is not as delicate as Ru

SABRINA RASTELLI

225

ware, and the aesthetics of purple-splashed Jun is altogether different, but the point on which to reflect is that at the end of the Northern Song period two nearby kilns developed translucent sky-blue glazes applied on undecorated objects, signaling the introduction of an original ceramic style. The significant changes in the arts are usually attributed to Emperor Huizong, whose role as arbiter of taste is undeniable. Recent research has totally revised his traditionally stereotyped portrait as a weak emperor absorbed in the arts, rather than in state affairs.57 His choices were indeed very political: a great advocate of the New Policies first elaborated by Wang Anshi and championed during most of his reign by 㭑Ӝ Cai Jing (1046– 1126), Emperor Huizong continued to reform the education system, the first step to “unifying morality and making customs uniform” to ultimately transform society.58 In the firm belief that government institutions should be universal and available to everybody, he had schools established in prefectures and counties all over the empire with specialized ones to study painting, calligraphy, mathematics, and medicine.59 In this way, court painters, besides being talented with the brush, also received a full education. Furthermore, Huizong is well known for being an avid collector who ordered the compilation of detailed catalougs of calligraphies, paintings, and bronzes in the imperial treasury. This was not simply an act of love for the arts and antiquities: there were political reasons behind these huge cultural endeavors, until recently scarcely emphasized. Rather than relating to the institutional models of the Han and Tang dynasties, Song emperors aspired to restore the “golden age of antiquity” to legitimize their power, picturing themselves as the sage kings of antiquity who by their very rectitude guaranteed the perfect order of the cosmos and a moral society. In this context, it is not surprising that ancient bronzes were esteemed. Emperors collected them and so did the literati, who appreciated ancient ritual vessels for both the content of their inscriptions (which provided information about the past) and the style of calligraphy in which they were written. Bronze collecting by the court reached an unprecedented pinnacle with Emperor Huizong, who reformed rituals and music and had new instruments cast after ancient bronzes in the imperial repository, in order to make sure that the rites would be performed correctly.60 The interest that both the court and the educated class manifested for ancient bronzes influenced ceramic shapes and decorations with the appearance of ritual forms and motifs depicting metal vessels (Figs. 11.4, 11.5). In relation to ceramics, Huizong is held responsible for choosing Ru style, with its bluish, subtle glaze, over decorated wares which irremediably fell out of favour. Rogers suggested that a Song imperial ceramic style was created by Emperor Huizong when Ru glaze—inspired by Korean blue-green

226

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

FIGURE 11.4: Fragment of Ding ware showing the motif of a metal vase from the Bogutu. From Mu Qing, “Dingyao baici zhuangshi jifa ji dingshengqi de dianxing wenyang,” in Zhongguo Dingyao, ed., Beijing Yishu Bowuguan (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), 290.

SABRINA RASTELLI

227

FIGURE 11.5: Fragment of a ding-shaped vase with decorations imitating those on ancient bronze vessels. Porcelain, Ding ware, excavated in 2009 at the Ding kiln site in Quyang. Hebei Cultural Relics Institute. Photograph by the author.

ware and developed since the 1080s in an area frequented by “fashioninspiring individuals,” like Ruzhou governor Su Zhe (1039–1112)—was brought to his attention.61 According to Rogers’ reconstruction of events, sometime between 1111 and 1118,62 officials of the houyuan zuo (rearcourtyard workshops), which supplied the imperial household with all sorts of goods, summoned Ru potters to the capital to establish a palace kiln. In this way Huizong could directly supervise the court manufactory to meet his aesthetic requirements, which were then inherited by the Guan kilns established in Hangzhou by the Southern Song court under the jurisdiction of the Xiuneisi (Palace Maintenance Office).63 Despite many attempts, the kiln site producing so-called Northern Guan ware still eludes us,64 but given the outer aspect of Ru and Southern Guan ceramics, we are inclined to assume that Northern Guan was characterized by a subtle, sky-blue, translucent and crackled glaze. Rogers is right in arguing about the formation of an imperial taste for ceramics in the twelfth century; however, the archaeological data available at present (if carefully read and interpreted) show different mechanics of change. First of all, subtle sky-blue glazes with (or without) crackles were developed before Huizong’s reign, in the early 1080s when Su Zhe (Su Shi’s younger brother) was governor of Ruzhou and

228

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

production of Ru ware at Qingliangsi locus IV (lower levels) was still entirely commercial. The initial success of the new type of glaze was determined by the taste of the literati who appreciated the spontaneity and simplicity of Ru ware for a few decades, before Huizong noticed it and placed a commission at Qingliangsi (locus IV upper levels). This choice did not eclipse the other genres and did not prohibit their use at court. As clearly demonstrated by archaeological evidence, intensely decorated Yaozhou, Ding, and Cizhou wares were developed at the end of the eleventh century and continued to be made after the invention of delicate, sky-blue translucent glazes (Ru and Jun) and after Emperor Huizong commissioned Ru ware for court use. The high quality of Yaozhou, Ding, Cizhou, Jun, and black wares implies that they were destined for the upper social classes, while inscriptions and documents attest that Yaozhou and Ding were still accepted at court.65 This shows that both the vibrant and the subtle styles coexisted, at the palace as well as among the literati. Despite the fact that for Northern Song scholars it was paramount to define their identity as distinct from that of the throne, the two spheres inevitably interacted and influenced each other. Furthermore, it seems natural that, given the many purposes of ceramics, certain types were preferred for certain functions, therefore one genre did not exclude the others. Ru shapes unearthed at Qingliangsi mainly consist of objects to be used in everyday life, but by refined people who enjoyed them to eat their meals, drink tea and wine, display flowers, burn fragrances, store food or other substances, and support other objects. From the upper layers of locus IV have emerged a few specimens whose shape imitates ancient bronze vessels (Fig. 11.6), thus suggesting their use in some kind of ritual context. The amount of examples of this category at Laohudong kiln site within the Southern Song palace precinct in Hangzhou, as well as at Qingliangsi locus IV under the Jin dynasty and at Zhanggongxiang, is considerably higher in both quantity and variety, thus implying that at least a portion of the output of kilns established by the court was destined to be used in ceremonies. It seems therefore that the creation of the imperial ceramic style derived from late Song literati taste for translucent sky-blue glazes, and once it was appropriated by the palace it also served ritual purposes.66 If the Northern Guan kiln really exists, I expect it to yield shapes inspired by ritual bronzes.67 The definition “imperial” can be applied to the Laohudong and Zhanggongxiang kilns as they were set up by the palace and exclusively supplied the court. Strictly speaking, Qingliangsi was a private commercial kiln, the section of which that produced what we call Ru ware (that is, locus IV) was ordered to make that specific type for the court. This did not make Qingliangsi locus IV an imperial kiln (as the rest of the complex continued

SABRINA RASTELLI

229

FIGURE 11.6: Fanghu-shaped vase, stoneware with blue-green glaze, Ru ware. Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), excavated at the Qingliangsi kiln site. From Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo, Baofeng Qingliangsi Ruyao zhi (Zhengzhou: Daxiang chubanshe, 2008), color plate 160.

to fire other genres to be sold on the market), but it introduced a distinct production mode which later qualified imperial kilns. The same situation was maintained during the Jin dynasty, when Qingliangsi locus IV manufactured excellent Ru ware for the palace, while the other sections fired qingci, Jun, and Cizhou wares. In conclusion it seems that Huizong’s patronage marked a turning point in the history of ceramics in China, not so much for creating a ceramic style as for establishing a production standard observed by all the subsequent dynasties, no matter the prevailing taste of the time. This in turn finally elevated ceramics to the rank of prestigious material, worth collecting and writing about.

NOTES 1. Bernard Leach, A Potter’s Book (London: Faber & Faber, 1940), 38; Shelagh J. Vainker, Chinese Pottery and porcelain: From Prehistory to the Present (London: British Museum Press, 1991), 88; Stacey Pierson with S.F.M. MaCausland, Song Ceramics: Objects of Admiration (London: School of Oriental and African Studies,

230

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

2003), 7–8; Stacey Pierson, “The Sung standard: Chinese ceramics and British studio pottery in the 20th century,” in Stacey Pierson (ed.), Song Ceramics: Art History, Archaeology, Technology: Colloquies on Art and Archaeology in Asia No. 22 (London: Percival David Foundation of Chinese Art, 2004), pp. 81–102. 2. At Sotheby’s Hong Kong 2018 Autumn Auction, a Qianlong period falangcai poppy bowl from the Yamanaka Collection sold at about € 19,000,000, while a reticulated porcelain vase from the same period and same collection fetched around € 17,000,000; see Asian Art Newspaper November 2018. 3. The title of this chapter partially follows that of a paper by Mary Anne Rogers, “The mechanics of change: the creation of a Song imperial ceramic style,” in George Kuwuyama (ed.), New Perspectives on the Art of Ceramics in China (Los Angeles: Far Eastern Art Council, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, University of Hawaii Press, 1992), pp. 64–79. This was done on purpose to pay tribute to Rogers’ research which I found illuminating. 4. John W. Dardess, “La tripartizione della Cina (960–1279),” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing (Turin: Einaudi, 2010), pp. 52–66. 5. Ibid. 6. Only 2 percent of Northern Song high officials had aristocratic origins and of all the biographies of eminent people of the same period reported in the Songshi, only thirty-two concern descendants of noble families. Mario Sabattini, “La società cinese dalla caduta della dinastia Han al XIV secolo,” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing (Turin: Einaudi, 2010), p. 374. 7. Coincidentally, most of the members of this circle were “conservatives” opposing the reforms promoted by Wang Anshi (1021–86), and for this very reason they lost their high positions at court and were sent to serve in remote prefectures. This group is comparatively well known and researched because many more written records have been preserved (and commented upon) over the centuries, while information related to the reformers, regarded as responsible for the downfall of the Northern Song dynasty, was deemed not worth keeping; see Patricia Buckley Ebrey, Accumulating Culture: The Collections of Emperor Huizong (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 2008), p. 44. 8. For different approaches and feelings about collecting by eminent scholars, see Ronald Egan, The Problem of Beauty: Aesthetic Thought and Pursuits in Northern Song Dynasty China (Cambridge (Massachussetts) and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006), 162–236. 9. Buckley Ebrey, Accumulating Culture, 6, p. 17. 10. Kent Deng and Lucy Zheng, “Economic restructuring and demographic growth: demystifying growth and development in Northern Song China, 960–1127,” Economic History Review 68, no. 4 (2015): 1107–1131. 11. Sabattini, “La società cinese,” p. 375. 12. Richard Von Glahn, “Le trasformazioni dell’economia nella Cina dei Song (907–1279),” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing (Turin: Einaudi, 2010), pp. 169–73.

SABRINA RASTELLI

231

13. Buckley Ebrey, Accumulating Culture, p. 77. 14. This happened in previous times too, but while before the output consisted of a small portion of high-quality pieces and a large one of lower quality, the situation changed in the eleventh century. 15. For this and the following comments on the peony see Egan, The Problem of Beauty, pp. 109–161. 16. Ibid. 17. Printing with earthenware movable characters was invented in the eleventh century, but in the Song dynasty woodblock printing remained the most common method. Angelica C. Messner and Martina Siebert, “Scienza e tecnologia,” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing (Turin: Einaudi, 2010), 891–92; Egan, The Problem of Beauty, p. 144. 18. Deng and Zheng, “Economic restructuring and demographic growth,” pp. 1107–1131. 19. Egan, The Problem of beauty, 144–161; Robert Harrist, Painting and Private Life in Eleventh-Century China (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), pp. 46–60. 20. Harrist, Painting and Private Life, pp. 46–60. 21. Egan, The Problem of Beauty, p. 149. 22. Sabrina Rastelli, Nigel Wood, and Chris Doherty, “Technological development at the Huangbao kiln site, Yaozhou, in the 9th to 11th centuries AD – Some analytical and microstructural examination,” in Guo Jingkun (ed.), ਔ䲦⬧、ᆖ ᢰᵟ 5. ഭ䱵䇘䇪Պ䇪᮷䳶 Gu taoci kexue jishu 5. Guoji taolunhui lunwenji (ISAC ‘02) (Shanghai: Shanghai kexue jishu wenxian chubanshe 2002), pp. 179–193; Sabrina Rastelli, The Yaozhou Kilns: A Re-evaluation (Venice: Libreria Editrice Cafoscarina, 2008), p. 154; Julian Henderson, The Science and Archaeology of Materials: An Investigation of Inorganic Materials (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 166. 23. Nigel Wood, “Nought-point-two per cent titanium dioxide: a key to Song ceramics?,” to be published in the Proceedings of the European Meeting on Ancient Ceramics (EMAC), 15th edition, 2019, Barcelona, I am extremely grateful to Professor Wood for sharing with me the unpublished version; Jingyi Shen et al., “Chemical and strontium isotope analysis of Yaozhou celadon glaze,” Archaeometry, vol. 61, no. 6 (2019): 1039–1052. 24. This type remained the main output of the Guantai kilns for a long period of time: so-called “imitation Ding” was made until the early thirteenth century, while plain white-slipped pieces continued to be produced, although the quality deteriorated. Beijing daxue kaogu xuexiˈHenansheng wenwu yanjiusuoˈHandan diqu wenwu baoguansuo, Guantai Cizhou yaozhi (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1997), pp. 477–80, 594–98. 25. This term is rather ambiguous: it translates the Chinese word ≁min (people), in which case it indicates wares made by non-official kilns and destined to be used by common people, that is, not the imperial house, and it also refers to the nature of the ceramic centre managed by private owners. As in English this term

232

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

also means something suited to the taste of the general public, rather than intellectuals, I prefer to translate min as “private” or “commercial” in relation to the type of management of the manufacture, with no implications on the aesthetic quality of the objects there produced. 26. Hugh R. Clark, “The southern kingdoms between the T’ang and the Sung,” in Denis Twitchett and Paul Jakov Smith (eds.), The Cambridge History of China. Vol. 5, part 1: The Sung Dynasty and its Precursors (907–1279) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 175, 284, 594–5. 27. Simon K.S. Chiu, “The history of tea and tea-making in China as recorded in texts, paintings and artefacts,” in Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware (ed.), Chinese Ceramic Tea Vessels: The K.S. Lo Collection, Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware (Hong Kong: Urban Council, 1991), pp. 33–35. 28. Egan, The Problem of Beauty, pp. 182–185. 29. Livio Zanini, “Form and significance of tea connoisseurship in the late Ming dynasty,” unpublished PhD diss., University of Ljubljana, 2017, pp. 35–38. 30. Flagstaff House Museum of Tea ware, Chinese Ceramic Tea Vessels, pp. 26–43. 31. Cai Xiang, 㥦䤴 Cha Lu, quoted in ibid. 32. Rose Kerr and Nigel Wood, Joseph Needham Science and Civilization in China vol. 5: Chemistry and Chemical Technology part XII: Ceramic Technology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 273. 33. Rastelli, The Yaouzhou Kilns, pp. 93–95. 34. Qin Dashu, “Dingyao de lishi diwei ji kaogu gongzuo,” in Beijing yishu bowuguan (ed.), Zhongguo Dingyao (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), p. 258. For the question of upside-down firing, see Huang Xing, “Dingyao wai gua youqi zhuangshi fangfa tanxi,” in Beijing yishu bowuguan (ed.), Zhongguo Dingyao (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), pp. 292–299. 35. Qin Dashu, “Dingyao de lishi diwei ji kaogu gongzuo,” p. 258. 36. Lu You (1125–1210), Laoxue an biji , in Qinding siku quanshu, zi section no. 171, zajia category, general vol. 865, juan 2, f. 11a, says: “At the time of the old capital Ding ware was not admitted into the Palace. Only Ru ware was used because Ding vessels had rough mouthrims.” The same or similar sentence appears in other records: Ye Zhi’s Tangzhai biheng, surviving only in the form of excerpts included in Tao Zongyi’s Chuogeng lu, published in 1366; Gu Wenjian’s Fuxuan zalu, published between 1260 and 1279, but surviving only in the form of extracts included in another writing by Tao Zongyi, the Shuofu, its preface dating 1370. 37. Qin Dashu, “Dingyao de lishi diwei ji kaogu gongzuo,” p. 269; Beijing yishu bowuguan, Zhongguo Dingyao (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012), p. 71. 38. The event is reported in the fourth juan of the ੤䎺‫ۉ‬ਢ Wu-Yue bei shi, see Beijing yishu bowuguan, Zhongguo Dingyao, p. 70. 39. Shaanxisheng kaogu yanjiusuo, Shaanxi lishi bowuguan, and Beijing daxue kaogu wenbo xueyuan, Yishi tongtiao: Shaanxi Lantian Lü shi jiazu mudi chutu wenwu Fine relics unearthed from the cemetery of the Lu clan in Lantian, Shaanxi province (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013).

SABRINA RASTELLI

233

40. The main centres imitating Ding porcelain were Jingdezhen, then called Raozhou, Xiaoxian, and Fanchang in Anhui province, Pengxian in Sichuan, Pingding, Mengxian, Yangcheng, Jiexiu, and Huozhou in Shanxi; Yaozhou-type ware was manufactured at most sites in northern China (the more notable being Linru and Baofeng in Henan), it took the lead on Yue kilns too and was extensively reproduced at Rongxian in Guangxi, Xicun, and Huizhou in Guangdong; Cizhou pieces were made in Hebei, Henan (Mixian, Dengfeng, Lushan), Shanxi, Shaanxi, and Shandong. The picture of ceramic manufacture in China is growing ever more complex, as archaeological excavations increase and show that, unlike what we thought until now, there were many more kilns than ever imagined and they were closely interconnected; the overall output was staggering. 41. As already mentioned, in the Northern Song period Yaozhou was the most influential kiln for the production of blue-green ware with carved decoration; of the many centres that imitated it, Linru in Henan province was probably the leading one. The site was excavated by Peking University in the 1990s, but the archaeological report has never been published. Recently an MA thesis was written on the subject: Chen Dongqiang, “Linruyao qingci yanjiu,” unpublished PhD diss., Zhengzhou University, 2010. In 2001, Professor Qin Dashu of Peking University let me examine the recently excavated Linru material which, in comparison with Yaozhou ware, shows a more transparent, green, shiny, and crackled glaze. The Qingliangsi kiln was probably established as a satellite factory to sustain increasing production of Yaozhou-type ware at the nearby Linru Kiln. 42. Rogers, “The mechanics of change,” p. 66, suggests a Korean connection. 43. Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo, Baofeng Qingliangsi Ruyao zhi (Daxiang chubanshe, 2008). 44. Qin Dashu, “Ruyao de kaoguxue guancha yu tantao,” Zijincheng no. 11 (2015): pp. 83–103. 45. The stratigraphy shows that the application of a thick layer of glaze on biscuitfired shapes was developed slightly later, together with the practice of sealing the saggars with glaze in order to guarantee a more successful reduction firing; the amount of fully glazed pieces fired on small spurs (rather than on the wiped footrim) also increased considerably in the upper layers, see Qin Dashu, “Ruyao de kaoguxue,” pp. 99–100. 46. Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo, Baofeng Qingliangsi Ruyao zhi, p. 140. 47. Qin Dashu, “Ruyao de kaoguxue,” p. 99. 48. Qin, Dashu, Zhao Wenjun, and Li Jing, “Henansheng Yuzhoushi Shenhouzhen Liujiamen Junyao yizhi fajue jianbao,” Wenwu no. 11 (2003): pp. 25–52; Sabrina Rastelli, “The controversial history of Jun ware/La controversa storia delle ceramiche Jun,” in Giovanni Repetti, Sabrina Rastelli, and R.L. Enseki Hancock (eds.), Jun Shards in the Collection of the Chinese Museum of Parma (Brescia: CSAM, 2011), pp. 1–15; Li Baoping, “Numbered Jun wares: controversies and new kiln site discoveries,” Transactions of the Oriental Ceramic Society vol. 71 (2008), pp. 65–77; Qin Dashu, and Xu Huafeng, Beixuan Shuzhai. Junyao Jun yao ceramics from the the Beixuan Shuzhai collection (Hong Kong: Muwen Tang Fine Arts Publication, 2017).

234

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

49. Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo, “Henan Ruzhoushi Donggou ciyaozhi fajue jianbao,” Huaxia kaogu no. 2 (2009): 12–33. 50. Sabrina Rastelli, “Il grande sviluppo della produzione ceramica di epoca Jin,” in Magda Abbiati and Federico Greselin (eds.), Il liuto e i libri: Studi in onore di Mario Sabattini (Venice: Edizioni Ca’ Foscari, 2014), pp. 753–766; Sabrina Rastelli, “Jindai foushi Yaozhouyao de shuaitui shiqi,” in Yaozhouyao Bowuguan (ed.), Zhongguo Yaozhouyao: Guoji xueshu taolunhui wenji (Xi’an: San Qin chubanshe, 2005), pp. 30–34. 51. Rastelli, “The controversial history of Jun ware,” pp. 1–15. 52. The Zhanggongxiang site in Ruzhou city (20 km from Qingliangsi) was discovered in 2000, while the Henan Cultural Relics and Archaeology Institute was excavating at Qingliangsi. Zhanggongxiang was excavated again in 2001 and 2003–04. As soon as it was discovered it was identified as the site manufacturing Northern Guan ware (Guo Musen, “Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao de fajue yu chubu yanjiu,” in Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo (ed.), Ruyao yu Zhanggongxiangyao chutu ciqi (Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 2009), p. 173; Guo Musen, “Qiantan Ruyao, Guanyao yu Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao,” Zhongguo gu taoci yanjiu no. 7 (2001): 11–12), but after a more careful study the production date was postponed to the mid Jin period and the kiln was classified as an imperial kiln serving the Jin court; see Heegwan Lee, “Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao de niandai yu xingzhi wenti tansuo,” Gugong bowuyuan yuankan no. 3 (2013): 20–38. Some scholars believe that it was set up quite late in the Jin dynasty and was still active during the mongol period; see Qin Dashu, “Songadai Guanyao de zhuyao tedian—Jian tan Yuan Ruzhou qingciqi,” Gugong bowuyuan yuankan no. 12 (2009): 68. I had the opportunity to handle the sherds in 2001 and they looked very similar to Ru ware from Qingliangsi; only a very careful comparison revealed that Zhanggongxiang specimens were slightly paler and with less crackles, while the spur marks were rounder. If the dating of the Zhanggongxiang kiln to the mid Jin and early Yuan is accurate, it means that the standards established by Qingliangsi Ru ware were observed for quite a long period of time after the Northern Song dynasty had fallen. 53. Chen Wanli, “Ruyao de wo jian,” Wenwu cankao ziliao no. 2 (1951): 46–53; Chen Wanli, “Yuzhou zhi xing,” Wenwu cankao ziliao no. 2 (1951): 53–56; Rastelli, “The controversial history of Jun ware,” pp. 1–15. 54. At a talk at Harvard Art Museum in March 2019, Professor Nigel Wood advanced this theory and supported it by using analyses of Donggou glazes provided by the Palace Museum to show that compositions at the same Donggou site could shade from blue-green to Jun. He subsequently tested this theory in practice: by simply changing the type of wood ash in the basic glaze recipe (without altering the percentage), the glaze fired either as a Jun-type or a green celadon. I am extremely grateful to Professor Wood for sharing with me these pieces of valuable information. 55. Ru is an aluminous lime glaze, rich in iron and low in titania, probably made from granite, similar to Five Dynasties Yaozhou ware; see Kerr and Wood, Joseph Needham Science and Civilization in China, pp. 604–605.

SABRINA RASTELLI

235

56. It is possible that Jun ware was developed as a consequence of the success met by Ru at court, but there is not enough hard evidence to prove it and personally I am more inclined to believe that the two genres stemmed from experiments to renew production and compete on the market. 57. Patricia Buckley Ebrey and Maggie Bickford (eds.), Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China: The Politics of Culture and the Culture of Politics (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006); Buckley Ebrey, Accumulating Culture. 58. Peter K. Bol, “Emperors can claim antiquity too: Emperorship and autocracy under the New Policies,” in Buckley Ebrey and Bickford (eds.), Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China, p. 182. 59. All the schools from the National Academy down were organized according to the three-hall structure; the intention was to substitute the old examination system with this new scheme based on entrance and promotion exams and scholarships for the students. John Chaffee, “Huizong, Cai Jing, and the politics of reform,” in Buckley Ebrey and Bickford (eds.), Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China, pp. 31–77. 60. The Agency for Deliberating on Rituals was established in 1107 to revise liturgies for court rituals described in two compendia published in the Daguan (1107–1110) and Zhenghe (1111–1118) eras; of these only the second one survives: ઼᭯ӄ⿞ᯠܰ Zhenghe wuli xinyi (New rituals for the five categories of rites of the Zhenghe period). Buckley Ebrey, Accumulating Culture, 166–7; Egan, The Problem of Beauty, pp. 13–14. 61. Rogers, “The mechanics of change,” p. 66. 62. Ye Zhi, Tanzhai biheng in Tao Zongyi, Chuogeng lu. 63. Rogers, “The mechanics of change,” p. 72. 64. When Qingliangsi was excavated, some scholars believed that Ru coincided with Northern Guan (Li Huibing, “Songdai Guanyao ciqi zhi yanjiu,” Gugong bowuyuan yuankan no. 2 (1992): 3–17 and 98–100); when the Zhanggongxiang site was discovered, the immediate reaction was to declare it the manufacturing place for Northern Guan (Guo Musen, “Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao de fajue yu chubu yanjiu”; Guo Musen, “Qiantan Ruyao, Guanyao yu Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao”) and lately rumours that the Huizong’s manufactury is located in Kaifeng are spreading (verbal exchange with Qin Dashu and Ning Xia, Wang Zhiguo, and Wang Hui, “Bei Song Guanyao yizhi zai Kaifeng dongjiao cunzai de kenengxing,” Dongfang shoucang no. 8 (2012): 78–82). 65. The presence of inscriptions on Ding ware attesting that it did still enter the Song court was mentioned above, Qin Dashu, “Dingyao de lishi diwei ji kaogu gongzuo,” p. 269; for an analysis of Yaozhou kilns paying tribute see Rastelli, The Yaozhou Kilns, pp. 33–34, 43–45. 66. This does not mean that official kilns only fired sacrificial vessels, but as the objects were produced by the court for the court, some of them were specifically shaped to be used in ritual contexts. 67. This observation disputes the common explanation given to justify the presence of ritual shapes among Suthern Song Guan ware: as in his escape south the

236

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

future emperor Gaozong (1127–62) had left behind ceremonial bronzes, ritual vessels were made of ceramics, a quicker and cheaper method to solve the urgent matter. It seems instead that the practice of employing ceramic objects had been inaugurated by his father Huizong and did not depend on the shortage of bronze after fleeing to south China. All the more so since before establishing the official manufacture at Laohudong in 1145, the court placed several orders for ritual wares at the Yue complex at the Silongkou and Dilingtou kilns (Nigel Wood, Sabrina Rastelli, and Chris Doherty, “Five Dynasties Yaozhou Celadon: a True Ancestor to Laohudong Guan Ware?,” in Stacey Pearson (ed.), Percival David Foundation Colloquy on Art & Archaeology in Asia No. 22, Song Ceramics: Art, History, Archaeology and Technology (London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 2004), p. 221; Nigel Wood and Sabrina Rastelli, “Parallel developments in Chinese porcelain technology in the 13th–14th centuries AD,” in M. Martinon-Torres (ed.), Craft and Science: International Perspectives on Archaeological Ceramics (Doha: Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation, 2014), p. 227). If ceramic specimens were temporary substitutes for bronze ones, no doubt by 1145 the palace would have had the means to have bronze ritual vessels made.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Beijing daxue kaogu xuexi ेӜབྷᆖ㘳ਔᆖ㌫, Henansheng wenwu yanjiusuo ⋣े ⴱ᮷⢙⹄ウᡰ, Handan diqu wenwu baoguansuo 䛟䜨ൠ४᮷⢙‫؍‬㇑ᡰ, Guantai Cizhou yaozhi 㿰ਠ⻱ᐎミ൰ [The Cizhou kiln site at Guantai], Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1997. Beijing yishu bowuguan ेӜ㢪ᵟঊ⢙侶, Zhongguo Dingyao ѝഭᇊチ [The Ding kilns of China], Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012. Bol, Peter K., “Emperors can claim antiquity too. Emperorship and autocracy under the New Policies,” in Patricia Buckley Ebrey and Maggie Bickford (eds.), Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China,” pp. 173–205, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006. Buckley Ebrey, Patricia, Accumulating Culture: The Collections of Emperor Huizong, Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 2008. Buckley Ebrey, Patricia, and Maggie Bickford, Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China: The Politics of Culture and the Culture of Politics, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006. Chaffee, John. “Huizong, Cai Jing, and the politics of reform,” in Patricia Buckley Ebrey and Maggie Bickford (eds.), Emperor Huizong and Late Northern Song China: The Politics of Culture and the Culture of Politics, pp. 31–77, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006. Chen, Dongqiang 䱸ьᕪ, “Linruyao qingci yanjiu” Ѥ⊍チ䶂⬧⹄ウ (Research on Linru kiln blue-green ware), unpublished PhD diss., Zhengzhou University, 2010. Chen, Wanli 䱸з䟼, “Ruyao de wo jian ⊍ミⲴᡁ㾻(My opinion on Ru kilns).” Wenwu cankao ziliao ᮷⢙৳㘳䋷ᯉ no. 2, 1951, 46–53. Chen Wanli 䱸з䟼, “ Yuzhou zhi xing ⿩ᐎѻ㹼 [Exploring Yuzhou],” Wenwu cankao ziliao ᮷⢙৳㘳䋷ᯉ no. 2, 1951, 53–56.

SABRINA RASTELLI

237

Chiu, Simon K. S., “The history of tea and tea-making in China as recorded in texts, paintings and artefacts,” in Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware (ed.), Chinese Ceramic Tea Vessels: The K. S. Lo Collection, Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware, 26–43, Hong Kong: Urban Council, 1991. Clark, Hugh R., “The southern kingdoms between the T’ang and the Sung,” in Denis Twitchett and Paul Jakov Smith (eds.), The Cambridge History of China, vol. 5, part 1: The Sung dynasty and its precursors (907–1279), pp. 133–205, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Dardess, John W., “La tripartizione della Cina (960–1279),” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing, pp. 52–66, Turin: Einaudi, 2010. Deng, Kent, and Lucy Zheng, “Economic restructuring and demographic growth: demystifying growth and development in Northern Song China, 960–1127,” Economic History Review, vol. 68, no. 4, 2015: 1107–1131. Egan, Ronald, The Problem of Beauty: Aesthetic Thought and Pursuits in Northern Song Dynasty China, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006. Gu, Wenjian 亗᮷㯖, Fuxuan zalu 䋐ௗ䴌䤴[1260–79]. It survives only in the form of excerpts included in the 䃚䜋 Shuofu by 䲦ᇇܰ Tao Zongyi, 1370. Consulted edition: Tao Ting 䲦乢, Shuofu xu 䃚䜋㒼, , published by Li Jiqi Wanweishan tang ᵾ䳋ᵏᇋငኡา, 1646. Guo, Musen 䜝ᵘ἞, “Qiantan Ruyao, Guanyao yu Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao ⍵䈸⊍チǃᇈチо⊍ᐎᕐ‫ޜ‬ᐧチ [Brief talk on Ru, Guan and Ruzhou Zhanggongxiang kilns],” Zhongguo gu taoci yanjiu, no. 7, 2001, 7–13. Guo, Musen 䜝ᵘ἞, “Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao de fajue yu chubu yanjiu ⊍ᐎᕐ ‫ޜ‬ᐧチⲴਁᧈоࡍ↕⹄ウ [Excavation and preliminary research on Zhanggongxiang kiln, Ruzhou],” in Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo ⋣ইⴱ ᮷⢙㘳ਔ⹄ウ (ed.), Ruyao yu Zhanggongxiangyao chutu ciqi ⊍チоᕐ‫ޜ‬ᐧチࠪ ൏⬧ಘ [Ceramics excavated at Ru and Zhanggongxiang kilns], Beijing: Kexue chubanshe, 2009. Harrist, Robert, Painting and Private Life in Eleventh-Century China, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998. Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo ⋣ইⴱ᮷⢙㘳ਔ⹄ウᡰ, Baofeng Qingliangsi Ruyao zhi ᇍѠ␵߹ሪ⊍チ൰ [Ru kiln site at Qingliangsi, Baofeng], Zhengzhou: Daxiang chubanshe, 2008. Henansheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo ⋣ইⴱ᮷⢙㘳ਔ⹄ウᡰ, “Henan Ruzhoushi Donggou ci yao zhi fajue jianbao ⋣ই⊍ᐎᐲь⋏⬧チ൰ਁᧈㆰᣕ [Brief excavation report of the Donggou kiln site in Ruzhou, Henan],” Huaxia kaogu ॾ༿㘳ਔ, no. 2, 2009, 12–33. Henderson, Julian, The Science and Archaeology of Materials: An Investigation of Inorganic Materials, London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Huang, Xing 哴ؑ, Dingyao wai gua youqi zhuangshi fangfa tanxi ᇊチཆ࡞䟹ಘ㻵 ✗ᯩ⌅᧒᷀ [Explorative analysis of the loading method of Ding objects with shaved glaze],” in Beijing yishu bowuguan ेӜ㢪ᵟঊ⢙侶 (ed.), Zhongguo Dingyao ѝഭᇊチ [The Ding kilns of China], pp. 292–99, Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012. Kerr, Rose, and Nigel Wood, Joseph Needham Science and Civilization in China vol. 5: Chemistry and Chemical Technology part XII: Ceramic Technology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

238

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

Leach, Bernard, A Potter’s Book, London: Faber & Faber, 1940. Lee, Hee-gwan (Li Xikuan ᵾௌᇭ), “Ruzhou Zhanggongxiangyao de niandai yu xingzhi wenti tansuo ⊍ᐎᕐ‫ޜ‬ᐧチⲴᒤԓоᙗ䍘䰞仈᧒᷀ [Exploring the date and status of Zhanggongxiang kiln in Rouzhou],” Gugong bowuyuan yuankan no. 3, 2013, 20–38. Li, Baoping. “Numbered Jun wares: controversies and new kiln site discoveries,” Transactions of the Oriental Ceramic Society, vol. 71, 2008, 65–77. Li, Huibing ᵾ䖹ᷴ. “Songdai Guanyao ciqi zhi yanjiu ᆻԓᇈチ⬧ಘѻ⹄ウ [Research on Song dynasty official ceramics],” Gugong bowuyuan yuankan, no. 2, 1992, 3–17 and 98–100. Lu, You 䲨⑨ (1125–1210). Laoxue an biji 㘱ᆨᓥㅶ䁈, in Qinding siku quanshu Ⅽᇊഋᓛ‫ޘ‬ᴨ, zi ᆀ section no. 171, zajia 䴌ᇦ category, general vol. 865, 1–89. Messner, Angelica C., and Martina Siebert, “Scienza e tecnologia,” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing, pp. 867–943, Turin: Einaudi, 2010. Ning, Xia ᆱ༿, Wang Zhiguo ⦻⋫ഭ, and Wang Hui ⦻ᲆ. “Bei Song Guanyao yizhi zai Kaifeng dongjiao cunzai de kenengxing ेᆻᇈチ䚇൰൘ᔰሱь䛺ᆈ൘ Ⲵਟ㜭ᙗ [Possibility of the existence of Northern Song Guan kiln in Kaifeng eastern suburb],” Dongfang shoucang, no. 8, 78–82, 2012. Pierson, Stacey, “The Sung standard: Chinese ceramics and British studio pottery in the 20th century,” in Stacey Pierson (ed.), Song Ceramics: Art History, Archaeology, Technology: Colloquies on Art and Archaeology in Asia No. 22, pp. 81–102, London: Percival David Foundation of Chinese Art, 2004. Pierson, Stacey, with S.F.M. MaCausland, Song Ceramics: Objects of Admiration, London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 2003. Qin, Dashu 〖བྷṁ, “Songadai Guanyao de zhuyao tedian – Jian tan Yuan Ruzhou qingciqi ᆻԓᇈチⲴѫ㾱⢩⛩üüެ䈸‫⊍ݳ‬ᐎ䶂⬧ಘ [Important features of Song dynasty Guan kilns – In conjunction with a discussion on Yuan dynasty blue-green ware from Ruzhou ],” Gugong bowuyuan yuankan, no. 12, 59–75, 2009. Qin, Dashu 〖བྷṁ, “Dingyao de lishi diwei ji kaogu gongzuo ᇊチⲴশਢൠս৺㘳 ਔᐕ֌ [Historical position and archaeological work on Ding kilns,” in Beijing yishu bowuguan ेӜ㢪ᵟঊ⢙侶 (ed.), Zhongguo Dingyao ѝഭᇊチ [The Ding kilns of China], pp. 256–271, Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao chubanshe, 2012. Qin, Dashu 〖བྷṁ, “Ruyao de kaoguxue guancha yu tantao ⊍チⲴ㘳ਔᆖ㿲ሏо ᧒䇘 [Survey and exploration of the archaeology of Ru kilns],” Zijincheng ㍛⾱ ෾, no. 11, 83–103, 2015. Qin, Dashu 〖བྷṁ, and Xu Huafeng ᗀ㨟✭, Beixuan Shuzhai: Junyao ᷿❺ᴨ啻DŽ 䡎ミ Jun yao ceramics from the the Beixuan Shuzhai collection, Hong Kong: Muwen Tang Fine Arts Publication, 2017. Qin, Dashu 〖བྷṁ, Zhao Wenjun 䎥᮷ߋ, and Li Jing ᵾ䶉, “Henansheng Yuzhoushi Shenhouzhen Liujiamen Junyao yizhi fajue jianbao ⋣ইⴱ⿩ᐎᐲ⾎ළ 䭷ࡈᇦ䰘䫗チ䚇൰ਁᧈㆰᣕ [Bulletin of the excavation of the Jun kiln site at Liujiamen in Shenhouzhen, Yuzhoushi, Henan],” Wenwu ᮷⢙, no. 11, 26–52, 2003. Rastelli, Sabrina, “Jindai foushi Yaozhouyao de shuaitui shiqi? 䠁ԓ੖ᱟ㘰ᐎチⲴ㺠 䘰ᰦᵏ? [Was the Jin dynasty a period of decline for the Yaozhou kilns?],” in Yaozhouyao Bowuguan (ed.), Zhongguo Yaozhouyao: Guoji xueshu taolunhui wenji, pp. 30–34, Xi’an: San Qin chubanshe, 2005.

SABRINA RASTELLI

239

Rastelli, Sabrina, The Yaozhou Kilns: A re-evaluation, Venice: Libreria Editrice Cafoscarina, 2008. Rastelli, Sabrina, “The controversial history of Jun ware/La controversa storia delle ceramiche Jun,” in Giovanni Repetti, Sabrina Rastelli, and R. L. Enseki Hancock (eds.), Jun Shards in the Collection of the Chinese Museum of Parma, Brescia: CSAM, 2011. Rastelli, Sabrina, “Il grande sviluppo della produzione ceramica di epoca Jin,” in Magda Abbiati and Federico Greselin (eds.), Il liuto e i libri: Studi in onore di Mario Sabattini, pp. 753–766, Venice: Edizioni Ca’ Foscari, 2014. Rastelli, Sabrina, Nigel Wood, and Chris Doherty, “Technological development at the Huangbao kiln site, Yaozhou, in the 9th to 11th centuries AD: Some analytical and microstructural examination,” in Guo Jingkun (ed.), Gu taoci kexue jishu 5: Guoji taolunhui lunwenji (ISAC ‘02) ਔ䲦⬧、ᆖᢰᵟ 5. ഭ䱵䇘䇪 Պ䇪᮷䳶 [Science and technology of ancient ceramics: Proceedings of the 5th international symposium], pp. 179–193, Shanghai: Shanghai kexue jishu wenxian chubanshe, 2002. Rogers, Mary Anne, “The mechanics of change: the creation of a Song imperial ceramic style,” in George Kuwuyama (ed.), New Perspectives on the Art of Ceramics in China, pp. 64–79, Los Angeles: Far Eastern Art Council, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, University of Hawaii Press, 1992. Sabattini, Mario, “La società cinese dalla caduta della dinastia Han al XIV secolo,” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing, pp. 357–425, Turin: Einaudi, 2010. Shaanxisheng kaogu yanjiusuo 䲅㾯ⴱ㘳ਔ⹄ウ䲒, Shaanxi lishi bowuguan 䲅㾯শ ਢঊ⢙侶, and Beijing daxue kaogu wenbo xueyuan ेӜབྷᆖ㘳ਔ᮷ঊᆖ䲒, Yishi tongtiao: Shaanxi Lantian Lü shi jiazu mudi chutu wenwu ᔲц਼䈳˖䲅㾯 㬍⭠੅∿ᇦ᯿ໃൠࠪ൏᮷⢙ Fine relics unearthed from the cemetery of the Lu clan in Lantian, Shaanxi province, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2013xs. Shen, Jingyi, et al., “Chemical and strontium isotope analysis of Yaozhou celadon glaze,” Archaeometry, vol. 61, no. 6, 1039–1052, 2019. Tao Zongyi 䲦ᇇܰ (1316–?), Chuogeng lu 䕏㙅䤴[1366], in Qinding siku Quanshu Ⅽᇊഋᓛ‫ޘ‬ᴨ, zi ᆀ section no. 346, xiaoshuojia ሿ䃜ᇦ category, general vol. 1040, 735–736. Tao Zongyi 䲦ᇇܰ (1316-?), 䃚䜋 Shuofu [1370], in Shuofu xu 䃚䜋㒼, compiled by Tao Ting 䲦乢, Li Jiqi Wanweishan tang, 1646. Vainker, Shelagh J., Chinese Pottery and Porcelain: From Prehistory to the Present, London: British Museum Press, 1991. Von Glahn, Richard, “Le trasformazioni dell’economia nella Cina dei Song (907–1279),” in Mario Sabattini and Maurizio Scarpari (eds.), La Cina: L’età imperiale dai Tre Regni ai Qing, pp. 117–216, Turin: Einaudi, 2010. Wood, Nigel, “Nought-point-two per cent titanium dioxide: a key to Song ceramics?” To be published in the Proceedings of the European Meeting on Ancient Ceramics (EMAC), 15th edition, 2019, Barcelona. Wood, Nigel, and Sabrina Rastelli, “Parallel developments in Chinese porcelain technology in the 13th–14th centuries AD,” in M. Martinon-Torres (ed.), Craft and Science: International Perspectives on Archaeological Ceramics, (UCL Qatar Series in Archaeology and Cultural Heritage, 1), pp. 225–234, Doha, Qatar: Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation, 2014.

240

THE MECHANICS OF CHANGE

Wood, Nigel, Sabrina Rastelli, and Chris Doherty, “Five Dynasties Yaozhou Celadon: A True Ancestor to Laohudong Guan Ware?” in Stacey Pearson (ed.), Percival David Foundation Colloquy on Art & Archaeology in Asia No. 22, Song Ceramics: Art, History, Archaeology and Technology, pp. 221–232, London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 2004. Ye, Zhi 㩹ለ, Tanzhai biheng ඖ啻ㅶ㺑 [13th century]. It survives only in the form of excerpts included in the Chuogeng lu 䕏㙅䤴, by Tao Zongyi 䲦ᇇܰ, 1366. In Qinding siku quanshu Ⅽᇊഋᓛ‫ޘ‬ᴨ, zi ᆀ section no. 346, xiaoshuojia ሿ䃜ᇦ category, general vol. 1040, 735–736. Zanini, Livio, “Form and significance of tea connoisseurship in the late Ming dynasty,” unpublished PhD diss., University of Ljubljana, 2017.

CHAPTER TWELVE

New Theater and New Drama: Chinese Aesthetic Modernity Through the Drama Activities in the Early Twentieth Century LI KELIN

INTRODUCTION: RISE AND FALL OF THE NEW DRAMA In the general picture of drama activities in the early twentieth century, a new genre of drama, huaju, made an outstanding contribution to the flourishing of drama culture.1 But in less than twenty years, it had declined significantly from its peak. Compared with its bumpy development, other dramas were in a continuous state of blossom. Why was huaju gradually declining at a time of such high enthusiasm for drama? The different interpretations of this phenomenon reflect different ways of conceptualizing the drama activities in this period. Huaju first emerged on the Chinese stage as an imported theatrical genre at the beginning of the twentieth century. By emphasizing the importance of the word “spoken” in “spoken drama,” huaju (䈍ࢗ) distanced itself from 241

242

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

the traditional “song-dance” theater, xiqu (ᠿᴢ). Much of the research into early Chinese huaju has been based on the idea that it was a response to the call for a new era of Chinese literature and art, which the intellectuals believed would help reform the nation and the culture. That is why the chronicle of Chinese huaju is written along with that of the Chinese enlightenment movement: the rise and fall of huaju keeps step with the journey of the country. This is exactly the methodology that Hong Shen ⍚␡ applies in his introduction to early Chinese huaju in the ninth volume of Collection of Chinese New Literature,2 which follows the thread from the serious national crisis after the First World War to the perceived need for a new civilization, then to the call of the vernacular movement, and finally to the emergence of huaju. The perspective of Hong Shen highlights the political aspect of huaju and thus identifies the difference between huaju and other genres of drama. His definition has been commonly adopted as a model with which to write retrospectives of huaju. Apart from political writing, huaju has also been considered as a form of modern mass theater, or as prose produced on the stage that provides new kinds of amusement for the masses. The birth of huaju took place alongside the self-renewal of folk drama. It is from this historical background that huaju started to develop its practice on the stage. In so doing, the image of huaju must be considered against its competition in the form of other stage performance, especially folk dramas like the new Peking Opera (ᯠӜࢗ). Audience reactions clearly illustrate that the new Peking Opera was most popular in Beijing and Shanghai, but most plays of the early huaju failed to win audiences’ admiration. There are many potential reasons for this failure: for instance, the Western stories narrated in huaju may not have impressed Chinese audiences; its practitioners may have lacked stage experience; or its promoters may have had little knowledge of how to organize and manage a theatrical company and production. All of these reasons are based on the belief that early drama is immature drama, and will eventually grow into a more mature and more perfect art. Indeed, by the 1930s huaju masterpieces such as Cao Yu’s The Storm and Lao She’s The Tea House had emerged. This interpretation is largely reflected in the present study.3 The two forms of the early huaju reflect the limitations of their horizons. Given its dual nature as text and stage performance, huaju on the one hand realizes abstract ideas in the theatrical space, and on the other, through the audience’s response, makes visible how these ideas are socially comprehended. From the viewpoint of its promoters as well as its playwrights, huaju is useful in carrying out education for a mass audience and raising national consciousness, hence it is believed to be able to make a special contribution to the movement of the enlightenment. Yet, throughout the two interpretations

LI KELIN

243

of the failure of huaju, what has been commonly ignored is the subjectivity of the audience and the special space in which huaju has been performed. That is, huaju is first of all a theatrical practice and has to manifest on a certain social and physical stage. This leads our investigation to turn to the theatrical experience in this era and thus provide some external perspective. Here we take theatrical practice in Shanghai and in Beijing as representative of two different modes of aesthetics on the stage.

THE NOVEL DREAMS IN NEW THEATER Since the signing of the Treaty of Nanjing (ইӜᶑ㓖) in 1842, Shanghai had been established as a commercial port, open to the world. This international city, through rapid and continuous expansion, had finally grown into an “Oriental metropolis.” Shanghai became such a metropolis through imported goods stimulating the Chinese people’s imagination for modernity. Its “Oriental” style was perceived as an exotic atmosphere in the air, which called out to Westerners to explore this uncultivated land. Different imaginings of the city were inspired, further attracting more and more immigrants. That is why, by the beginning of the twentieth century, there were more than 450,000 residents in the concessions of Shanghai. By 1915, the population of the concessions had reached more than 800,000, and the total population in Shanghai had reached more than two million,4 becoming the largest city in China. More than 80 percent of Shanghai residents had moved from other provinces, especially south-eastern provinces such as Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Anhui. In this semicolonial society of immigrants, the nature of the city’s identity has been kept relatively out of focus. This is one particular feature of the culture in Shanghai. As an interpretation of this feature in Shanghai, Shih Shu-mei ਢҖ㖾 has suggested in The Lure of the Modern that From 1842, Shanghai emerged as a place of the hybridization of Chinese and foreign cultures, where Euro-American (and later Japanese) colonials’ consistent discouragement of nationalist outbursts was aided by the efforts of native merchants and businessmen who often opted for economic stability over political confrontation.5 The political pressure of the colonists was a historical fact; however, what political violence can manage is only to temporarily delay the outbreak of resistance; it cannot avoid it indefinitely. The second factor mentioned by Shih is that commercialism prevailing throughout the society could offer more illumination for understanding the political vacuum in Shanghai. The

244

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

broad avenues in the concessions, the displays in the roadside shops, including the photos of ladies and gentlemen exhibited in the windows or in newspapers; all of these gave every passenger and reader the same identity: consumer. The logic of the commodity strives to make each individual become an equal and free consumer on the surface, so as to dissolve the division of social classes and overcome national differences. A political hierarchy is unstable, especially in an era of frequent political events. The more turbulent the external world is, the more anxious people are about the stability of life. The most convenient way to resolve this anxiety is to consume, since one’s anxiety is transferred into the maintenance of daily life and the search for useful products, from small items like cups or saucers to the larger expenditures such as furniture or an apartment, each of which makes its promise of a peaceful life, although the effect is temporary. When different groups of immigrants—from the south-eastern part of the country during the Taiping rebellion (ཚᒣཙഭ䘀ࣘ), from all parts of the country during the period of the Northern Warlords (े⌻ߋ䰰ᰦᵏ 1912–1927), and even around the world during the First and Second World Wars—fled their hometowns and arrived in Shanghai, the rich goods and dazzling imports in the department stores rekindled the hope of new life and diluted the bitterness of the past. The desire catalyzed in the air of commercialism joined with the emotional urge to break loose from the pressure of political situations, and eventually manifested in the entertainment sector. The research of Catherine Yeh6 has provided us a detailed picture of the entertainment industry in Shanghai, the most important entertainment center in China. To provide a more precise image, here I quote one paragraph from a note taken in this time: If we just take one small corner of the concession as example, what is at least used up here daily includes forty dan (⸣, 4,000 liters) of the sunflower seeds, five or six hundred jin (2.5 to 3 million grams) of candles, without including the ground fire lamps and the oil lamps. And for a smoking house, lamp oil is used up at least for twenty or thirty baskets a day.7 In every teahouse or courtesan house, sunflower seeds were served to a client when he was kept waiting for a performance or for a courtesan. Apart from this, what is particularly notable here is the lighting material: candles, ground fire lamps, and oil lamps, all of which are old-fashioned methods of lighting. A great quantity of candles and lam oil was needed for something more than light: the flickering flame imbued the space with an enigmatic atmosphere and set the clients’ mood for the following service. Not only

LI KELIN

245

were the interior of these public spaces decorated with light, but the outdoors also, especially the avenues in the concessions, were equipped with gaslight and electric lights. The brightening of those areas transformed Shanghai into a world refusing darkness. To ponder the relation between the public lighting and urban life, let us consider the history of Paris during the eighteenth century. As Paul Virilio has explained, the population of the city mushroomed after the installation of artificial light.8 The light drove out the darkness of the night and reassured the inhabitants of security. What made the light of Shanghai more artificial was not the security or visibility provided by light, but rather the expectation of seduction and adventure in the night. Encouraged by the brightness of the streets, people gave up the long tradition of curfew and took their chances on the street. These wanderings would eventually be diverted by the flash of the neon lights on the theater buildings, especially the newly built or remodeled Western-style theaters, like the Grand Theater (བྷ㡎ਠ) and Waking Theater (䟂㡎ਠ). Every passenger could clearly perceive the designer’s ambitions of novelty through the neon lights on the facade, the wide and extravagant entrance, and the clean and bright interior space arrangement. The model of a novel theater was well represented in one advisement in Shenbao (⭣ᣕ): We spent a lot of money to build this theater on Hubei Road, oriented east and west. Our theater is tall and spacious, having specially improved and perfectly integrated Chinese and Western culture. The theater is built up with superior architecture materials and superb building methods. In the theater, the seats are wide and relaxing; electric fans are also installed so it is comfortable in any season of the year . . . And with more than one hundred electric lights and gas lights, every corner upstairs and downstairs is very bright.9 Given that this theater was reconstructed in an old teahouse, the advertisement highlighted its advanced features, that is, the new equipment and technology, which were adopted as the symbols of its modernity. Along with the novel architectural style, it was an attempt to invent a modern Chinese theater out of an old-fashioned teahouse. From the old teahouse to the new theater, the biggest change was in the internal space. A new stage design and seat arrangement were utilized to allow viewers to more easily focus on the performance. Their personal behavior was also conditioned through the operation of spatial order: look ahead, sit up straight, be quiet, and concentrate on the stage. These factors led to fundamental changes in the functions of theater. The old teahouse offered itself as a public venue for people of different classes to socialize. The merchants gathered in the side

246

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

compartments to compete for their wealth and show off the beauty of their female companions. People from the upper classes held festival gatherings and group meetings in the boxes. Poor people were also permitted to relax and chat in the main hall while listening to the play. Now, all of these classified and divided spaces in teahouses had been replaced by one egalitarian public theater space. A complaint about the old teahouse for its “noisy and pluralistic environment,” as reported by Pang Laikwan,10 is indicative of the preference for new theaters over old teahouses at that time. Driven by curiosity for the novelty, or more precisely the desire for modernity, throngs of people poured into the new theater before they fully reflected on the contrasting cultures embodied by the old teahouse and the Western theater. Praise of Western theater has been found even from the first record of the intellectuals’ visit to Europe, which instigated a sense of preference toward the Western style over the Chinese style. Their inclination was well expressed in a report from Shenbao in 1883, entitled “The Difference between the Chinese and Western Theaters.” As a representation of the collective understanding of theater at that time, this report says of the Chinese teahouse, The hall and the box are not clearly distinguished. Some audiences come drunkenly and stumble hard (in the hall) . . . Some keep cheering so loudly that all the others couldn’t hear the play and only heard the clapping and laughter from their neighbors. By contrast, in the Western-style theaters, Theatrical space is divided into upper, middle, and lower third-class parts, in all of which each seat is very clean and comfortable. No idler is permitted to enter, so everyone can enjoy the performance freely and without being disturbed. This comparative article does not specify which Western theaters are referred to; perhaps the Lanxin Grand Theater (‫ޠ‬ᗳབྷࢗ䲒), constructed opposite the British Consulate in Shanghai in 1874, or an amalgam impressed on the author from his traveling notes. Whether this reflected reality or an imagination, the Western theaters constitute a mirror reflecting the defects of Chinese theaters. Here, the Chinese theaters are represented merely as simple and crude facilities and a chaotic environment for audiences, because as the article goes on to point out: It would be incompatible to force Chinese to watch Western [theater], since the plays always follow their own customs. But if Chinese can

LI KELIN

247

imitate the Western theater in terms of disciplines and orders, then both of them will be almost perfect and worthy to visit.11 This Chinese-essence and Western-utility point is a typical example of the commentary on Western-style theater during that time, which echoed Zhang Deyi’s (ᕐᗧᖍ) praise of Western-style theater in his Maritime Stories (1870) [㡚⎧䘠ཷ] and Li Shuchang’s praise of the Paris Opera House in his Western Magazine (1900) [㾯⌻ᵲᘇ]. In the writings of those intellectuals who have traveled abroad, theaters have been an important phenomenon for them to discuss and compare with Chinese theater. In their notes, apart from the size and layout of theaters and the use of technology and equipment, very little has been written about the plays’ narratives or the style of expression of the performances. The reason for this may be that these writers did not have enough comprehension of the ideology of Western theater or that they had not constructed a perspective that accounts for the Western idea of drama. That is why most comparisons have resulted in the belief that the defects of our traditional theaters were only due to the inadequate refinement of theater buildings, uninformed space management, and the lack of advanced equipment. It is worthy to note that in the process of the transformation of the old theaters and the construction of new ones, real practice has greatly exceeded these theoretical imaginings. The new theater not only observed the stage design and spatial arrangement of Western theater, but also creatively adds other elements. [The] Doubly New Theater went even further and advertised itself less as a theater than as a spectacle, with an elaborate rooftop garden featuring a distorting mirror, an elevator and an observation tower, and obscure primitive people, who were probably performers in a foreign circus.12 Every theater tried its best to enhance its entertainment as much as possible for the purpose of winning more admiration and attractiveness. In this way, the new programs in the new theaters greatly stimulated people’s desire for novelty. Further, in order to remain competitive, a theater must be able to supply novelty and present the audience with a fantastic world at any given second. In the early performances of huaju, there were already established methods for making good use of stage technologies, including sound and light devices, and realistic worlds of ice and snow were created on the stage and turned into bright landscapes with breeze and moonlight in seconds. In fact, it was the early huaju that introduced the modern stage to China. But when all these stage technologies were applied in the performances

248

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

of Peking Opera, it produced a more fantastical atmosphere and stronger sensory stimulation. For example, if the exotic imagination shown in Peking Opera was not compelling enough, then the performance would be combined with magic show, as in the thrilling moment in Civet Cat Exchanged for Crown Prince (⤨⥛ᦒཚᆀ). In this sense, the competition between huaju and Peking Opera in fact is not a competition of their representations of new culture and old culture, but rather a competition of sensory stimulation and imagination. The early huaju performances indeed impressed the viewers with their exquisite stage setting. Yet when people saw Mei Lanfang (ẵ‫ޠ‬㣣) wearing fairy clothes and flying from the earth to the “Moon Palace,” what they felt was not merely an amazing spectacle but rather a world of fantasies that no one wanted to leave. Therefore, people indulged in this dreamland not because the calling of enlightenment was not loud enough, but because the magic of theater fantasy was too strong to be challenged. Although theater is not an “iron house,” the real pleasure produced in this cement-built place is enough to deprive the sleeping people of their ability to wake up. In the commodity society, the degree of visual stimulation has exceeded that in any period in history. People need to quickly run their eyes over the neon lights, billboards, road signs, traffic lights, and their whole surroundings in order to collect the most possible information from the outside world and make instant judgments. The urban environment forces our eyes to accept such complex training. Yet once the eyes adapt a proper response to the foreign object, they will look for newer stimuli in order to sustain their excitement. That is, visual pleasure demands the persistence of novelty. With regard to novelty, Walter Benjamin points out that “Newness is a quality independent of the use value of the commodity. It is the origin of the illusory appearance that belongs inalienably to images produced by the collective unconscious.”13 Novelty is a relative value and merely identifies what is newer, but never describes its origin: what makes it a novelty. What Benjamin suggests in his account of novelty is that the popular pursuit of fashion is the result of a series of interacting social mechanisms such as social atmosphere, public opinion orientation, advertising, and so on. The novelty of huaju was set up in newspapers by stressing its newer stage performance and progressiveness from conveying scientific knowledge and truth.14 In the discourse stemming from huaju, there is the spiritual pursuit of replacing backwardness with advancement not only in the drama world but also throughout society. When these views are supplemented by the passion of national rejuvenation in newspapers, they undoubtedly enhance the masses’ passion for this new genre of drama and their expectation of novelty on the stage and in society. Of course, the same rhetoric is also suitable for

LI KELIN

249

advertising the new Peking Opera, which we will see in the next section. As a consequence, novelty is consumed as the new form of stage performance and new technologies introduced through drama, so it does not effectively absorb the appeal for enlightenment in the application of these novel methods. To continue to stimulate the audience’s interest, the theater must provide continuous novelty. It is out of this need for novelty that huaju lands itself on the stage in Shanghai; it is this same need that drives huaju off the stage when the passion therein gradually and eventually wears off. With the perspective of Benjamin, we have seen that as an illusory image, novelty emerges from an effort of management. Yet, it becomes real and irresistible when it presents a powerful effect through the superimposition of the illusions in theater. In the suffocating desert of semicolonial Shanghai, people used this mirage in order to temporarily leave the pain and fear of reality, to completely indulge themselves in the dreamland on the stage. Therefore, by producing a novel spectacle in excess, the new theater seduces people away from their real existence. In this way a traditional audience becomes a modern one, now so indulged in the illusionary world they forget their place in the real world. Yet, the structure of aesthetic modernity is not so simple. We still need to explain how to address the psychological blankness left after the suspension of self-identity. This gap must be overcome so that the audience can support and enjoy the visual feast more actively and deeply.

NATIONAL IDENTITY IN THE NEW OPERA Compared with the eagerness for new theaters and the synergy between new culture and new theaters in Shanghai, drama activities in Beijing appear to have had a kind of inertia, and the influence of new culture in theaters is not obvious. Alternatively, the novelty in this old imperial city may manifest in a different way. The complication of the vision of the stage is partly revealed through the writings of the new intellectuals, especially the May Fourth group of writers. In Jiang Deming’s Beijing: Beijing by Modern Writers (ဌᗧ᰾ˈेӜѾ˖ ⧠ԓ֌ᇦㅄлⲴेӜ, 1992) and later, Rumengling: Old Beijing by Celebrities (ྲỖԔ˖਽ӪㅄлⲴᰗӜ, 1998) based on the former, he collected essays and anecdotes of the new intellectuals who lived in Beijing after May Fourth, including their personal experience or memories of life in Beijing. Among these numerous chapters, there is one place mentioned most frequently, Changdian (ল⭨), which was the center of bookstores, traditional stationery, and antiquities in Beijing at that time. In fact, Changdian was less than half an hour’s walk from the famous theaters such as Guanghe Tower (ᒯ઼ᾬ) in

250

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

the meat market, the Sanqing Garden (йᒶഝ) in Dashilan, and the Civilized Tea Garden (᮷᰾㥦ഝ) and Civilized Theater (᮷᰾ᠿ䲒) in the west of Zhushikou. But there were very few writings on the new phenomena in theater. We may better understand this disregard of drama through a series of articles. From June to November 1918, New Youth published several articles, including those of Hu Shi (㜑䘲), Qian Xuantong (䫡⦴਼), Fu Sinian (‫ڵ‬ᯟᒤ), and Liu Bannong (ࡈॺߌ), where these “new youths” made their critiques and rebukes of traditional opera, especially its feudalistic ideology.15 However, there were always some emotions or attitudes irrelevant to drama but withdrawn in their critiques. For example, in his essay “Opera in Beijing,” Zhou Zuoren (ઘ֌Ӫ) talked about his aversion to and disdain of the “the worst parts” of the Beijing opera, particularly “the tangled Ai-AiAi-ohh-ohh” in the play.16 Yet, clearly perceivable is the political sentiment hidden in the surge of nostalgia arising from his quotation of Lu Xun’s (励䗵) writings on “village drama” (⽮ᠿ). The contrast between Peking Opera and a local drama, for example the village drama from Zhejiang, is rendered possible under the relegation of the Peking Opera, which had been a representative of the royal entertainment but had now become only one genre of drama among others. This relegation was seemingly caused by the nostalgia or political discontent of the intellectuals, which indeed was often heard from the intellectuals from the south. But the relegation would not be easily accepted without the Orientalism awareness among the new youth. In Through the Eye of the Dragon, Jiang Ji discussed the enthusiasm of Westerners for Peking Opera and their suggestion that the Chinese should protect the traditional art represented by Peking Opera and not blindly follow the West.17 If the new intellectuals agree with the idea in this suggestion, then it follows that they will soon regard Kunqun (ᰶᴢ) or any other local drama as a better representation of the ancient art of China, since they have a longer history and a more representative authenticity. This Orientalism complex mixed with emotional nostalgia encourages the new intellectuals to bypass the theaters in their tour of Beijing, and at the same time it encourages neo-traditionalists to persist in guarding this cultural sanctuary. As early as 1908, when Wang Zhongsheng (⦻䫏༠) joined Tian Jiyun’s (⭠㓚Ӂ) Yucheng theatrical troupe (⦹ᡀ⨝), huaju had already landed on the stage in Beijing. Later, more huaju performances were introduced from Shanghai to Beijing, however they did not fully win the audience’s attention or acceptance in this old city. Even after the May Fourth movement, Peking Opera was the most popular performance on the stage of Beijing theater. The critiques from the new intellectuals have spurred strong defense of Peking Opera by the neo-traditionalists. Through their defense, Peking

LI KELIN

251

Opera was gradually taken as a national quintessence and the famous actors were the spokespeople of this. For example, Yi Shunding (᱃亪唾), a poet at the end of the Qing dynasty and the early Republic of China, depicts Mei Lanfang as symbolizing the “national flower” in his poem: Our noble nation has been depressed for a long time; so few people able to take the responsibility of rejuvenation. Because the last national glory is left on you [Mei Lanfang], the prosperity of the nation lies in the blooming of the national flower (⾎᰾ॾ㛴ѵ㩗ᶑˈᔪ䇮Ӫ᡽ӖᇲሕDŽ ⪰⫘ᒴѕᜏ࢙⊍ˈഭ兲享ੁഭ㣡ᤋ).18 Through their writings, these neo-traditionalists expressed their admiration of the famous players and thus competed with other writers for authority in the world of traditional culture. In this sense, the competition among the players on the stage closely corresponded with the competition between the intellectuals behind the stage. There remain many stories about the famous intellectuals defending the reputations of the famous players. For example, the success of Mei Lanfang must be attributed to support from a group of people including Qi Rushan (喀ྲኡ), Li Shizhan (ᵾ䟺ᡑ), Feng Shuguang (ߟ㙯‫)ݹ‬, Zhao Shuyong (䎥਄䳽), and Wen Gongda (᮷‫ޜ‬䗮). The former two were famous intellectuals in Beijing at that time, and the latter three all had very high political or social positions. Through their strong support, Mei Lanfang had already won the laurel of the “King of the Opera” (ࢗ⭼བྷ⦻) at the age of twenty-five. The fierce competition among the famous players, and the heated debates among the famous literati, paralleled with each other and created a strong atmosphere of opera culture across the society. As one of the effects of this, the stage was to become the renaissance place of traditional art, and Peking Opera was consequently regarded as the best representation of national culture. The success of Mei Lanfang is worthy of discussion insofar as he had the most influence and his plays have caused controversies for decades. Regarding the specialty of Mei’s theatrical performances, Catherine Yeh once pointed out: “What has been highlighted is his bodily movements and facial expressions. In his performance, singing is only auxiliary while action is relatively the primary.”19 Mei’s skills in bodily movement and facial expressions were incomparably exquisite. In addition to his skills in body language, Mei paid no less attention to deciding on appropriate costumes and using advanced stage technology so as to achieve the best effects. In 1915, when he was preparing his play The Legend of Chang’s Ascent to the Moon (ᄖၕ྄ᴸ), Mei chose to cooperate with the Shuangqing Troupe mainly because this troupe had the latest stage equipment at that time. He

252

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

expressed the importance of costumes through the example of his play Peony Pavilion (⢑ѩӝ): In the scene of “A Dream in the Garden,” since the environment is of a reclusive calm, if the actor wears a very lively cloak on the stage, it will destroy this sense of calm. Yet, if the cloak is too plain, it would not fully represent the innocence and liveliness of a girl. Therefore, I intend to make a rosy cloak with the collar and the edges decorated with appropriate embroidered lace, which I think will be much better than the current one.20 The great care that Peking Opera actors took of their costumes could be explained from the long tradition of theatrical performance. This tradition was greatly strengthened by the enthusiastic pursuit of costumes and headwear, stage decoration, and new lighting in the court performances in the last eras of the Qing dynasty.21 Since any trend from the inner court had a direct impact on the folk opera troupes in the capital, even though limited by their financial resources, all the troupes were still striving to approach the royal style and pursue extraordinary performance. In this sense, Mei Lanfang’s attitude to appearances is to a certain degree due to the competition among the actors. As one effect of this competition, the new costumes and stage equipment greatly enhanced the visual excitement for audiences, and further perfectly presented the Oriental legend that belonged exclusively to the traditional opera. The more success Lanfang’s theatrical performance attained, the more critical voices it aroused in its time. As the editor-in-chief of the literary supplement of Shengjing Times (ⴋӜᰦᣕ), Mu Rugai (ぶ݂р) severely criticized Mei’s new opera performance and pointed out that only traditional operas had value: Native-born Beijingers, who have often heard the famous opera actors’ singing since their childhood and whose ears are used to the traditional singing methods and eyes used to the traditional performance styles, they have [a] different opinion from those outsiders of other places . . . For those who think that the new opera is progressive, many among them pay special attention to the richness of appearance and take this as aesthetic liberation. Then it is out of the same kind of attitude that Mei Lanfang invented his new costumes and that the public expressed their appreciation. This kind of attitude even infects the actors playing martial roles since they have to be in the same competition of appearance. At last, our opera becomes neither fish nor flesh. The enthusiasm of the little tricks draws the play into a complex (and unrecognizable) state.22

LI KELIN

253

Besides the critiques of Mu, there were other similar sentiments toward the drama, for example, Zhang Houzai (ᕐ৊䖭), who debated with the new intellectuals through New Youth and sneered at their ignorance of opera. Among these neo-traditionalists, there was a certain amount of pride or selfauthority in their identity. In the case of Mu, the arrogance of his noble origin is well represented through his emphasis of the importance of Beijing geoculture in Peking Opera and his awareness of the mission to defend the orthodox Manchu culture. Apart from his origin, what must also be considered is his personal experience of studying in Japan during his youth and later his close contact with Japanese culture in Manchuria, which we believe had a direct relation to his perspective. Based on the lesson of the Takazuka Opera Troupe in Japan, Mu proposed that “we” must maintain the tradition of paying attention to the singing in Peking Opera and must refuse the kind of improvement that gains in one area at the expense of others. Most of all, we must take caution not to let Peking Opera lose its cultural identity and transform into an ambiguous figure between Chinese and Western culture. Mu’s criticism poses a profound question of the ontology of the opera: between oration and visuals, which one is the primary attribute of the opera? On this issue, I agree with the view of Jiang Ji: from the historical study of drama, oration was indeed the first attribute of Chinese opera; however, with the intervention of Western stage culture and stage art, Chinese opera performance started more and more relying on visual effects.23 Here, we are reminded to address the competition between oration and visuals in opera in the context of international cultural communication. In the long tradition of Chinese opera, oration and visuals have been in a balanced relationship and have strengthened one another. However, this kind of mutually interacting synchrony was finally broken in front of audiences completely outside the tradition, purely as a result of their different degrees of comprehension toward the different attributes of drama. The comprehension of lyrics and dialogue requires some basic understanding of the skills of singing and speaking as applied in the opera. By contrast, the visual sense is more easily produced automatically so that it brings equality among the viewers no matter how different the interpretations they have toward the play. Because of the greater effectiveness of visuals, all visual elements in the play more easily attract the audience from different backgrounds. The cultural communication between China and the West constitutes an important background for Mei Lanfang’s new opera. Thorough awareness of this background directly helped the actor in his success. As an important supporter and advisor of Mei Lanfang, Qi Rushan, when preparing the play for him, deliberately invoked the legendary play that was familiar to the

254

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

audience, or some sections with little context but strong sensation, so as to reduce the difficulty in audio comprehension and simultaneously enhance visual attraction. He has clearly stated the two principles in his idea of Mei’s opera: “one is to win the most audience for Mei; the other is to take this opportunity to develop Chinese opera in the world.”24 As a matter of fact, the prominence of the visual effects in Mei’s new opera satisfied the audience’s need for novelty and at the same time the mental imagination of Orientalism in the international context. The local reports on Mei’s overseas performances were full of admiration for the harmony between his male body (essence) and his feminine beauty (appearance) in the plays. These affirmations from outside in turn reinforced the resolve of Qi and his followers to create new Peking operas for the international stage. However, conversely, catering to outside tastes would unavoidably run the risk of undermining the identity of Peking Opera. Mu’s complaints about the new Peking Opera’s ambiguous identity between China and the West typify the doubts about Lanfang’s performance, which related to it having become merely “mime performance and costume display.”25 Neither his denial of the new Peking Opera nor his advocacy for traditional performance were anything other than attempts to satisfy the West’s desire for a deeper insight into Chinese culture and a purer Chinese image. In both Mu’s return to traditional opera and Qi’s innovation of new opera, we experience a nostalgic imagination. Yet the premise of their imagination presupposed the gaze from the West. It was out of this presupposition that Mei Lanfang’s performances were constantly renewed and consciously presented a beautiful Oriental figure and brilliant mythological scene. Although his stage currently is indeed in Beijing, Beijing is no longer simply prominent only on the map of China, but also on the map of the world. National quintessence and national operas would become more significant on the international stage. Thus, the responsibility of the theater not only includes providing a feast of visual illusion, but also presenting the beauty of national image and cultural value. In this sense theatrical activities are spontaneously imbued with political value and have become an important channel for one to establish one’s cultural identity and join the higher social class. This is far beyond what the early huaju was able to provide.

THE NEW MYTH OF MODERNITY In the tradition of Chinese ritual and musical education, drama itself had never occupied an important position in the thinking of the intellectuals. Although some intellectuals such as Li Yu (ᵾ⑄) showed great interest in

LI KELIN

255

drama, they had to justify the legitimacy of the drama by elaborating its function of “advocating good and admonishing evil” through essays such as “Informal Writings of a Leisure Life” [䰢ᛵ‫ڦ‬ᇴ]. Furthermore, once there was a political crisis, people would naturally take up a sharp critique of drama, reproaching any amusement in the face of the national situation. This attitude is well expressed in the poem of Du Mu (ᶌ⢗): “Some singsong girls who know no sorrow of a nation’s fall, are still singing the decadent song ‘Back Court Flower’ in hall” [୶ྣн⸕ӑഭᚘ䳄⊏⣩ୡਾᓝ㣡]. Yet if we apply another perspective, we will find that these arguments against drama reveal its inherent tendency to transcend ideology (and associated morality) and its capacity for the pure expression afforded by sensation. This illustrates a historical constant: on one hand, Chinese drama is consistently accompanied by intellectuals’ critiques and interrupted by government intervention. On the other hand, drama activities have never been fully banned in any dynasty. It seems that drama, as a kind of folk entertainment, has a special vitality under political pressure and can evolve into different forms according to the current situation. In the eras between the end of the Qing dynasty and the beginning of the Republic of China, what made drama activities different from other epochs is the rejuvenation of the nation and recreation of the culture. Because of this, not only actors or their fans but also the new and traditional intellectuals participated in the movement to improve drama. Liang Qichao, Chen Duxiu, and their comrades publicly spoke of the social function of new drama and advocated its improvement in every way.26 Some of them wrote new plays or rewrote old plays with new ideology, such as Liang Qichao’s Ban Dingyuan Pacifies the Western Region [⨝ᇊ䘌ᒣ㾯ฏ] (1898) and Chen Duxiu’s (䱸⤜⿰) Lifetime Events [㓸䓛བྷһ] (1919). The marginal existence of drama had suddenly become the center of national salvation: it was now the way for intellectuals to demonstrate their views, while the stage was the platform for them to speak to society and inspire hearts. The theater thus became a special field where intellectuals tried to construct their utopia and present to the public their ideas of a new life. In his essay “On Opera,” defending the new drama, Chen Duxiu proposed five principles for improving drama. The second principle, which concerns “adoption of new techniques,” is a good statement of his expectation on the functions of new drama: The speech made in the play is the most efficient manner to educate the masses with scientific knowledge. The performance with the various equipment of optics and electricity could encourage the masses to study the truth of objects through these wonderful phenomena.

256

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

In Chen Duxiu’s proposition, the adoption of optoelectronics and other techniques would arouse the curiosity and quest for scientific knowledge, cultivate the scientific spirit in the masses, and thus have a far-reaching impact on scientific popularization. However, as we have seen before, the new stage has not developed a scientific spirit. On the contrary, with the help of photoelectric sound effects, the stage keeps producing and renovating sensory stimulation and national imagination, which subsequently have replaced the quest for enlightenment with the pleasure of the dreamland. This is not because the people in this era have no capacity to master science or technology. On the contrary, what is suggested here is that scientific rationality is only an instrumental rationality. It will convey different functions according to the different subjects that apply to it. In this sense, Chen’s expectation seems too wishful since he ignores the ongoing fact: the technological innovation introduced by huaju has been absorbed by the logic of commodity and transformed into a form that produces novelty on one side and, on the other, has been absorbed by the logic of nationalism and become a means to reinvent the Oriental image for the gaze of the West. New technology is not enough to open an independent space for new drama, especially huaju, nor can it shake the stage of traditional opera. If the fundamental purpose of improving drama is to build up new knowledge and eliminate old mythology, then this mission first needs to justify itself on the premise of rethinking modernity, otherwise it will inevitably fall into one more myth: the myth of modernity. This is why the dawn of victory of the national enlightenment through new drama is still shrouded in the shadow by the ambiguous light of modernity.

NOTES 1. This chapter is sponsored by the international scholar training program of Renmin University. 2. Hong Shen (ed.), Collection of Chinese New Literature: Dramas (Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House, 2003). ⍚␡㕆䘹ljѝഭᯠ᮷ ᆖབྷ㌫Ьᠿࢗ䳶NJˈк⎧˖к⎧᮷㢪ࠪ⡸⽮ , 2003. 3. See Fu Jin, History of 20th Century Drama (Beijing: China Social Sciences Press, 2016). ‫ڵ‬䉘ˈljц㓚ᠿࢗਢNJˈѝഭ⽮Պ、ᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. 4. Zou Yiren, Research on the Changes of Old Shanghai Population (Shanghai: Shanghai People’s Publishing House, 1980), p. 90. 䛩‫׍‬ӱˈljᰗк⎧Ӫਓਈ䗱 Ⲵ⹄ウNJˈк⎧Ӫ≁ࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1980. 5. Shih Shu-Mei, The Lure of the Modern: Writing Modernism in Semicolonial China 1917–1937 (Berkeley: University of Califonia Press, 2001), p. 234. 6. C.V. Yeh, Shanghai Love: Courtesans, Intellectuals, and Entertainment Culture, 1850–1910 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006).

LI KELIN

257

7. Huang Shiquan, Songnan Dream Record (Shanghai: Ancient Books Publishing House 1989), p. 117. 哴ᔿᵳˈlj␎ইỖᖡᖅNJˈк⎧ਔ㉽ࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1989. 8. P. Virilio, The Vision Machine, trans. Julie Rose (London and Bloomington: British Film Institute and Indiana University Press 1994), p. 9. 9. “Newly Open Chungui Teahouse,” Shenbao, August 20th, 1907.Āᯠᔰ᱕Ṳ㥦 ഝāˈlj⭣ᣕNJ 1907 ᒤ 8 ᴸ 20 ᰕ. 10. Pang Laikwan, The Distorting Mirror: Visual Modernity in China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press 2007), pp. 135–143. 11. “The Difference between the Chinese and Western Theatres,” Shenbao, November 16, 1883. “ѝ㾯ᠿ侶н਼䈤āˈlj⭣ᣕNJ 1883 ᒤ 11 ᴸ 16 ᰕ. 12. Pang, The Distorting Mirror, p. 154. 13. W. Benjamin, The Arcades Project, trans. H. Eiland and K. McLaughlin (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University, 1999), p. 11. 14. Xu Haoshi, “Advising the new dramatist,” Drama Series, 1915(1); Shou Yue, “New drama originated from the ideal,” New Drama Magazine,1914(2); Zhou Jianyun, “On New Drama,” in Collections of Drama: Forum of Drama Studies (Shanghai: Jiaotong Library, 1918), p. 58. 䇨䊚༛ˈĀᘐ੺ᯠࢗᇦāˈljᠿࢗы ᣕNJ 1915(1) ˈⱖᴸˈĀᯠࢗⓀҾ⨶ᜣ䈤āˈljᯠࢗᵲᘇNJ 1914(2), ઘࢁ ӁˈĀᲊ䘁ᯠࢗ䇪āˈlj䷐䜘ы࠺gࢗᆖ䇪උNJˈк⎧Ӕ䙊മҖ侶 1918, ㅜ 58 亥. 15. See Hu Shi, Qiang Xuantong, Liu Bannong, and Chen Duxiu, “New Literature and Old Chinese Opera,” New Youth, vol. 4, no. 6, 1918; Qian Xuantong, “Some Impressions,” New Youth, vol. 5, no. 1, 1918; Fu Sinian, “Various Aspects of Opera Improvement,” New Youth, vol. 5, no. 4, 1918; Zhou Zuoren and Qian Xuantong, “On the view that old Chinese Opera should be abolished,” New Youth, vol. 5, no. 5, 1918. 㜑䘲ˈ䫡⦴਼ˈࡈॺߌˈ䱸⤜⿰˖ Āᯠ᮷ᆖ৺ѝഭᰗᠿāˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ 4 ধㅜ 6 ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 6 ᴸ˗䫡⦴ ਼˖Ā䲿ᝏᖅāˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ 5 ধㅜ 1 ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 7 ᴸ˗‫ڵ‬ᯟᒤˈĀ ᠿࢗ᭩㢟਴䶒㿲āˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ 5 ধㅜ 4 ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 10 ᴸ˗ઘ֌Ӫˈ䫡 ⦴਼˖Ā䇪ѝഭᰗᠿѻᓄᓏāˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ 5 ধㅜ 5 ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 11 ᴸ. 16. Zhou Zuoren, Beijing Opera: Zhou Zuoren’s Chat, (Nanjing: Jiangsu Literature and Art Publishing House, 2010), pp. 292–293. ઘ֌ӪˈĀेӜⲴᠿāˈljઘ֌ Ӫ䰢䈍NJˈ⊏㣿᮷㢪ࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2010. 17. Jiang Ji, Through the Eye of the Dragon: The Art of Drama in Intercultural Dialogue (1919–1937) (Beijing: Renmin University of China Press, 2016), pp. 44–45. ⊏Ἀ˖ljク䗷Āᐘ嗉ѻ⵬ā˖䐘᮷ॆሩ䈍ѝⲴᠿᴢ㢪ᵟ˄1919– 1937˅NJˈѝഭӪ≁བྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. 18. Yi Shunding, “Mission of National Flower,” in History of the Peking Opera in the Qing Dynasty (Beijing: China Drama Publishing House 1988), p. 759. ᱃ 亪唾˖Āഭ㣡㹼āˈ䖭lj␵ԓ⠅䜭Ộഝਢᯉ↓㔝㕆NJˈѝഭᠿࢗࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1988. 19. C.V. Yeh, “From Flower Protector to Confidant,” in Chen Pingyuan and David Wang (eds.), Beijing: Urban Imagination and Cultural Memory (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2005), p. 129. ਦࠟ㪲˖ĀӾᣔ㣡Ӫࡠ⸕丣āˈ䖭ljेӜ˖ 䜭ᐲᜣ䊑о᮷ॆ䇠ᗶNJˈेӜབྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2005.

258

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

20. Mei Lanfang, “On the stage art of opera,” in China Theater Publishing House, ed., Stage Art Collection (Beijing: Institute of Drama, 1982), pp. 5–7. ẵ‫ޠ‬㣣˖ Ā䈸ᠿᴢ㡎ਠ㖾ᵟāˈ䖭lj㡎ਠ㖾ᵟ᮷䳶NJˈѝഭᠿࢗࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1982. 21. Fu Jin , A History of Chinese Theatre in the Twentieth Century, Volume I. Chinese Social Science Press 2016, p. 9. ‫ڵ‬䉘˖ljц㓚ᠿࢗਢNJˈѝഭ⽮Պ 、ᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. 22. Mu Rugai, “How to make progress in the drama” [J], in Shenjing Times, August 28, 1924, ぶ݂р˖ĀྲօമᠿࢗⲴ䘋↕āˈ䖭ljⴋӜᰦᣕNJˈ 1924 ᒤ 8 ᴸ 28 ᰕ. 23. Jiang Ji, Through the Eye of the Dragon: The Art of Drama in Intercultural Dialogue (1919–1937). Beijing: Renmin University of China Press 2016), pp. 350–356. ⊏Ἀ˖ljク䗷Āᐘ嗉ѻ⵬ā˖䐘᮷ॆሩ䈍ѝⲴᠿᴢ㢪ᵟ˄̢ ˅NJˈѝഭӪ≁བྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. 24. QI Rushan, Qi Rushan Memoirs (Shenyang: Liaoning Publishing House 2005), p. 120. 喀ྲኡ˖lj喀ྲኡഎᗶᖅNJˈ䗭ᆱࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2005. 25. J.B. Arkinson, “Review in New York Times,” February 17, 1930, quoted in Jiang, Through the Eye of the Dragon, p. 364. 26. Liang Qichao, “On the Relation between Novels and Mass Governance”, in New Novels, Founding No., 1902; Chen Duxiu (pen name: Three Favors): “On Opera”, first published in Common Words Journal 1904(11), rewritten in classical Chinese and republished in New Novel, vol 2. no. 2, 1905), and collected in the volume Studies on Fiction and Opera in the Late Qing Literature Series (Beijijng: China Book Bureau Society, 1960), pp. 52–54. ằ੟ 䎵˖Ā䇪ሿ䈤о㗔⋫Ⲵ‫ޣ‬㌫āˈljᯠሿ䈤gࡋ࠺ਧNJˈ 1902 ᒤˈ䱸⤜⿰˄ ㅄ਽˖й⡡˅˖Ā䇪ᠿᴢāˈࡍਁҾlj؇䈍ᣕg 1904 ᒤ 11 ᵏNJˈ 1905 ԕ᮷䀰൘ljᯠሿ䈤gㅜ 2 ধㅜ 2 ᵏNJ䟽ᯠਁ㺘ˈᒦ᭦‫ޕ‬ljᲊ␵᮷ᆖы䫎Ьሿ 䈤ᠿᴢ⹄ウধNJˈ pp. 52–54 亥ˈѝॾҖተࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1960.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Arkinson, J.B., “Review in New York Times,” February 17, 1930, quoted in Jiang, Ji, Through the Eye of the Dragon: The Art of Drama in Intercultural Dialogue (1919–1937). Beijing: Renmin University of China Press, 2016. Benjamin, Walter, The Arcades Project, trans. H. Eiland and K. McLaughlin, Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University, 1999. Chen Duxiu (pen name: Three Favors), “On Opera,” in A. Ying, ed., Study Volume of Novels and Operas in the Late Qing Dynasty Literature, Beijing: China Book Bureau Society 䱸⤜⿰˄ㅄ਽˖й⡡˅˖Ā䇪ᠿᴢāˈljᲊ␵᮷ᆖы䫎Ьሿ䈤ᠿ ᴢ⹄ウধNJѝॾҖተࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1960. Fu Jin, History of 20th Century Drama, Beijing: China Social Sciences Press. ‫ڵ‬䉘ˈ ljц㓚ᠿࢗਢNJˈѝഭ⽮Պ、ᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. Fu Jin, A History of Chinese Theatre in the Twentieth Century, Volume I, Beijing: Chinese Social Science Press. ‫ڵ‬䉘˖ljц㓚ᠿࢗਢNJˈѝഭ⽮Պ、ᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. Fu Sinian, “Various Aspects of Opera Improvement.” New Youth, vol. 5, no. 4, ‫ڵ‬ ᯟᒤˈĀᠿࢗ᭩㢟਴䶒㿲āˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜধㅜਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 10 ᴸ.

LI KELIN

259

Hong Shen (ed.), Collection of Chinese New Literature: Dramas, Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. ⍚␡㕆䘹ljѝഭᯠ᮷ᆖབྷ㌫Ь ᠿࢗ䳶NJˈк⎧˖к⎧᮷㢪ࠪ⡸⽮, 2003. Hu Shi, Qiang Xuantong, Liu Bannong, and Chen Duxiu, “New Literature and Old Chinese Opera,” New Youth, vol. 4, no. 6. 㜑䘲ˈ䫡⦴਼ˈࡈॺߌˈ䱸⤜⿰˖ Āᯠ᮷ᆖ৺ѝഭᰗᠿāˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ4ধㅜ6ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ. Huang Shiquan, Songnan Dream Record, Shanghai: Ancient Books Publishing House. 哴ᔿᵳˈlj␎ইỖᖡᖅNJˈк⎧ਔ㉽ࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1989. Jiang Deming, Beijing: Beijing by Modern Writers, Beijing:. SDX Joint Publishing Company (ဌᗧ᰾ˈljेӜѾ˖⧠ԓ֌ᇦㅄлⲴेӜNJˈ䈫Җg⭏⍫gᯠ⸕й 㚄ࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1992. Jiang, Deming, Rumengling: Old Beijing by Celebrities, Beijing: Beijing Publishing House ljྲỖԔ˖਽ӪㅄлⲴᰗӜNJˈेӜࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1998. Jiang Ji, Through the Eye of the Dragon: The Art of Drama in Intercultural Dialogue (1919–1937). Beijing: Renmin University of China Press. ⊏Ἀ˖ljク䗷āᐘ嗉ѻ ⵬ā˖䐘᮷ॆሩ䈍ѝⲴᠿᴢ㢪ᵟ˄ 1919–1937 ˅NJˈѝഭӪ≁བྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2016. Liang Qichao, “On the Relation between Novels and Mass Governance” [J], New Novels Founding No. 1902. ằ੟䎵˖Ā䇪ሿ䈤о㗔⋫Ⲵ‫ޣ‬㌫āˈljᯠሿ䈤gࡋ ࠺ਧNJˈ 1902 ᒤ Li Shuchang, Western Magazine, Beijing: Social Science Academy Press (China). 哾 ᓦ᰼㾯⌻ᵲᘇˈेӜ˖⽮Պ、ᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2017, Mei Lanfang, “On the Stage Art of Opera,” in China Academy of Art, ed., Stage Art Collection, Beijing: Institute of Drama, China Theater Publishing House. ẵ‫ޠ‬ 㣣˖Ā䈸ᠿᴢ㡎ਠ㖾ᵟāˈ䖭lj㡎ਠ㖾ᵟ᮷䳶NJˈѝഭᠿࢗࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1982. Mu Rugai, August 28, 1924. “How to make progress in the drama,” Shenjing Times. ぶ݂р˖ĀྲօമᠿࢗⲴ䘋↕āˈ䖭ljⴋӜᰦᣕNJˈ 1924 ᒤ 8 ᴸ 28 ᰕ. Pang, Laikwan, The Distorting Mirror: Visual Modernity in China, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 2007. Qi Rushan, 2005. Qi Rushan Memoirs, Shenyang: Liaoning Publishing House. 喀ྲ ኡ˖lj喀ྲኡഎᗶᖅNJˈ䗭ᆱࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2005. Qian, Xuantong, 1918. “Some Impressions,” New Youth, vol. 5, no. 1. 䫡⦴਼˖ Ā䲿ᝏᖅāˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ 5 ধㅜ 1 ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 7 ᴸ. Shenbao, “The Difference between the Chinese and Western Theaters,” November 16, 1883 “ѝ㾯ᠿ侶н਼䈤”, lj⭣ᣕNJ 1883 ᒤ 11 ᴸ 16 ᰕ. Shenbao, “Newly opened Chungui Teahouse,” August 20, 1907 ᯠᔰ᱕Ṳ㥦ഝāˈ lj⭣ᣕNJ 1907 ᒤ 8 ᴸ 20 ᰕ. Shih, Shu-Mei. The Lure of the Modern: Writing Modernism in Semicolonial China, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001. Shou Yue, “New drama originated from the ideal,” New Drama Magazine, vol. 2. ⱖᴸˈĀᯠࢗⓀҾ⨶ᜣ䈤āˈljᯠࢗᵲᘇNJ 1914. Virilio, Paul, The Vision Machine, trans. Julie Rose, London and Bloomington: British Film Institute and Indiana University Press, 1994. Xu Haoshi, “Advising the new dramatist.” Drama Series, vol. 1. 䇨䊚༛ˈĀᘐ੺ᯠ ࢗᇦāˈljᠿࢗыᣕNJ 1915. Yeh, Catherine V., “From Flower Protector to Confidant,” in Chen Pingyuan and David Wang (eds.), Beijing: Urban Imagination and Cultural Memory, Beijing: Peking University Press, pp. 123–129. ਦࠟ㪲˖ĀӾᣔ㣡Ӫࡠ⸕丣āˈ䖭ljे Ӝ˖䜭ᐲᜣ䊑о᮷ॆ䇠ᗶNJˈेӜབྷᆖࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 2005.

260

NEW THEATER AND NEW DRAMA

Yeh, Catherine V., Shanghai Love: Courtesans, Intellectuals, and Entertainment Culture, 1850–1910, Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006. Yi Shunding, 1988. “Mission of National Flower,” from History of the Peking Opera in the Qing Dynasty, Beijing: China Drama Publishing House. ᱃亪 唾˖Āഭ㣡㹼āˈ䖭lj␵ԓ⠅䜭Ộഝਢᯉ↓㔝㕆NJˈѝഭᠿࢗࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1988. Zhang, Deyi, Maritime Stories, Chang Sha: Hunan People’s Press. ᕐᗧᖍlj㡚⎧䘠 ཷNJ䮯⋉˖⒆ইӪ≁ࠪ⡸⽮, 1981. Zhou, Jianyun, On New Drama, Shanghai: Jiaotong Library. ઘࢁӁˈĀᲊ䘁ᯠࢗ 䇪āˈlj䷐䜘ы࠺gࢗᆖ䇪උNJˈк⎧Ӕ䙊മҖ侶 1918. Zhou, Zuoren and Qian, Xuantong, “On the view that old Chinese Opera should be abolished.” New Youth, vol. 5, no. 5. ઘ֌Ӫˈ䫡⦴਼˖Ā䇪ѝഭᰗᠿѻᓄ ᓏāˈljᯠ䶂ᒤNJㅜ 5 ধㅜ 5 ਧˈ 1918 ᒤ 11 ᴸ. Zhou, Zuoren, Beijing Opera: Zhou Zuoren’s Chat, Nanjing: Jiangsu Literature and Art Publishing House. ઘ֌ӪˈĀेӜⲴᠿāˈljઘ֌Ӫ䰢䈍NJˈ⊏㣿᮷㢪ࠪ ⡸⽮ˈ 2010. Zou, Yiren, Research on the Changes of Old Shanghai Population. Shanghai: Shanghai People’s Publishing House. 䛩‫׍‬ӱˈljᰗк⎧Ӫਓਈ䗱Ⲵ⹄ウNJˈ к⎧Ӫ≁ࠪ⡸⽮ˈ 1980.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Aesthetics of the Grotesque in Modern Chinese Narrative NICOLETTA PESARO

INTRODUCTION: AN ENDURING TRADITION This chapter deals with literary aesthetics in China, and especially with one major tendency that has shaped the Chinese novel in the last one hundred years. The Taiwanese-born American scholar David Der-wei Wang once said that there are two main paths in modern Chinese literature: Lu Xun’s path— based on a satirical and engaged approach to reality—and Lao She’s path—imbued with humor and a sentimental sense of life.1 I will argue that this twofold approach is not only to be seen in the contrast between the comic and the satirical, but also in terms of the aesthetics of narrative in modern and contemporary Chinese fiction, referring to a grotesque and a lyrical path. I will focus here only on the first trend, examining authors who have contributed not only in theory, but mainly in practice to the shaping of modern Chinese fiction in terms of representation and representability of the real. In order to avoid an essentialist approach, I will argue that the grotesque can be considered as one of the main trends in the aesthetics of the Chinese novel, owing to the articulated and pervasive presence of this tradition within the varied panorama of modern Chinese fiction. I will 261

262

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

provide a specific analysis of the ways the aesthetics of the grotesque manifests itself in narrative and linguistic patterns, following its evolution from its surge at the dawn of the last century to its re-emergence and persisting effects in contemporary Chinese literature. First of all, we need to define the category of the grotesque. Well aware of the width and “weight” of the term, I will draw my definition of “grotesque” from the accurate and comprehensive study conducted by Justin Edwards and Rune Graulund who, delving into a rich repertory of theories and definitions (from Ruskin to Bachtin and Foucault), find in it “a creative force for conceptualizing the indeterminate that is produced by distortion, and reflecting on the significance of the uncertainty that is thereby produced.”2 According to them, what defines the grotesque “is precisely that it is hybrid, transgressive and always in motion.”3 The cases presented in this chapter have invariably to do with the simultaneous or ambiguous presence of uncertain, indistinguishable, overlapping states and phenomena, which generate a deep and almost frightening sense of unease in revealing the lability of the classification human/inhuman. Indeed, I take the category of the grotesque as by no means a-temporal or atopic: it is in fact strongly related to the historical context in which the literary works were created, assuming different features according to the epoch, place, and society which produced them. The reason why I propose it as representative of Chinese fiction of the last one hundred years is that it proved to be particularly resistant to time and to ideological conditioning I trace back to Lu Xun’s 励䗵 (1881–1936) “psychological realism” the modern tendency to describe reality that produces a sense of the grotesque and estrangement in the reader. His characters are the epitome of this method, which aims at representing the uncanniness of everyday life. His immediate followers were writers such as Xiao Hong 㩗㓒 (1911–42) and Lu Ling 䐟㗾 (1923–94). Contemporary novelists such as Han Shaogong 丙ቁ࣏ (b. 1953), Yan Lianke 䰾䘎、 (b. 1958), Yu Hua ։ॾ (b. 1960), and Mo Yan 㧛䀰 (b. 1955) similarly perform an aestheticization of the absurd in their works. Yan Lianke, in particular, theorizes it in his “mythorealism” (shenshizhuyi ⾎ᇎѫѹ).4 The female writers Can Xue ↻䴚 (b. 1953) and Sheng Keyi ⴋਟԕ (b. 1973)—from diverse perspectives and creative methods, and belonging to different generations—also employ this particular blending of real and unreal, highlighting the dystopian elements of Chinese reality with an estranging tone. The traumatic and fascinating experience of modernity—partially brought to China by foreign countries, which from the second half of the nineteenth century forced their way into some coastal cities of the old empire together with their “exotic” literatures—paralleled the internal evolution of Chinese

NICOLETTA PESARO

263

culture, which seemed to strive for radical change. The need to use a new artistic language in order to cope with dramatic historical circumstances was largely felt within the upper, educated classes. In some sense, interpreting socio-historical reality through the lens of the grotesque helped these intellectuals express the clash between individual and society, between tradition and modernity, in a more artistically effective manner. This is probably the reason why one can find a strong presence of grotesque elements in the fiction of transitional eras and epochs of dramatic transformation in Chinese society. Indeed, while the impact of Western literature and philosophy on modern Chinese fiction—imported through the massive task of translation—is undeniable, the role played by some elements of traditional literature was also pivotal in shaping the new aesthetics of narrative. This aesthetics was brewed in the May Fourth5 era (developing some elements of the previous decades) and later evolved throughout the last century, taking the shape of a “counter-fiction” against the models enforced by the mainstream ideology. Socially engaged writers, imbued with a strong political conscience and anxiety for the future of their country, emphasized a harshly critical view of reality and its darkness. They resorted to a range of heavy tones and striking narrative devices, from the satirical to the grotesque to the horrific. The May Fourth movement, and its fascination with foreign cultures, was instrumental in producing a deep and “realistic” orientation in Chinese fiction that suggested new forms of writing (for instance, mimetic descriptions of the social environment and incursions in the inner world of the characters). Nevertheless, Chinese writers, in many cases, did not adhere to a strictly mimetic approach, finding inspiration both in the ancient tradition of the zhiguai xiaoshuo ᘇᙚሿ䈤 (Tales of the strange) and in Western modernism, which was more deeply explored decades later by Gao Xingjian 儈㹼‫ ڕ‬in his Xiandai xiaoshuo jiqiao chutan ⧠ԓሿ䈤ᢰᐗࡍ᧒ (A Preliminary Discourse on the Modern Novel, 1981). As I will show in this chapter, as early as the 1920s and 1930s the most prominent writers established a path of satirical symbolism and exaggeration of reality, which—after a long period of “normalization” imposed by Mao Zedong with his programmatic speech at Yan’an (1942)—was revived in the second half of the last century, and brought by some contemporary authors to forms of hyperrealism6 or, according to Julia Lovell, “hysterical realism.”7 The grotesque as a way of “reading modernity” has appeared in different forms of narrative (both in novels and short stories) and presented common features in very different epochs and authors since the May Fourth literature (although some traces were already present at the end of the nineteenth century). This kind of narration—especially in longer formats such as the

264

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

novel—is often fragmented, nonlinear, and sometimes even incomplete. Another feature that can be found is a certain looseness in structure, manifest in the preference for the description of settings and scenes of actions rather than the direct psychological expression of unmediated thought and discourse (save for Lu Ling). I have detected the grotesque elements present in this aesthetic tradition in the following aspects: narrator and characters, time and space, structure and plot, and language and syntax.

REALITY IS AN ALIEN When explaining how he created one of his best narratives, The True Story of Ah Q (Ah Q zhengzhuan 䱯Q↓Ր, 1922), Lu Xun wrote: ѝഭ⧠൘Ⲵһˈণ֯ྲᇎ᧿߉ˈ൘࡛ഭⲴӪԜˈᡆሶᶕⲴྭѝഭⲴӪԜ ⴻᶕˈҏ䜭Պ㿹ᗇ groteskDŽ ᡁᑨᑨ‫ٷ‬ᜣаԦһˈ㠚ԕѪ䘉ᱟᜣᗇཚཷ ᙚҶ˗ն‫و‬䙷ࡠ⴨㊫ⲴһᇎˈতᖰᖰᴤཷᙚDŽ൘䘉һᇎਁ⭏ԕࡽˈԕᡁ Ⲵ⍵㿱ሑ䇶ˈᱟззᜣнࡠⲴDŽ8 If things that take place in China now are written up as they really are, they will seem grotesk [German in the original] in the eyes of people in other countries or to the people in a better China of the future. I often imagine things that seem just too strange, but when I actually encounter things similar to what I imagined in real life, they are invariably even stranger. But prior to these things taking place in real life, based on my shallow knowledge, I could never have imagined them.9 Lu Xun believed that Chinese society at the time could only be described by weird images and a defamiliarizing language. His short stories stirred a revolution in the realm of Chinese fiction: although the settings and characters are drawn from local reality, the situations and relationships between them are built in an unconventional way. Curiously, almost a hundred years later, contemporary Chinese writers echo Lu Xun’s words in a strikingly similar way, as though the grotesque were inherent in the relation between fiction writing and Chinese society. Somehow legitimating this path of distorted perceptions and weird representations, Yu Hua states: “The biggest problem facing Chinese literature is how to express today’s realities. Reality is more preposterous than fiction. It’s a difficult task to convey reality’s absurdity in a novel.”10 A similar statement is made by Ning Ken: When events occur that exceed our imagination, the world can start to seem unreal . . . Many of China’s “ultra-unreal” phenomena are written

NICOLETTA PESARO

265

about on the internet immediately after they occur. Reality is a text to begin with, and now that the internet can show us “ultra-unreal” phenomena that we otherwise would not know about, we end up with a sort of doubled “ultra-unreal.” This has created a huge challenge for fiction. Fiction can no longer just tell straightforward stories about single topics following single narrative arcs; reality is providing us with all sorts of rich possibilities for experiments in fictional form.11 Yan Lianke connects himself with Lu Xun when observing the pervasiveness of the absurd in present-day China: 励䗵ⴻࡠᇦґⲴ䜭ᱟⰋ઼ᚘˈ⊸Ӿ᮷ⴻࡠⲴ䜭ᱟ⒈㾯ᰐ䲀Ⲵ㖾ˈᡁᚠᚠ 㿹ᗇˈ⭏⍫ѝ㖾Ⲵь㾯ቁࡠࠐѾн൘ˈ㘼㦂䈎Ⲵь㾯ཊࡠᰐ༴н൘ˈᆳ нᱟ䎠䘋֐⵬ⶋ䟼ˈ㘼ᱟалᆀǃалᆀᢃ䘋֐Ⲵ⵬ⶋ䟼ˈᢃ䘋֐Ⲵᗳ ⚥䟼৫DŽ12 Lu Xun only saw hate and sufferance in his homeland; Shen Congwen from West Hunan only saw its infinite beauty; as for myself, I see that there is almost no more space for beauty, while the absurd invades everywhere, it does not appear before your eyes, rather, it assails your eyes and soul penetrating them.13 The tradition started by Lu Xun followed a twisted but clear path in modern Chinese literature, shaping itself as a peculiar way to see and describe reality by highlighting its tragic and weird aspects. This grotesque vein crawls like a snake among texts and stories from different schools and styles in the twentieth century, acquiring even more power and space in the early twentyfirst century. There is a definite connection between the choice of the grotesque and the famous “obsession with China,”14 which C.T. Hsia believed to be a fundamental motivation shared by many Chinese writers, according to which the “monstrosity”15 which they see in the history of China informs their literary representation of China itself. The more writers approach reality in search for answers to their anxiety on social issues, the more their representation of the real appears distorted, uncanny, to some extent unreal, and usually disturbingly unpleasant. What results is a taste for ugliness and horrific scenes, sometimes highlighted by an aestheticization of violence, madness, and death in all their brutal details: one of the most representative examples of this style is the iconic scene where a mantou [steamed bread] dripping human blood is given as a salvific remedy to a young tuberculotic, in Lu Xun’s short story “Medicine” (Yao 㦟, 1919). This path reached another paroxysm with Mo Yan’s fastidious description in The

266

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

Republic of Wine (Jiuguo 䞂ഭ, 1989) of a dish made of infant flesh offered in a banquet to the inspector Ding Gou’er, who was in charge of investigating a suspected case of cannibalism: 䛓⭧ᆙⴈ㞯඀൘䭰䠁Ⲵབྷⴈ䟼ǃઘ䓛䠁哴ˈ⍱⵰俉௧௧Ⲵ⋩ˈ㝨кᤲ⵰ ۫ѾѾⲴㅁᇩˈ៘ᘱਟ᧜DŽԆⲴ䓛փઘത㻵侠⵰⻗㔯Ⲵ㨌ਦ઼勌㓒Ⲵ㩍 ঌ㣡DŽ16 The boy was sitting in a lotus posture on a big gold-plated tray, his goldenyellow body dripping a fragrant oil, a silly smile on his face. His body was decorated with turquoise green vegetables leaves and bright red flowers made of turnip. Mo Yan here plays with the terrifying ambiguity between reality and fiction: the local official organizing the gruesome banquet persuades his guest that the grotesque dish is only a fake, made of animal meat. The reality (?) displayed before the inspector’s eyes becomes alienating and unsettlingly elusive.

MADMEN, “HUMANIMALS” AND MISFITS Bodily alterations and objectification are the main marks of the grotesque in the representation of human beings, both as characters and narrators. In Lu Xun’s fiction—which influenced other great writers of his time, such as Xiao Hong and Lu Ling, and, in the present day, Yan Lianke and Yu Hua—characters are depicted in an expressionistic way, based on the use of a few stylized traits: “㾱ᶱⴱ‫ࠪ⭫Ⲵ؝‬ањӪⲴ⢩⛩ˈᴰྭᱟ⭫ԆⲴ⵬ⶋDŽ”17 [the best way to capture a person’s unique attributes with a minimum number of strokes is to draw the person’s eyes].18 The progressive dehumanization or objectification of the characters allows Lu Xun to deconstruct any realistic complacency, refusing to seek comfort in the meticulousness of details. Surprisingly enough, the aim of this deliberate alienation of the real is to make it seem even more real in its absurdity. In The Diary of a Madman (Kuangren riji ⣲Ӫᰕ䇠, 1918), it is the ambiguous situation of the narrator-protagonist that produces the sense of grotesque: he is isolated and secluded, threatened by the terrifying practice of cannibalism carried on by his own family and fellow villagers, who are eager to consume his flesh, just as Chinese culture has been “consuming” individuals for centuries. The manuscript which precedes his diary openly describes the narrator as possessing an incoherent and delirious mind. Another example is Lu Xun’s last collection of stories, Old Tales Retold (Gushi xinbian ᭵һᯠ㕆, 1936), where he displays a carousel of grotesque caricatures drawn from Chinese ancient culture and mythology. According

NICOLETTA PESARO

267

to Michael Hockx: “Behind the seemingly allegorical intent of these stories is a horrific vacuity filled with resounding laughter.”19 As a central theme in Lu Xun’s fiction—in his three collections Outcries (Nahan ઀஺, 1923), Hesitation (Panghuang ᖧᗘ, 1926), and the abovementioned Old Tales Retold—the dehumanization provoked by social isolation and oppressive cultural bias is made much more evident and eloquent by the odd portraits he creates. One example is the Wife of Xianglin,20 victimized both as a woman by traditional misogynist beliefs and practices, and as a member of the subaltern class: her progressive dehumanization in the story is suggested through the growing uglification of her face. The stylized, exaggerated description of the characters is a hallmark of other important novelists too: Xiao Hong expresses her gloomy view on women’s weakness embodied in (unwanted) motherhood with a simple sentence: : “䠁᷍䗷ҾⰋ㤖Ҷˈ㿹ᗇ㛊ᆀਈᡀњਟᙅⲴᙚ⢙ˈ㿹ᗇ䟼䶒ᴹа ඇ⺜ⲴൠᯩDŽ”21 [Golden Bough feels a deep pain, she feels her belly has become a fearful monster, there is something hard inside of her]. Bestiality in terms of an unclear distinction between human and animal is a major feature of the grotesque. This particular strategy of trespassing or blurring the borders of human nature is explained as follows: a “grotesque body that is incomplete or deformed forces us to question what it means to be human: these queries sometimes arise out of the literal combination of human and animal traits.”22 In Xiao Hong’s novel, Wang Mama is described as a female bear in a cave: “ཤਁ伈Ҷ┑㝨ˈ䛓ṧˈ哫䶒ၶᱟаਚ⇽➺Ҷʽ ⇽➺ᑖ⵰㥹㊫䘋⍎DŽ”23 [with her hair covering her face, she is a female bear! The female bear enters her cave carrying some herbs]. Sex and gender are often marked by a grotesque quality in this kind of fiction: the inhuman conditions faced by women in early modern Chinese society, and their scandalous desire for self-empowerment, are strikingly epitomized by the protagonist of Lu Ling’s novel Hungry Guo Su’e (Ji’e de Guo Su’e 侕侯Ⲵ䜝 ㍐呵, 1943). As a woman who defies moral standards and the social repression experienced by women in rural communities, her hunger for recognition and sexual freedom is punished by the men of the village, who ruthlessly mutilate her body. Liu Kang sees in the exaggeration of her “animal instinct” a political meaning. Because “desire, sexuality, and the grotesque body have by no means been privatized,” she actually embodies a “transindividual and collective class consciousness.”24 Both Lu Xun and Lu Ling’s characters are marked by strong individualism. The individual was a “discovery” of the May Fourth writers, many of whom insisted on the individual’s conundrum between personal desires and selfless engagement for the collective, but also between private needs and public power; the result in terms of narrative style is this ironic tension, the entanglement

268

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

between subjective and objective that often leads to sarcastic and dramatic endings. Later, in the final decades of the last century, and at the beginning of our own, other writers put the everydayness of the grotesque on stage as well, which seems to be—as originally argued by Lu Xun—profoundly rooted in Chinese culture and society. Mo Yan builds his own aesthetics of grotesque on “exaggeration, extravagance and excess,”25 and by merging human and animal worlds. From the reincarnation into different animals (Life and Death are Wearying Me Out [Shengsi pilao ⭏↫⯢ࣣ], 2006), to the cannibalization of babies (The Republic of Wine), up to the abuses on the procreative female body (Frogs, [Wa 㴉], 2009), his novels are characterized by an insistence on the tight relationship that bonds animals and human beings. Their contiguity is an essential feature of his approach to reality. As stated by Yinde Zhang, the feeling of the grotesque in Mo Yan’s fiction rises from human beings’ system of perception and has subversive power: La mise en texte du corps, de la nourriture, de la bestialité, parallèlement à la prédominance du physique, du physiologique et du sensori-moteur, invite à y déceler un grotesque subversive, tragique et inquiétant.26 [The textualization of the body, food and bestiality, along with the predominance of the physical, physiological and sensorimotor, invites us to detect a subversive, tragic and disturbing grotesque.] Similarly to Lu Xun’s madmen, humanimals27 represent the constant feeling of uncertainty that fosters the grotesque in Chinese fiction: “Opening up a space of possibilities, where humans merge with animals and disgust mixes with laughter.”28 In the absolute inability to fit into his social environment, and to understand and be understood by his fellow villagers, Lu Xun’s famous character Ah Q is the epitome of the unfit, the public object of both public laughter and disgust. Repeatedly hit and humiliated by some of the thugs of the village, the man often refers to himself as the lowest form of being: “a worm.” Han Shaogong’s novel Ba ba ba ⡨⡨⡨ (Pa pa pa, 1985) features a child unable to speak properly, closer to an animal than a human being: Bingzai is one of the “unforgettable images among a host of troubled beings produced in post-Mao literature,”29 whose semi-human nature makes it impossible for him to integrate in the village. Similar to other writers belonging to the “Roots-seeking literature,”30 and following in Lu Xun’s steps, Han suggests that germs of unhealthy and unnatural strangeness might be contained not

NICOLETTA PESARO

269

only in a politically oppressive and authoritarian regime, but also in Chinese culture in all its complexity. For his part, Yan Lianke creates a cast of misfits in The Joy of Living (Shouhuo ᭦㧧, 2004) that reveals human beings’ unfitness to live in contemporary China and their absurd struggle, which in Jeffrey Kinkley’s words becomes “the art of domestic survival.”31 The novel is based on the vicissitudes of a bunch of crippled peasants who try to make a living in the post-Mao hyper-commercialized era, where they exploit their own deformities. For both Yan Lianke and Mo Yan, as well as for Ma Jian傜‫ڕ‬ (b. 1953)—with his frame-story novel The Noodlemaker (Lamianzhe ᣹䶒㘵, 1992) inhabited by freaks and misfits—one can define not only an aesthetics, but almost an ethics of the grotesque, as the boundaries between the two are often blurred: if socialist and post-socialist China have produced a crowd of weird and alienated individuals, these writers at the same time seem to suggest that, by contrast, only their unfitness and unease make them real human beings, against a social background where “normality” is instead intrinsically violent and repressive. Two other striking examples are the protagonists/narrators of Yu Hua’s latest novel The Seventh Day (Di qi tian ㅜгཙ , 2013) and Sheng Keyi’s short novel Paradise (Fudi ⾿ൠ, 2016). In the former, the narrator’s grotesqueness lies in his lingering between life and death,32 and is marked by his body still carrying the macabre traces of the wounds provoked by his violent death in an accident, while already in the post-mortem decomposition process. In the latter, a mentally retarded young woman witnesses, and undergoes herself, more than she can understand: the vivid contrast between the abuses exerted on the women detained in a dystopian clinic for surrogate mothers, on the one hand, and the narrator’s naïve voice, on the other, creates a subtle sense of creepiness. Despite the outrageous situations they live in and talk about, both narrators endow the grotesque with a poetic vein.

MEANINGLESS, FRAGMENTED PLOTS: WHEN TIME DEVOURS SPACE Another main feature of the grotesque is plots based on tragic and absurd events, and the absurdity of the narrated facts is usually emphasized through the depictions of disgusting acts of violence and horror, represented as singular facts within unreal or poorly defined spaces. An important element which contributes to the shaping of this aesthetics of the grotesque is a fragmentary, inconsistent line of storytelling. In many works, the discourse—“the means through which the story is transmitted”33— is based on a series of loosely connected episodes, where a few main

270

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

protagonists are often surrounded by a large number of secondary characters, as used to be the case in traditional Chinese fiction. Not only is the narrative structure loose and sometimes irrational, but the nature of the depicted facts blends the real and the fantastic, and the possible and the impossible are barely distinguishable. As far as facts are concerned, Lu Xun admitted that: ᡰ߉Ⲵһ䘩ˈབྷᣥᴹа⛩㿱䗷ᡆੜࡠ䗷Ⲵ㕈⭡ˈնߣн‫⭘ޘ‬䘉һᇎˈਚ ᱟ䟷ਆаㄟˈ࣐ԕ᭩䙐ˈᡆ⭏ਁᔰ৫ˈࡠ䏣ԕࠐѾᆼ‫ਁޘ‬㺘ᡁⲴ᜿ᙍѪ →DŽ34 The events I wrote about mostly came from something I had seen or heard, but they were certainly not entirely factual—I would draw on one thing but change or expand upon it until it completely expressed what I intended.35 Although not all of his stories go beyond everyday experience, some of them insinuate subtle elements of the absurd or uncanny within more rational events. For instance, the gloomy existence of the scholar who repeatedly fails the imperial examinations in “The White Light” (Baiguang ⲭ‫ݹ‬, 1922) generates a sense of the grotesque reminiscent of the atmosphere of Shakespeare, but also traditional Chinese ghost stories, when the old man finds a skull buried in his house, the mandible of which unexpectedly laughs at him. One of the reasons for the general slacking in terms of structure in these kind of narratives is the importance devoted to time against space. The fiction of the grotesque and the satirical is focused less on the representation of space than the flow of time, which, however, is often more a perceived time than an actual one. One finds a few prototypes of this trend in Lu Xun’s works: in “The Diary of a Madman” the narration, taking on a diaristic form, is punctuated by thirteen short sections, and, despite the narrator’s intrinsic fuzziness in recording hours and dates, the perceived power of time is overwhelming. Besides, the “macro-time” dimension is also clearly highlighted. The dialectic between modern China and its millenary history dominates the whole text, squeezing the protagonist between a cannibalistic past and a no less frightening present of social and personal abuses. Another case is “The Loner” (Guduzhe ᆔ⤜㘵 1923)—like many of Lu Xun’s stories, it features an individual’s inner contradictions as well as his inability to cope with the backwardness of Chinese society and culture that are both repressing and depressing—which depicts a circular experience of time that emphasizes its inexorable and weird repeating. Time is also circular in The Field of Life and Death, where Xiao Hong puts on stage a loose chain of unbound

NICOLETTA PESARO

271

episodes, where action is superseded by static scenes: everyday life in the northeast of China shows all its cruel repetitiveness and violent ugliness. In Lu Ling’s novels, tense dialogues, but more often delirious monologues, continuously interrupt the story. The sense of grotesque in this case is provided by the overwhelming presence of distorted subjectivities, diseased minds which literally erase the referential world. Time and space aside, the ability to create plots drawing from the ordinary and experiential and enriching them with unexpected or even fantastic twists is also a feature of the Chinese novel in the last decades. This includes the most important works of Mo Yan and Yan Lianke: in the highly dystopic and political novel The Republic of Wine, the 2012 Chinese Nobel Laureate designs a complicated and often unevenly irrational structure, blending diegetic levels, genres, and styles in a postmodern pastiche whose main tone is satirical, absurd, and, indeed, grotesque. Time somehow “devours” the whole plot, which is mainly constituted by temporally undefined scenes following one another in a mostly incoherent sequence. Of course, the hegemony of an irrational and arbitrary time (defined only by vague descriptions of sometimes oneiric spaces in the novel) is one of the main elements shaping a tragic and grotesque representation of reality. One might speak of dystopian representation already in May Fourth works, but this approach and atmosphere are much more apparent in recent postmodern fiction, where plots are based on the absurdity of the narrated facts representing an intrinsically disturbing reality. In the tense and distorted representation of historical time, space is often reduced to “heterotopias,” real or imagined places which acquire mythic or symbolic meaning, such as for Gaomi in Mo Yan’s novels.

THE GRAMMAR OF GROTESQUE Both at the diegetic and the syntactic level, grotesque narratives are characterized by deviations from the standard descriptive style and language, which emerged after the transition from literary Chinese (wenyan ᮷䀰) to vernacular Chinese (baihua ⲭ䈍) at the beginning of the twentieth century, and then evolved and established itself over the whole century. Although the writers included in my study are characterized by a variety of styles, one will find some shared elements in terms of narrative patterns and syntax. To give some examples, Mo Yan and Can Xue excel at creating effects of grotesque incoherency—which reflects the very incoherency of life—by exploiting modernist devices such as the metalepsis, the irrational transgression of diegetic levels by the author, or by one or more characters who unexpectedly and uncannily enter and exit the story-world. Again, as in the case of Yu

272

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

Hua’s and Mo Yan’s post-human and postmodern narratives, the sense of grotesque derives from the destabilizing blurring of distinct categories: transgressions of the narrative levels are predominant in The Republic of Wine and in Can Xue’s novel The Last Lover (Zuihou de qingren ᴰਾⲴᛵӪ, 2005). The use of both rhetorical and ontological metalepses36 reinforce the meaning of the grotesque as the land of the hybrid and destabilizing: the scandalous mingling of the fictional and the real declares the “impasse,” the failure of human cognition of reality. In some cases, a richly articulated and sometimes convoluted style—such as with Lu Ling’s novels, where the complicated psyche of neurotic youth is mirrored by a complicated and involuted syntax—produces and enhances the effect of estrangement: internal perspective is activated with long sentences, awkward chains of embedded determinants and a disturbing proliferation of adjectives and adverbs. I would say that, in this particular case, Lu Ling achieves his “subjective realism” by means of a “grammaticalization of the self.” Not only are the characters depicted in his novels described by means of this exaggerated writing technique, but the descriptions of settings and landscapes are also based on the same style. Odd similitudes and fragmentary speeches instead constitute the language of fictional worlds created by Can Xue (in both her early short stories and her latest novels): ellipses, unclear and sudden use of different subjects, as well as abrupt changes of scene and time frame make her storylines difficult to follow but at the same time highly hypnotic and absorbing for engaged readers. Finally, in terms of language and style, both Mo Yan and Yan Lianke widely adopt a strategy of highly sensorial, often synesthetic depictions: in their writings one can normally find a network of verbs, adjectives, and adverbs which heavily assail the readers’ sensory system: this overstimulating language inevitably makes them experience bodily emotions and thoughts in a deeply grotesque way.

NOTES 1. See Shu Yi 㡂҉, “Lao She wenxue yu zhuliu de nifan” 㘱㠽᮷ᆖоѫ⍱Ⲵ䘶৽ (“Lao She’s Literature and its Opposition to the Mainstream”), in Lao She 㘱㠽, Wenxue gailun jiangyi ᮷ᆖᾲ䇪䇢ѹ (Introduction to Literary Theory) (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2016), p. 13. 2. Justin Edwards and Rune Graulund, Grotesque: The New Critical Idiom (Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2013), p. 3 3. Edwards and Graulund, Grotesque, p. 15. 4. Yan Lianke 䰾䘎、 and Zhang Xuexin ᕐᆖ᱅, Wode xianshi, wode zhuyi ᡁⲴ⧠ ᇎˈᡁⲴѫ᜿ (My reality, My ism) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2011).

NICOLETTA PESARO

273

5. The students’ nationalist protest, which surged in 1919 against China’s inadequate response to the territorial arrangements made by the Treaty of Versailles, rapidly became an enthralling cultural movement which heavily informed literary creation until the late 1940s. 6. It is easy to find out, by reading contemporary Chinese literature and relevant criticism, that hyperrealism very often ends up or blends with the hyper-unreal; see Ning Ken’s article “Writing in the Age of the Ultra-Unreal,” trans. Thomas Moran, New England Review, vol. 37, no. 2 (2016): pp. 89–96. Available online at http://www.nereview.com/vol-37-no-2-2016/writing-in-the-age-of-theultra-unreal-2/ (accessed 20 July 2019). 7. Julia Lovell, “Finding a Place: Mainland Chinese Fiction in the 2000s,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 71, no. 1 (2012): 7–32. 8. Lu Xun 励䗵, “Ah Q zhengzhuan de chengyin” 䱯4↓ՐⲴᡀഐ (“The Reason for Writing The True Story of Ah Q”), in Lu Xun zawen quanji 励䗵ᵲ᮷‫ޘ‬䳶 (Complete Collection of Lu Xun’s Zawen Essays) (Qinyang: Henan renmin chubanshe, [1926] 1994), p. 251. 9. Lu Xun, “How The True Story of Ah Q Came About,” trans. T. Huters, in E.J. Cheng and K.A Denton (eds.), Jottings under Lamplight (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2018), p. 42. 10. Megan Shank and Yu Hua, “The Challenges of Conveying Absurd Reality: An Interview with Chinese Writer Yu Hua,” Los Angeles Review of Books, October 25, 2013. Available online at https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/conveyingabsurd-reality-yu-hua/#! Accessed Sept. 2019). 11. Ning Ken, “Writing in the Age of the Ultra-Unreal.” 12. Yan Lianke and Zhang Xuexin, Wode xianshi, wode zhuyi, p. 23. 13. All translations are mine, unless otherwise indicated. 14. C.T. Hsia, History of Modern Chinese Fiction. 1917–1957 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1971), pp. 533–554. 15. One of the manifestations of the grotesque, the “monstrous,” has been used by David Wang in his work on the meanings of violence in modern Chinese literature: The Monster That Is History: History, Violence, and Fictional Writing in TwentiethCentury China (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 2004). 16. Mo Yan 㧛䀰, Jiuguo 䞂ഭ (The Republic of Wine) (Haikou: Nanhai chubanshe, 2000), p. 81. 17. Lu Xun 励䗵, “Wo zenme zuoqi xiaoshuo lai” ᡁᘾѸ‫ڊ‬䎧ሿ䈤ᶕ (“How I came to Write Fiction”), in Lu Xun zawen quanji 励䗵ᵲ᮷‫ޘ‬䳶 (Complete Collection of Lu Xun’s Zawen Essays) (Qinyang: Henan renmin chubanshe, [1933] 1994), p. 482. 18. Lu Xun, “How I Came to Write Fiction,” trans. J. E. Von Kowallis, in E. J. Cheng and K. A Denton (eds.), Jottings under Lamplight (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2018), p. 56. 19. Michael Hockx, “Print Culture and Literary Societies,” in Kang-I Sun Chang (ed.), The Cambridge History of Chinese Literature (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), vol. 2, p. 560.

274

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

20. The character is depicted in “The New Year Sacrifice” (Zhufu ⾍⾿, 1924). 21. Xiao Hong 㩗㓒, Shengsi chang ⭏↫൪ (The Field of Life and Death), in Xiao Hong quanji 㩗㓒‫ޘ‬䳶 (Complete Collection of Xiao Hong’s Works) (Ha’erbin: Heilongjiang daxue chubanshe, [1935] 2011): vol. I, pp. 39–134. 22. Edwards and Graulund, Grotesque, p. 3. 23. Xiao Hong, Shengsi chang, p. 45. 24. Kang Liu, “The Language of Desire Class, and Subjectivity in Lu Ling’s Fiction,” in Lu Tonglin (ed.), Gender and Sexuality in Twentieth-Century Chinese Literature and Society (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997), pp. 76–77. 25. Edwards and Graulund, Grotesque, 66. 26. Yinde Zhang, “Le Grotesque chez Mo Yan,” in Le Monde romanesque chinois au XXe siècle: Modernités et Identités, (Paris: Honoré Chamtion, 2003), pp. 420–421. 27. For this term see Yinde Zhang, “The Fiction of Living Beings: Man and Animal in the Work of Mo Yan,” China Perspective no. 3 (2010): 124–132. 28. Edwards and Graulund, Grotesque, p. 4. 29. Rong Cai, The Subject in Crisis in Contemporary Chinese Literature (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2004), p. 60. 30. This literary current developed in the 1980s, fostering a critical reflection and a reevaluation of Chinese tradition as it was challenged by the confrontation with western culture. 31. Jeffrey C. Kinkley, Visions of Dystopia in China’s New Historical Novels (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015), p. 12. 32. Differently from the “classical” grotesque represented by the creator of Frankenstein, which “breaks the boundaries between life and death . . . to pour a torrent of light into our dark world” (Edwards and Graulund, Grotesque, p. 54), in this novel Yu Hua suggests that the grotesque is already an integral part of contemporary China. 33. Seymour Benjamin Chatman, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1980), p. 9. 34. Lu Xun 励䗵, “Wo zenme zuoqi xiaoshuo lai,” p. 482. 35. Lu Xun, “How I Came to Write Fiction,” p. 56. 36. This kind of narrative device often produces a strong sense of grotesque; see Debra Malina, Breaking the Frame: Metalepsis and the Construction of the Subject (Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 2002).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Cai, Rong, The Subject in Crisis in Contemporary Chinese Literature, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004. Chatman, Seymour Benjamin, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1980. Edwards, Justin and Rune Graulund, Grotesque: The New Critical Idiom, Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2013.

NICOLETTA PESARO

275

Hockx, Michael, “Print Culture and Literary Societies,” in Kang-I Sun Chang (ed.), The Cambridge History of Chinese Literature, vol. 2, pp. 542–564, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Hsia C.T., History of Modern Chinese Fiction 1917–1957, with an appendix on Taiwan by Tsi-an Hsia, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1971. Kinkley, Jeffrey C., Visions of Dystopia in China’s New Historical Novels, New York: Columbia University Press, 2015. Liu, Kang, “The Language of Desire, Class, and Subjectivity in Lu Ling’s Fiction,” in Tonglin Lu (ed.), Gender and Sexuality in Twentieth-Century Chinese Literature and Society, pp. 67–84, Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997. Lovell, Julia, “Finding a Place: Mainland Chinese Fiction in the 2000s,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 71, no. 1 (2012): 7–32. Lu Xun 励䗵, “Ah Q zhengzhuan de chengyin” 䱯4↓ՐⲴᡀഐ (“The Reason for Writing The True Story of Ah Q”), in Lu Xun zawen quanji 励䗵ᵲ᮷‫ޘ‬䳶 (Complete Collection of Lu Xun’s Zawen Essays), pp. 249–51, Qinyang: Henan renmin chubanshe, [1926] 1994. Lu Xun 励䗵, “Wo zenme zuoqi xiaoshuo lai” ᡁᘾѸ‫ڊ‬䎧ሿ䈤ᶕ (“How I Came to Write Fiction”), in Lu Xun zawen quanji 励䗵ᵲ᮷‫ޘ‬䳶 (Complete Collection of Lu Xun’s Zawen Essays), pp. 481–483, Qinyang: Henan renmin chubanshe, [1933] 1994. Lu Xun, “How The True Story of Ah Q Came About,” trans. T. Huters, in Eileen. J. Cheng and Kirk A. Denton (eds.), Jottings under Lamplight, pp. 36–44, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2018. Lu Xun, “How I Came to Write Fiction,” trans. J.E. Von Kowallis, in Eileen J. Cheng and Kirk A. Denton (eds.), Jottings under Lamplight, pp. 54–57, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2018. Malina, Debra, Breaking the Frame: Metalepsis and the Construction of the Subject, Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 2002. Mo Yan 㧛䀰, Jiuguo 䞂ഭ (The Republic of Wine), Haikou: Nanhai chubanshe, 2000. Ning Ken, “Writing in the Age of the Ultra-Unreal,” trans. Thomas Moran, New England Review, vol. 37, no. 2, 89–96, 2016. Available online: http://www. nereview.com/vol-37-no-2-2016/writing-in-the-age-of-the-ultra-unreal-2/ (accessed 20 July 2019). Shank, Megan and Hua Yu, “The Challenges of Conveying Absurd Reality: An Interview with Chinese Writer Yu Hua,” Los Angeles Review of Books, October 25, 2013. Available online: https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/conveying-absurdreality-yu-hua (accessed September 2019). Shu Yi 㡂҉, “Lao She wenxue yu zhuliu de nifan” 㘱㠽᮷ᆖоѫ⍱Ⲵ䘶৽ (“Lao She’s Literature and its Opposition to the Mainstream”), in Lao She 㘱㠽, Wenxue gailun jiangyi ᮷ᆖᾲ䇪䇢ѹ (Introduction to Literary Theory), pp. 3–14. Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2016. Wang, David Der-Wei, The Monster That Is History: History, Violence, and Fictional Writing in Twentieth-Century China, Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 2004. Xiao Hong 㩗㓒, Shengsi chang ⭏↫൪ (The Field of Life and Death), In Xiao Hong quanji 㩗㓒‫ޘ‬䳶 (Complete Collection of Xiao Hong’s Works), vol. I, pp. 39–134, Ha’erbin: Heilongjiang daxue chubanshe, [1935] 2011.

276

THE AESTHETICS OF THE GROTESQUE

Yan Lianke 䰾䘎、 and Zhang Xuexin ᕐᆖ᱅, Wode xianshi, wode zhuyi ᡁⲴ⧠ ᇎˈᡁⲴѫ᜿ (My Reality, My Ism), Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2011. Zhang, Yinde, “Le Grotesque chez Mo Yan,” in Le Monde romanesque chinois au XXe siècle. Modernités et Identités, pp. 417–421, Paris: Honoré Chamtion, 2003. Zhang, Yinde, “The Fiction of Living Beings: Man and Animal in the Work of Mo Yan,” China Perspective, no. 3 (2010): 124–132.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Role of Stone in the Chinese Rock Garden GRAHAM PARKES

Few cultures have revered unhewn stone as much as the Chinese, and this reverence is most evident in the classical Chinese garden, where rocks constitute its basic framework as well as the major focal points. But if we are to fully appreciate the Chinese rock garden aesthetically, we have to rearrange some mental furniture conceptually, since our perception tends to be conditioned by our (pre)conceptions. Basically, if you make the conceptual shift from rocks as “lumps of matter” to “configurations of energy” (qi), this brings about a perceptual transformation that unlocks the meanings of the classical garden and enriches the aesthetic experience. As long as we regard stone as inanimate matter we fail to appreciate the role it plays in the Chinese garden, which is a place not only for aesthetic contemplation but also for social interaction and the restoration of one’s vital energies. Indeed the Chinese philosophical tradition declines to make many of the dichotomies we in the West like to draw—between philosophy and religion, philosophy and literature, philosophy and life, for example. In particular the Western tendency to separate out the aesthetic as a special kind of experience is absent from the Chinese world, where the aesthetic and the ethical are both bound up with the cultivation of mental and physical well-being. The Chinese are in general disinclined to compartmentalize—as evidenced by the close connections and interactions among the arts of music, poetry, 277

278

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

calligraphy, painting, and garden making. Once the dichotomy between the animate and inanimate is seen as somewhat arbitrary, along with the borders between the animal and vegetal and mineral realms, the well-arranged garden can be experienced as a field in which the energies constituting the human body are harmonized with the qi of all other inhabitants of the place. If we’re to fully appreciate the role of rock in the classical Chinese garden, we need to broaden our perspective and loosen up our categories.

A WORLD OF QI ENERGIES Always practically oriented, Chinese philosophy wasn’t much interested in speculations about the origin of the universe. What did interest the early Chinese thinkers was the basic philosophical question of what’s going on— of how things come and go and come around—and they came to answer that question in terms of qi (the notion formerly known as ch’i). From the standpoint of ancient Chinese natural science, or “protoscience,” which was never strictly demarcated from philosophy—just as in the West the precursor of modern science was called “natural philosophy”— it’s all a matter of energies, processes, and patterns. The world is understood as a field of constantly moving and self-transforming qi energies. From the Western perspective we may want to know whether qi is physical or physiological, material or immaterial, but the answer is “neither” and “both”: the notion undercuts those kinds of distinctions. Some Western scientists dismiss qi as nonexistent because it is scientifically unverifiable, but this is to misunderstand its status. A philosophy of qi does not ground, as in the West, a practice of empirical or experimental natural science. In the words of Tu Weiming, it offers by contrast “a metaphorical mode of knowing fit to address the multidimensional nature of reality by comparison, allusion, and suggestion.”1 So rather than asking whether qi “really exists,” we’re better off just trying it out, experimentally, by acting as if everything was a matter of local condensations in an energy field.2 The Chinese character for qi (≓) shows cooked rice in a cloud of vapor, and its early meanings were associated with air, vapor, and breath. As such it corresponds with notions like pra¯ṇa in the Indian tradition, pneuma in the Greek, the Hebrew ruach, Amerindian orenda, or the Polynesian mana. In modern Chinese, qi is a component of the words for “air,” “weather,” “gas,” and “mood,” and the notion has played a central role in theories and practices since early times, from traditional Chinese medicine, through various fine and martial arts, and fengshui as ecological practice, to the multifaceted practice of garden making. It’s everywhere.

GRAHAM PARKES

279

Often associated with blood as another vital substance—“blood and breath” figures in the Confucian Analects—qi eventually expanded to embrace the vitality of the whole world. We see this happening in Mencius, who talks about “cultivating my flood-like qi.” “Nourish it with integrity,” he says, “and place no obstacle in its path, and it will fill the space between Heaven and Earth.”3 Philosophers soon came to think that flood- and breathlike qi fills that space before Mencius or anyone else cultivates it—though self-cultivation is a way to realize that this is what’s going on. The Zhuangzi talks about how “all creatures take shape between Heaven and Earth and receive qi energy from the yin and yang.” The human being is no exception: “The birth of a man is just a convergence of energy. When it converges he lives; when it scatters he dies . . . Hence it is said: ‘Just open yourself into the single energy that is the world.” ’4 On the one hand qi energies transform themselves along a continuum from rarefied and invisible, as in the breath, to condensed and palpable, as in rock; and on the other, they carry a positive or negative “charge” between the polarities of yin and yang. A later Daoist text known as the Huainanzi (second century BCE) offers a more specific characterization of qi energy: A boundary divided the original qi. That which was pure and bright spread out to form Heaven; That which was heavy and turbid congealed to form Earth . . . The conjoined essences of Heaven and Earth produced yin and yang. The supersessive essences of yin and yang caused the four seasons. The scattered essences of the four seasons created the myriad things.5 Here qi is seen as the source of all particulars in the world, the variety among them depending on where they lie on the spectrum from the most rarefied (“pure and bright”) to the most condensed (“heavy and turbid”) forms of energy. As Angus Graham expressed it: “All things can be conceived as condensing out of and dissolving into a universal qi which as Yang is pure and so free-moving and active, and as Yin is impure and so inert and passive.”6 So qi is not just “life energy,” because it also constitutes rivers and rocks— what we call “inanimate” matter—along with the animal and vegetal realms: in short, all things. Some idea that the world is all one “stuff,” and that particular beings emerge from it and are then re-submerged, is found in many cultures. No surprise, then, to find something similar to the qi worldview at the beginning of the Western philosophical tradition. Shortly before the time of Confucius, the ancient Greek thinker Anaximines identified “the underlying nature” of

280

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

all things as “one and infinite: air” (aer in Greek). Extrapolating from the visible processes of condensation and evaporation, he posited two basic transformations of aer as the underlying nature, which he called “condensation” (occasioned by cooling) and “rarefaction” (by heating). Air differs in its substantial nature by rarity and density. Being made finer it becomes fire, being made thicker it becomes wind, then cloud, then (when thickened still more) water, then earth, then stones; and the rest come into being from these. Anaximines also assimilated aer with pneuma, which means both “wind” and “breath,” as well as with psyche, meaning “soul”: “From air all things come to be, and into it they are again dissolved. As our soul, being air, holds us together and controls us, so does wind [breath] enclose the entire cosmos.” Wind captures better than “air” the essential feature of the one underlying nature, that it is “always in motion,” making the notion’s consonance with Chinese qi philosophy even closer.7 A parallel phenomenon in Western science would be the earth’s magnetic field, which is similarly a field of forces that are invisible. And indeed, like electricity, qi is an energy that also flows between two poles—which the Chinese call yin and yang. But because this idea of Anaximines didn’t catch on in mainstream Western thought—though we find it echoed in the world soul of the Neoplatonists, God as natura naturans in Spinoza, will to power as interpretation in Nietzsche—the notion of qi energy remains to the Western mind somewhat obscure. It becomes clearer, however, once you get into a classical Chinese garden. Insofar as Chinese philosophy sees transformations of energy as fundamental, it has no place for anything as substantial as the traditional “four elements” that underlie so much Western thinking about the nature of the cosmos. The Greek idea of the four elements as the essential components of a material world—originally the “four roots” in the philosophy of Empedocles—goes along with an understanding of Gods and humans as creators and makers of things through the introduction of formative powers from outside, on the basis of a pattern or paradigm external to those things (even if internal to the mind of the Creator). The difference from the Chinese view was for a long time obscured by the practice of talking about the “five elements” in Chinese cosmology—an infelicitous translation of the Chinese wuxing, which literally means “five goings,” or “transitions,” “conducts,” “phases (of transformation),” or “processes.” The Five Processes, by contrast with the Greeks’ elements, are driven by the cosmic energy that flows through all particulars according to

GRAHAM PARKES

281

patterns that emerge from the place of those particulars within the larger matrix of forces. In such a world, the ancient Chinese thinkers say, human beings thrive by becoming aware of these transformations and engaging them in appropriate ways. A text from the fourth century BCE known as the Zuo Commentary (to the Annals of Lu) lists six kinds of atmospheric influences or energies: “Heaven has the Six Qi . . . shade [yin] and sunshine [yang], wind and rain, dark and light.” Here yin and yang refer in their pre-philosophical use to the shady and sunny sides of a hill respectively (north and south sides in China, as in any place in the northern hemisphere), and they are thus associated with cold and heat as well as darkness and light. Corresponding to the “Six Energies” of Heaven are the Five Processes associated with Earth: wood, fire, soil, metal, water. Wuxing denotes the five primary phases of transformation through which telluric energies pass in a continuous cycle of self-generation: wood ➞ fire ➞ soil ➞ metal ➞ water ➞ wood ➞ fire ➞ and so forth. As a dense form of earth, stone is not to be understood as some kind of matter or substance but rather a phase in this endless cycle of energetic transformations: a slow, hard change between the softness of soil and the malleability of metal. Thus the Chinese regard rocks as especially dense and slow-moving configurations of earth energy, as condensed foci of the forces that drive all under the heavens. For those of us who subscribe to the Cartesian dichotomy between mind and matter, the qi worldview will seem like some kind of animism or panpsychism. But let’s not forget just how recent and parochial the Cartesian worldview is—no matter how efficacious in manipulating the world by technological means. After endorsing Cartesian dualism, the natural sciences could deflate, as it were, the “world soul” of antiquity, draining off the anima mundi to confine all soul within human beings alone. If you go along with that, any animation of nonhuman phenomena will have to be regarded as anthropomorphic projection. But this modern view of the world is idiosyncratic in the extreme: most human beings in the course of human history have naturally experienced the world as alive and full of spirits, and regarding stone that way seems to come naturally for indigenous cultures. It’s not a matter of claiming that the natural science perspective is false, but rather of affirming the validity of other, ancient perspectives that are still experientially accessible to us in the twenty-first century. On my first encounter with the famous Taihu rocks that inhabit China’s most impressive gardens, I couldn’t get into them at all. They seemed simply weird, and distinctly unaesthetic. But I realized later that was because I was regarding them as inanimate, as lumps of matter. Once equipped with the

282

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

idea that everything is qi energies, the next encounter revealed Taihu rocks as simply magnificent. A poet from Suzhou once suggested that, before entering a garden: one should be acquainted with the historical background; enter in a peaceful and receptive mood; observe the layout of the garden, for the different parts have been weighed against each other like the pairs of inscribed tablets placed in the pavilions. Then one should try to intuit the inner soul of the garden, try to understand the mysterious forces shaping the landscape and making it cohere.8 So let’s go back now to some of the historical background.

FIGURE 14.1: Yuan Jiang, Penglai Island (1708). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Chinese_garden#/media/File:YuanJiang-Penglai_Island.jpg (public domain).

GRAHAM PARKES

283

HISTORICAL CONTEXT The ancient Chinese thinkers talk of the three worlds—Heaven, humans, and Earth—as belonging together as one. Landscape reaches up as mountains into the openness of the heavens, and settles down as waters onto the firmness of the earth. In the landscape garden, mountains point to heaven in the form of rocks, waters rest on earth in the shape of ponds, while the built structures within the garden stand in for human beings. At first a prerogative of the imperial families, enthusiasm for arranging rocks in landscape gardens spread subsequently to the literati, and it remains widespread in the culture to this day. An early motif in imperial gardens reproduced the legendary “Isles of the Immortals,” three (or five) gigantic mountains on the far border of the eastern ocean. They were inhabited by a race of sages who became immortal by eating the fruit of the trees there, and spent their days—and their days were long—flying from island to island, sometimes on the backs of cranes.9 The ancient kings would send out emissaries to find the islands and bring back the elixir of immortality, but always without success. The King of Qin, who unified the warring states under the Qin empire in the third century BCE, was an enthusiastic searcher, yet in vain. But a successor in the Han dynasty, Emperor Wu, had a bright idea: instead of sending out more expeditions to find the Isles, he would attract the Immortals to him, by building beautiful miniature versions of the Isles in a pond in the imperial garden. Emperor Wu set a record for length of reign—fifty-four years—but died in the end, in 87 BCE. Nonetheless, a group of three or five mountainlike rocks set in a pond, with the tallest representing Mount Penglai (Ho ¯raizan in Japanese), is a common motif in landscape gardens in Japan as well as China to this day. The Song dynasty emperor Huizong carried on this tradition in extravagant style, as one of the most rock-revering artists of the long Chinese tradition. He built an imperial park containing several artificial mountains, and at the western entrance he placed a spectacular rock over fifteen meters high. A visitor observed at the time: The rocks on the side had various forms. Some looked like ministers having audience with the emperor. They were solemn, serious, trembling, and full of awe. Some were charging forward as if they had some important advice or argument to present.10 Here we see the Confucian tradition vitally embodied in the practice of arranging rocks in such a way that their interrelations mirror social

284

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

FIGURE 14.2: Guo Xu, Mi Fu Bowing to a Rock (1503). Exhibit, Chester Beatty Library, Dublin, 2010 (public domain).

relationships. Besides being a great connoisseur of stone, Huizong was also the most accomplished painter among the many Chinese emperors who painted as well as reigned. One of his best-known paintings is of a rock in one of his gardens called Auspicious Dragon Rock.11 Another great “litholater” (stone worshipper) was the famous poet and painter Mi Fu. On taking up an appointment as a magistrate in Anhui province, a place renowned for the quality of its rocks, he is said to have noticed a magnificent rock in a garden of the official precincts. Overwhelmed with admiration, he made obeisance to it and from then on addressed it respectfully as “Elder Brother Rock” every time he passed by. The episode became a favorite theme of painters, who delighted in assimilating the poet’s shape and attire to the contours and patterns of the much larger rock. The frequent depictions in painting of the isomorphism between human and stone attest to their enduring affinity in the Chinese tradition. A Ming dynasty landscape painter and designer of gardens by the name of Ji Cheng authored a well-known garden manual, The Craft of Gardens (Yuanye, 1635). On the topic of placing rocks he writes: If a single rock is set upright in the center as the “master rock” and two more rocks (known as “split peaks”) are set on either side of it, the single one will stand in solitary magnificence and the lesser ones will act as

GRAHAM PARKES

285

supporters. They will seem to be arranged in order of rank, and will give the impression of waiting on command.12 We should not dismiss this attitude as mere personification or anthropomorphic projection: remember, rocks are alive too, and tend to cluster in family groups, not only in gardens but also in the wild. (If you have any doubt about that, just look next time you’re in a rocky landscape.) When scholar-officials were finally allowed to make gardens, they included a quite practical aim: rather than having to spend time traveling to the countryside for recreation, they could create a microcosm of a celebrated landscape beside their house. As Ji Cheng wrote: “If you build your hut by a mountain torrent, it seems you are sure to find peace and quiet. But if you bring the mountains to your home, what need is there to search for remote places?”13 In true Confucian spirit the garden was a place not only for recreation and relaxation but also for social interaction: for playing music, composing poetry, and drinking wine with friends. Various architectural structures—pavilions, gazebos, studies, music rooms—were integrated into the landscape in accordance with Confucian virtues of frugality and simplicity. As Ji Cheng observed: The hermit’s life in a city far surpasses a distant mountain retreat. If you can find seclusion in a noisy place, there is no need to yearn for places far from where you live. Whenever you have some leisure, you are already at your goal; and whenever the mood takes you, you can set off with your friends for a walk.14 We get a good sense of this kind of fortunate situation from the great Qing dynasty novel The Story of the Stone (1791), where much of the early action takes place in the magnificent garden of a wealthy family who live in the capital. The garden’s rocks figure prominently in the story, often serving to conceal conversing characters from the gaze of others, and generally contribute to an interplay of reality and illusion in the novel—an interplay that the rocks in the garden especially exemplify. The Chinese garden should never present itself to the view all at once, but rather gradually through a series of concealments and revelations. Jia Zheng, the father of the main protagonist, brings some guests to the garden for their first visit. A cry of admiration escaped them as they entered, for there, immediately in front of them, screening everything else from their view, rose a steep, verdure-clad hill. “Without this hill,” Jia Zheng somewhat otiosely observed, “the whole garden would be visible as one entered, and all its mystery would be lost.”

286

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

The literary gentlemen concurred. “Only a master of the art of landscape could have conceived so bold a stroke,” said one of them. As they gazed at this miniature mountain, they observed a great number of large white rocks in all kinds of grotesque and monstrous shapes, rising course above course up one of its sides, some recumbent, some upright or leaning at angles, their surfaces streaked and spotted with moss and lichen or half concealed by creepers, and with a narrow, zigzag path only barely discernible to the eye winding up between them.15 Thus even in a garden you can have mountain paths to walk along, from where you can enjoy views of the landscape.

MOUNTAINS AND WATERS The Chinese term for landscape, shanshui, literally means “mountains– waters,” denoting landscape’s two major features. Confucius is said to have said: “The wise find joy in waters, while the humane find joy in mountains.”16 In a landscape garden, rocks, standing in for mountains, constitute the framework and focal points, while ponds and streams play the role of seas, lakes, and rivers. The aesthetics of gardens developed in interaction with

FIGURE 14.3: Guo Xi, Early Spring (1072, detail). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Guo_Xi#/media/File:Guo_Xi_-_Early_Spring_(large).jpg (public domain).

GRAHAM PARKES

287

China’s rich tradition of landscape painting aesthetics, such that a garden was often regarded as a painting in three dimensions. A major aim of landscape painting was to conjure up immense distances through works of modest dimensions. As the great poet Du Fu once expressed it: “To be able, in the space of one square foot, to evoke a landscape of ten thousand leagues!”17 A well-known native of Suzhou (near Shanghai), a city that is home to several of China’s greatest gardens, was the Qing dynasty writer Shen Fu, who often discusses the art of garden making in his autobiographical Six Records of a Floating Life. As a general principle, he writes: In laying out gardens, pavilions, wandering paths, small mountains of rocks, and flower plantings, try to give the feeling of the small in the large and the large in the small, of the real in the illusion and the illusion in the reality.18 The author came across the possibility of playing with scale—the small and the large—when he was small. I would often squat down by unkempt grassy places in flower beds or by niches in walls, low enough so that my head was level with them, and concentrate so carefully that to me the grass became a forest and the insects became animals. Imagining that small mounds of earth were hills and that shallow holes were valleys, I let my spirit wander there in happiness and contentment.19 (In my experience, the trick is to find a patch of soft grass on which to lie prone with one cheek to the ground, and then cover the upper eye and wait. After a while the stalks of grass become huge, and any insect among them appears monstrous in size.) We tend to lose our childhood flexibility in playing with scale and letting the spirit wander, but the Daoists—and Zhuangzi especially—are concerned with retrieving it. It’s a precondition of the creation and appreciation of art generally, and of the Chinese garden in particular. Another of Chinese painting’s main aims was brushwork that achieves “energy resonance” (qi yun) between the landscape and the painting. A painting isn’t concerned with representing a landscape or showing how it looks; if you want to know how it looks, you just go to the place and look (in the right direction). Rather, the good painting “gets the energy” of the place, gets it on to a plane surface, through the artist’s resonating with the vitality of what he sees.

288

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

This is the first of the influential “Six Principles” principle of painting discussed by the sixth-century painter and critic Xie He: qi yun sheng dong, literally “energy resonance life activity”; or, adapting James Cahill’s translation, “engender[ing] [a sense of] movement,” shengdong, “[through] energy resonance” (qiyun).20 Once the artist gets attuned to the resonance of the energy configurations of the landscape, he is able to transmit the vitality of the scene to the paper through the energy configuration of his own body. Rather than attempting to reproduce the visual appearance of the natural world, the artist lets the brushstrokes flow from the common source that produces both natural phenomena and his own activity. This principle was easily adapted to the art of garden making, where the very elements of the artist’s craft are natural beings, which are then artfully selected and arranged in order to reproduce interactions in the natural world outside the garden within its subtly organized setting. With the flourishing of Northern Song landscape painting in the course of the tenth century, connoisseurs of rocks even began to value their resemblance to depicted mountains—an interesting case where a natural component of the garden art is evaluated by standards from the art of painting!21 In discussing the construction of artificial mountains in gardens, Ji Cheng offers this advice: What are known as precipitous mountains are built up against walls, so that the whitewashed surface acts as paper and the rocks as the painting on it. The designer should follow the natural cracks in the stone, imitating the brushwork of the old masters.22 And just as the landscape painter transmits the vital movement of the mountains and waters, so the garden maker achieves this through a synergy of rocks and ponds. The power of the rock is further enhanced by a play of apparent movement, which can be achieved by arranging rocks at the edge of a pond, so that they are reflected in the surface of the water and appear to undulate as if alive. And when the sun is in the right place, trembling webs of silver light animate the rock surfaces further. As Ji Cheng confirms, with respect to towering rockeries: “To have mountains situated beside a pool is the finest sight in a garden.”23 The Scottish–Swedish architect Sir William Chambers, in his Dissertation on Oriental Gardening (1773), observed that the Chinese compare a clear pond, in a calm sunny day, to a rich piece of painting, upon which the circumambient objects are represented in the highest

GRAHAM PARKES

289

perfection; and say, it is like an aperture in the world, through which you see another world, another sun, and other skies.24 And in that other world, rocks can sway to the rhythms of wind-brushed waters. When rocks are arranged in relation to trees or bamboo in places that receive sunshine, the shadows multiply the painterly effect, while extending and transforming it as long as the sun’s gradual movement remains visible. In a light breeze, the shadows of slow-swaying bamboo or branches lend further animation. Ji Cheng again: “A mighty rock welcomes the visitor to a magical other world. Fine bamboos play their shadows, as if to the music of pan-pipes over the water.”25 Insofar as the Chinese tradition reveres nature as “the greatest of all artists,” the great human artist will practice “plundering the natural processes of making and transforming,” and takes these creative processes “as his master and teacher.”26 A special manifestation of the creative workings of nature through the medium of rock is found in the “stone screens” that have long been a common item of furniture in China, and are found in the pavilions of many gardens. The veining of the marble used for these screens exhibits “traces of mineral combinations of pure limestone and sedimentary layers of clay mixed with organic material or iron oxides which the limestone has recrystallized,” and thus produces by “natural painting” patterns that look like mist-enshrouded landscapes.27 Also known as “dreamstones” or “journeying stones,” these natural images were avidly collected by scholars and officials for the decoration of their residences. The twelfth-century treatise by Du Wan, the Stone Catalogue of Cloudy Forest, which appears to be the world’s first handbook of rock aesthetics, describes several different kinds. Dreamstones manifest nature’s artistry in depicting a large part of itself—a landscape—in a smaller part of that part—a rock. This is an example of the “sympathetic resonance” (ganying) that Daoist philosophy finds among various kinds of configurations of qi energy.28 No wonder the makers of landscape gardens like to frame these natural landscapes and place them in garden pavilions.

MOUNTAINS AND ROCKS It’s also a matter of scale, which in the Chinese tradition is always variable. A cosmogonic myth from ancient China depicts the sky as a vast cave, and mountains as fragments that came loose from the vault of heaven and ended up on earth. Falling through the air these huge chunks of stone were charged with vast amounts of qi energy before embedding themselves in the ground.29

290

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

FIGURE 14.4: Mountain peak rock. Photo by the author.

That’s what gives rise to earth energies: the heaviness of falling rock, drawn by gravity down to earth. The Chinese regarded mountains as the most majestic expressions of natural forces, manifestations of the powerful telluric energies that thrust the earth thousands of meters up into the heavens. Five Great Mountains stand at the center of the Central Kingdom and four cardinal points, while Daoism acknowledges Four Sacred Mountains, as does Chinese Buddhism (though a different four from the Daoists). According to the “correlative thinking” that is characteristic of Chinese philosophy, rocks are revered as the equivalent of mountains on a smaller scale. Not so much because some of them look like mountains, but rather because rocks are regarded as corresponding configurations of qi energies, animated by the same huge telluric forces that formed the heights and peaks. Du Wan makes this point clearly in the introduction to his Stone Catalogue of Cloudy Forest:

GRAHAM PARKES

291

The purest energy of the heaven-earth world coalesces into rock. It emerges, bearing the soil. Its formations are wonderful and fantastic . . . Within the size of a fist can be assembled the beauty of a thousand cliffs.30 The idea that miniaturization loses none of the power of the original—and may even increase it—is prevalent in a number of East Asian traditions, as exemplified in the practices of collecting Chinese scholars’ stones, Japanese bonsai, or container gardens.31 An entry on stone in an eighteenth-century encyclopedia, eighty-six pages long, characterizes rocks as follows: The essential energy of earth forms rock . . . Rocks are kernels of energy; the generation of rock from energy is like the body’s arterial system producing nails and teeth . . . The earth has the famous mountains as its support . . . rocks are its bones.32 In China it’s all a matter of the way qi energies work: size matters, but only relatively. The Chinese are traditionally given to what has been called “correlative thinking,” in which the foremost correlation is that between macrocosm and microcosm. Thus the garden or park of an emperor would represent on a smaller scale the world, All-under-Heaven, over which the emperor as “Son of Heaven” reigned. And a rock in a garden would similarly stand in for a mountain, though it has to be appropriately placed. When rocks are integrated into the field of energies that is the well-designed garden, their qi energies are intensified. As Ji Cheng puts it: “Rocks are not like plants or trees: after they have been collected and set in a garden, they gain a new lease on life.”33 The most important thing for the garden maker is to learn the inner principles of arranging rocks. Whereas the temperament of flowers and trees is easy to grasp, the inner significance of mountains and forests requires profound study. If you have the real thing within you when you make the imitation, the imitation that you make will become real.34 Or, in terms of energy, it’s again a matter of getting that resonance going. But the best-known and most characteristic rocks in classical Chinese gardens don’t look much like mountains at all, but rather resemble organic forms. These are the famous Taihu rocks, so called because they come from Lake Tai (“Great Lake”) near Suzhou. The geology of the area is remarkable in that the rock there is formed from limestone deposits nearly 300 million

292

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

FIGURE 14.5: Taihu rock. Photo by the author.

years old.35 These ancient formations were corroded into extravagant shapes when the area was covered by sea, and were subsequently worked and sculpted by the action of hard pebbles on the bed of the lake during storms. In later times people would put rocks that they had taken from the lake bed back into the lake, so that they could be naturally “polished,” and would then “harvest” them again years later. Especially fine specimens of these Taihu rocks—which can look like frozen billows of sea spume, enormous stone fungi burgeoning into the air, or extravagant coral formations poised in an invisible ocean—often stand alone as the centerpieces of famous gardens. No wonder they look so zoomorphic: long ago they were living beings. Limestone comes from sediment on the bottom of ancient oceans, from shells and skeletons of

GRAHAM PARKES

293

marine organisms, corals and molluscs and algae. As a configuration of qi energy, the rock is thus an event rather than a thing, playing out on a vastly extended time scale. (Rocks around 300 million years old—and we look at them for only a minute or two?) Do we see ourselves in them, sensing our common ancestry long ago? And how do the human body’s minerals react to the presence of limestone? The earliest description we have of a Taihu rock, which became the most highly prized kind in China during the Tang dynasty, comes from a poem by Bai Juyi. Its controlling spirit overpowers the bamboo and trees, Its manifested energy dominates the pavilions and terrace. From its interior rise quiet whispers, Is it the womb of the winds? Sharp swords show in its angular edges, Their ringing resonance clearer than jasper chimes. Its great shape seems to move, Its massive forces seem on the brink of collapse.36 After centuries of rock connoisseurship, the beauty of Great Lake rocks came to be judged by four main criteria, designated by the conveniently rhyming terms: shou, zhou, lou, and tou. Shou is “leanness,” which means that the rock should be without any kind of “fat” or excrescences that would obscure the expression of its internal structure or energy. This suggests that a slender rock is better than a plump one, that there should be no unnecessary excrescences, such that the form displays the configuration of qi energies that gave it shape. Zhou refers to a rich surface texture, consisting of wrinkles and other patterns. These lend the rock a sense of movement, especially if waterreflected light plays upon it, or bamboo-cast shadows. Again one should be able to read from the surface of the rock the kinds of forces that formed it. Lou means channels and indentations, which induce the eye to move within and around the stone in multiple ways and various rhythms, so as to get the feel of its flow. These also lend the rock a certain lightness. Tou refers to a foraminate structure with holes and openings. To the Chinese sensibility, a rock that is one hundred percent present is perhaps too obvious, while one that is only three quarters there is more interesting. Foraminate structure was prized for being expressive of the transformations that make up the world as a whole and the interplay between void and form. Ji Cheng quotes this line from the Buddhist poet and painter of the Tang

294

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

dynasty, Wang Wei: “The prospect of the mountains lies between something and nothing.”37 There is influence here from Daoism as well as Buddhism, the idea that the world is an interplay of something and nothing, absence and presence, fullness and emptiness. A famous chapter (11) in the Laozi uses several examples—the round hole at the center of a wheel, the emptiness inside a pot, the windows and doors in a wall—to draw attention to the way an absence within presence can make something useful. And in the case of rock, more interesting aesthetically. These criteria suggest that lightness is a desirable quality, that the rock’s appearance should contrast with its massive weight. Some Taihu rocks look like clouds, just as some mountains depicted in Chinese landscape paintings resemble heaps of cumulus cloud. Rocks in Japanese gardens by contrast generally advertise rather than conceal their weight, though their placement is often designed to exhibit their vitality in the way they thrust up from beneath the ground.

MOUNTAINS OF ROCKS If a rock is a microcosm of a mountain, then an appropriately arranged and constructed collection of rocks will form an entire mountain range. And if a suitably shaped rock is an especially efficient conduit for qi, then a collection of such rocks, appropriately arranged, will constitute an even more powerful configuration. Thus one of the earliest practices in Chinese garden making was the construction of jiashan, or “artificial mountains,” which were the precursors of the rockeries for which Chinese gardens are renowned (and eighteenth-century English gardens after them). The Emperor Huizong built several artificial mountains in his imperial park, among them the apotheosis of the genre. It was an enormous mountain of rocks, with “ten thousand layered peaks,” which rose to a height of seventy-five meters. It comprised “ranges, cliffs, deep gullies, escarpments and chasms,” as well as a precipice of purple rock. In one place boulders had been artfully placed as if spontaneously rolled there by mountain streams: “They were all in various strange shapes, like tusks, horns, mouths, noses, heads, tails, and claws. They seemed to be angry and protesting against each other.”38 Huizong clearly appreciated and delighted in the animate activity of rocks. What fascinates about such stone is the way natural processes sculpt the apparently least animate form of being into the shapes of more complex forms such as animals and human beings. The enduring significance of the artificial mountain is attested by Ji Cheng, who spends more time discussing it than any other feature of the garden.

GRAHAM PARKES

295

Because it’s so much larger than a single rock, which one contemplates from many angles but without moving too much, the artificial mountain enables a fuller body experience. As you wander wherever your feet take you, you may doubt that there is any boundary to the place. As you raise your head to gaze around, deep emotions will be stirred in you . . . The depths of your imagination should be full of images, and your feelings should overflow into valleys and hills.39 Corresponding to the paths that lead through real mountains are walkways leading through the built ones that let the viewer experience the energies of the structure from a quasi-subterranean perspective within the “mountain.” We encountered earlier the “miniature mountain” at the entrance of the garden depicted in The Story of the Stone—a text that some may regard as reliable on this topic because the whole book is narrated by a talking stone. (This particular stone is actively animate, capable of changing size and shape, and also of moving around.) A later passage in the novel describes “a miniature mountain of rock, whose many holes and fissures, worn through it by weathering or the wash of waters, bestowed on it a misleading appearance of fragile delicacy.”40 Those aesthetic criteria for Taihu rocks definitely lean toward the light and airy—as with the Gothic cathedral, where the aim is likewise to counteract the weight of the stone by lending it (often through foraminate structure) the appearance of lightness. Ji Cheng recommends that the rocks forming the peaks of artificial mountains should be larger at the top than below, and fitted together so that “they will have the appearance of being about to soar into the air.”41 And here are some explicit instructions from Shen Fu: To make a miniature mountain, pile up some dirt, then place rocks on it and plant flowers and grass here and there. The fence in front of it should be of plum trees, and the wall behind it should be covered with vines, so that it will look like a mountain even though there is no mountain there.42 There you have it: by playing with scale you get that “illusion in the reality.”

THE GARDEN AS TONIC I mentioned at the beginning that the functions of the Chinese garden go beyond the provision of an aesthetic environment to other purposes, such as the restoration of one’s vital energies. This is a large topic, but let me conclude with just a few remarks on it.

296

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

The early development of the practice of fengshui in China often took advantage of people’s susceptibility to superstition, so that a good part of it became tainted with charlatanry. (Fengshui—literally “winds waters”—is often translated as “geomancy.”) But once you strip away the layers of mystification that often surround the practice, you are left with an eminently sensible and practical form of environmental science. The basic idea is that flows of qi through the earth, along with the energies of winds and waters, are what shape the land into different kinds of terrain and landscape. Just as qi flows through the human body along what Chinese acupuncture calls “meridians,” so an expert in fengshui can chart the flows of energy through the earth along what are called “earth-veins” (dimo) or “lifelines” (shi).43 A basic premise of fengshui thinking—and one that also underlies the development of the Chinese garden—is this: that since the human body is a configuration of the same kinds of energies that course through the natural environment, one’s activities will be enhanced to the extent that one harmonizes the patterns of qi flowing through the body with the energetic configurations of the places in which one lives, works, eats, and sleeps. When the Chinese build a garden, the point is to create an environment where the configurations of qi will have a restorative and invigorating effect on the mental and physical well-being of the people in it. Rocks of unusual size or shape tend to be special conduits or reservoirs for qi energies, and since the human body is understood as a different configuration of the same energies, it is reasonable to assume that beneficial effects will flow from simply being in the presence of such rocks. The rock garden thereby becomes a site not only for aesthetic contemplation but also for self-cultivation and the enhancement of physical health, especially since the qi of the rocks will be vitalized by the flows of energy among the other natural components there. The late Ming dynasty painter Mi Wanzhong was a famous collector of rocks, and according to the account of a contemporary there was one stone that had an especially vitalizing effect on him: “If he was tired, the stone would rouse him; if he was feeling low, it would cheer him up.”44 Rocks and gardens can also exert a tonic effect on perceptions of the world more generally. Insofar as we come to perceive stone as a denser and slowermoving form of the energies that also constitute organic configurations such as plants or animals, this gives us a much livelier world altogether. Such an experiential transformation can also lead to a different and more salutary way of thinking about ecological issues. And finally, spending time with the rocks and mountains of the Chinese garden helps one develop a flexibility of visual experience and reflective thinking that serves to enhance many aspects of daily life.

GRAHAM PARKES

297

Let me close with some lines from an unexpected source: the great John Moriarty, a poet-philosopher from Ireland. Musing on the news that in Chinese nouns are also verbs, he wrote this: A speaker of English, when I see a rock I see a thing. Guo Xi, a speaker of Chinese, sees it as an event, or better, as an eventing, as a happening, as an action, and that might be one reason why he also painted mountains as though they were clouds . . . A wonderful thing it would be if Guo Xi’s painting called Early Spring were to come to Europe. It would recreate our eyes and minds. It would liberate rocks from our Medousa perceptions of them.45 It would indeed. And this is just what we learn from the role of rock in the Chinese garden. Liberate rock! Free stone! Keep an open mind.

NOTES 1. Tu Weiming, “The Continuity of Being: Chinese Visions of Nature,” in Mary Evelyn Tucker and John Berthrong (eds.), Confucianism and Ecology: The Interrelation of Heaven, Earth, and Humans (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998), p. 108. 2. Hans Vaihinger, The Philosophy of “As If ”: A System of the Theoretical, Practical, and Religious Fictions of Mankind, trans. C.K. Ogden (London: Routledge, 1968). 3. Mencius, 2A:2. 4. Zhuangzi, The Essential Writings, trans. Brook Ziporyn (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2009), chs. 19 and 22 (pp. 69, 86). 5. Liu An, The Huainanzi 3.1, trans. John S. Major et al. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), pp. 114–15. 6. A.C. Graham, Disputers of the Tao (La Salle, Ill: Open Court, 1989), p. 328. 7. Aetius, in G.S. Kirk and J.E. Raven, The Presocratic Philosophers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957), p. 158; Hippolytus, in Kirk and Raven, Presocratic Philosophers, p. 145. See Graham, Disputers, p. 356. 8. Cited in R. Stewart Johnston, Scholar Gardens of China: A Study and Analysis of the Spatial Design of the Chinese Private Garden (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 89. 9. This version of the myth comes from the third great classic of philosophical Daoism, the Book of Liezi, ch. 5, “The Questions of Tang.” 10. From The Record of Hua Yang Palace by the monk Zixui, cited in Maggie Keswick, The Chinese Garden: History, Art and Architecture (Cambridge. Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003), pp. 65–66. 11. The painting and a commentary can be seen on the website of the Palace Museum in Beijing (https://en.dpm.org.cn/collections/ collections/2013-01-24/1207.html).

298

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

12. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens (1631), trans. Alison Hardie (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1988), p. 110. 13. Ibid., p. 53 14. Ibid., p. 47. 15. Cao Xueqin, The Story of the Stone (1750), vol. 1, trans. David Hawkes (London: Penguin Books, 1973), p. 328. 16. Confucius, Analects 6.23. 17. Du Fu, cited in William Hung, Tu Fu: China’s Greatest Poet (New York: Russell and Russell, 1969), p. 169. 18. Shen Fu, Six Records of a Floating Life (London: Penguin Books, 1983), Part II: “The Pleasures of Leisure.” 19. Ibid.. 20. James Cahill’s translation of Xie He, cited in Susan Bush and Hsio-yen Shih, Early Chinese Texts on Painting (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2012), 12. See also Osvald Sirén, The Chinese on the Art of Painting: Translations and Comments (New York: Schocken Books, 1963), pp. 18–24. 21. See Keswick, The Chinese Garden, “The Vital Spirit,” pp. 94–6. 22. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens, p. 108. 23. Ibid. 24. William Chambers, Dissertation on Oriental Gardening (London, 1773), p. 70. 25. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens, p. 109, p. 93. 26. John Hay, Kernels of Energy, Bones of Earth: The Rock in Chinese Art (New York: China Institute in America, 1985), p. 173. 27. Pierre Rambach and Suzanne Rambach, Gardens of Longevity in China and Japan: The Art of the Stone Raisers, trans. André Marling (New York: Rizzoli, 1987), pp. 26–29. 28. On sympathetic resonance, see the Huainanzi, ch. 6; also Zhuangzi, ch. 24 (p. 103). 29. Rambach and Rambach, Gardens of Longevity, p. 39. 30. Edward H. Schafer, Tu Wan’s Stone Catalogue of Cloudy Forest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961), cited in Hay, Kernels of Energy, p. 38. 31. See Rolf Stein, The World in Miniature: Container Gardens and Dwellings in Far Eastern Religious Thought (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990) for a fascinating account of the power of miniaturisation. Also Stephen Little, Spirit Stones of China (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 1999). 32. From The Classical Contents of the Mirror of Profound Depths, cited in Hay, Kernels of Energy, p. 52. 33. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens, p. 112. 34. Ibid., p. 107. 35. Hay, Kernels of Energy, p. 36. 36. Cited in Hay, Kernels of Energy, pp. 19–21.

GRAHAM PARKES

299

37. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens, p. 55. 38. Keswick, The Chinese Garden, pp. 53–55. 39. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens, p. 106. 40. Cao Xueqin, The Story of the Stone, chs. 1, 17. 41. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens, p. 110. 42. Shen Fu, Six Records of a Floating Life, pp. 60, 55, 60. 43. See François Jullien, The Propensity of Things: Toward a History of Efficacy in China, trans. Janet Lloyd (New York: Zone Books, 1999), ch. 5. 44. Little, Spirit Stones of China, p. 24. 45. John Moriarty, in Michael W. Higgins (ed.), Introducing John Moriarty: In His Own Words (Dublin: Lilliput Press, 2019), p. 127, emphasis added.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bush, Susan and Hsio-yen Shih, Early Chinese Texts on Painting, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2012. Cao Xueqin, The Story of the Stone (1750), vol. 1, trans. David Hawkes, London: Penguin Books, 1973. Chambers, William, Dissertation on Oriental Gardening, London, 1773. Graham, A.C., Disputers of the Tao, La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1989. Hay, John, Kernels of Energy, Bones of Earth: The Rock in Chinese Art, New York: China Institute in America, 1985. Higgins, Michael W. (ed.), Introducing John Moriarty: In His Own Words, Dublin: Lilliput Press, 2019. Hung, William, Tu Fu: China’s Greatest Poet, New York: Russell and Russell, 1969. Ji Cheng, The Craft of Gardens (1631), trans. Alison Hardie, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1988. Johnston, R. Stewart, Scholar Gardens of China: A Study and Analysis of the Spatial Design of the Chinese Private Garden, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Jullien, François, The Propensity of Things: Toward a History of Efficacy in China, trans. Janet Lloyd, New York: Zone Books, 1999. Keswick, Maggie, The Chinese Garden: History, Art and Architecture, Cambridge. Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003. Kirk, Geoffrey S. and John E. Raven, The Presocratic Philosophers, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957. Little, Stephen, Spirit Stones of China, Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 1999. Liu An, The Huainanzi, trans. John S. Major et al., New York: Columbia University Press, 2010. Rambach, Pierre and Suzanne, Gardens of Longevity in China and Japan: The Art of the Stone Raisers, trans. André Marling, New York: Rizzoli, 1987. Schafer, Edward H., Tu Wan’s Stone Catalogue of Cloudy Forest, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961. Shen Fu, Six Records of a Floating Life, London: Penguin Books, 1983.

300

STONE IN THE CHINESE ROCK GARDEN

Sirén, Osvald, The Chinese on the Art of Painting: Translations and Comments, New York: Schocken Books, 1963. Stein, Rolf, The World in Miniature: Container Gardens and Dwellings in Far Eastern Religious Thought, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990. Tu Weiming, “The Continuity of Being: Chinese Visions of Nature,” in John Berthrong and Mary Evelyn Tucker (eds.), Confucianism and Ecology: The Interrelation of Heaven, Earth, and Humans, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998. Vaihinger, Hans, The Philosophy of “As If ”: A System of the Theoretical, Practical, and Religious Fictions of Mankind, trans. C.K. Ogden, London: Routledge, 1968. Zhuangzi, The Essential Writings, trans. Brook Ziporyn, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2009.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Aesthetics in Asian Martial Arts BARRY ALLEN

We must distinguish two questions regarding aesthetics and Asian martial arts. One is about the aesthetic qualities of Asian martial arts techniques and practice. The other is about the aesthetics of the fighting in Asian martial arts cinema. These are entirely different and even in conflict with each other. The question of martial arts aesthetics concerns the presence, source, and value of aesthetic qualities in these arts, and is very largely (as I will show) an aesthetics of effortless effectiveness. Asian martial arts cinema is a mimesis of these arts, no more the real thing than gunfights in Westerns are real gunfights. The principle of the imitation is not to make the movement combatively effective. It is instead to make it look exciting, dramatic, cool.

THE AESTHETIC IN ASIAN MARTIAL ARTS PRACTICE Practically all martial arts techniques are what a dancer would call steps: movements and combinations susceptible of demonstration and repetition.1 However, unlike dance, these movements are never symbolic or merely graceful. Martial arts movements are techniques, weaponized ways of moving, designed to counteract violence. To train these techniques, one has to understand where the energies go, and that requires understanding how they are weaponized, what makes them combatively effective.2 Martial arts practice on this principle precludes anything whose point is not combative, or that 301

302

AESTHETICS IN ASIAN MARTIAL ARTS

carries the least whiff of symbolism, formalism, or gesture. Yet there is this much in common with dance—the movements, well executed, are fascinating to watch. Many people would say they are beautiful, or are beautifully done.3 The key to understanding this aesthetic quality is that it is a by-product of combative effectiveness. The elegance of the movements derives from technically exquisite efficacy, the product of generations of refinement in the long history of these arts. The better one understands these techniques, the more one appreciates the ingenuity and anatomical sophistication with which they compel the cessation of violence. One can see the design, the instrumentality, the art of the technique, and it is all about overwhelming violence. Even the practice of kata, or forms, is the practice of movements whose design is combative and which, when competently performed, visibly express that design. Nothing about karate kata or Shaolin forms is merely symbolic. Combative effectiveness and aesthetic quality emerge from the same corporeal matrix: the aesthetic quality comes from the precision and intensity with which these techniques express their design as weapons, an expressive quality the movements acquire as a by-product of combative effectiveness. Martial arts practice is usually not beautiful or fascinating to watch until someone can perform techniques with combative competence. The ungainly aesthetic quality and the disappointing combative effectiveness of beginners’ movements are two sides of the same thing. Movements that look unbalanced, jerky, or mechanical, are also incapable of generating the power for which the technique is designed. The only way to enhance the aesthetic quality of one’s performance of techniques is to give one’s full attention to understanding where the energies have to go to make the technique powerful. Train that, and aesthetic quality arrives like a ripe fruit. The body acquires what choreographer Merce Cunningham calls the eloquence of movement, the eloquence of unconscious competence, when the trained body unfolds its movement without the least discontinuity or effort.4 Such eloquence is the training goal in Asian martial arts practice, and the source of its aesthetic and combative qualities alike. The aesthetic quality of martial arts movements is partly that of athletics, and partly that of simple animal movement.5 Athletic beauty is an example of what Kant calls dependent beauty, the beauty being an unintended byproduct of design for maximum effectiveness with minimum exertion. Movement tends to become aesthetically interesting as it becomes fluid, flowing, efficient, visibly energetic, and seemingly effortless. Those are the design qualities of Asian martial arts techniques, and in their action they have the character Chinese describes as wu wei, effortless effectiveness.6 The words wu wei literally mean “no action” or “not doing,” but in philosophical contexts, including writing about the martial arts, the expression

BARRY ALLEN

303

names a mode of inaction that is paradoxically highly effective. “Doing not doing” (wei wu wei) is doing so little, so easily, so artfully, that one seems to do nothing at all. The idea is not that literally nothing is done, but that little if anything seems to be done, and that which is done is so small and easy (once you know how) that it seems like nothing at all. One ideal of Asian martial arts practice is to train and perfect technical action that is “effortless” in this way. Effort and intention are not simply absent from the practice, but vanishing, diminishing, coming less and less to dominate movement. The fighting forms or kata of Asian martial arts practice are not dance-like aesthetic forms. Martial arts movements are expressly combative in design. Their aesthetic appeal, the striking beauty of the movements, derives from the very qualities that make them effective weapons. It is with these weapons that practitioners practice, not usually because they intend to use them, but because only by this way of training can they pursue the intensity, the effect of effortless efficacy, which these techniques convey when practiced well. The training chases that affective intensity, not a competitive record or a cool form. You may never use the training, but at least the art is not fake.

MARTIAL ARTS CINEMA Asian martial arts began in China’s armies. In this first phase of their tradition, these arts were well to the margin of what the culture considered mainstream and orthodox, and were invisible to those who did not pass through barriers of secrecy and brotherhood.7 Yet there were always deterritorializing flows, drawing fragments of these arts into opera, the security business, and the criminal “rivers and lakes.” More recent lines of flight have conveyed these martial arts globally in sport and martial arts cinema.8 Film representation greatly stimulated interest and participation in Asian martial arts. This cinematic genre began in Hong Kong, but its stylistics have become global and even appear in movies without a conventional Asian format, The Matrix (1999) being the leading example, with stylistically precise fighting choreographed by Yuen Woo Ping.9 The original Hong Kong martial arts movies were a cinematic adaptation of a literature with deep roots in Chinese popular culture, called wuxia. The name combines the words for military, wu, and xia, chivalrous spirit. The stock plot of these tales involves a hero seeking vengeance or called upon to save a damsel or a village. To prevail, he may be required to undergo secret martial arts training, or have a secret technique revealed to him by a hidden master, or find some storied weapon like a magic sword. The stories are usually set in the “rivers and lakes,” a name for the Chinese underworld, populated by kind-hearted outlaws, rogue monks, gangsters, gamblers, and impoverished scholars, as

304

AESTHETICS IN ASIAN MARTIAL ARTS

well as ghosts, demons, and fox fairies. Characters are often identified by their martial arts style or special weapons.10 Hong Kong martial arts films made wuxia lore international, to the point where much of what even those who have trained in these arts think they know about their history comes from these movies. But watching one of these movies is not the same as watching a martial arts performance because conditions have been imposed that change it into an imaginary aesthetic mimesis contrived to appeal to untrained spectators. It takes deep experience with these arts by the choreographer to create an aesthetically plausible and stylistically precise mimesis. What makes their fighting scenes somewhat ridiculous to trained people, however, is that the violence has been completely eliminated. When real people are kicked or hit as they are shown to be in these fighting sequences, they usually fall to the ground with broken bones or worse. Everything is over in a few seconds, and somebody is very badly injured. That is magically elided from the movies and the reason is obvious. Eliminate the theatrical markers of pretend, show the violence for what it is, and it is not fun to watch, at least not for most people. Of course, the whole idea that martial arts performances in cinema should be “authentic” is a Western value of little interest to Asian audiences, who vest much more interest in the imaginative atmospheric fight sequences and portrayal of recognizable characters. However, the point is that one cannot judge anything of the aesthetics of Asian martial arts by judging the mimesis of their practice in martial arts cinema. It is not the same, and only looks the same to an untrained audience. People with training in these arts may enjoy watching these movies, but for the fun of it, as they know quite well that they are a parody of the arts in which they train. This cinema empties Asian martial arts of combative content, releasing its expressive form for the new content of the wuxia stories. Combative content is precisely what cinema omits to substitute its mimesis. The fighting scenes present the form of Asian martial arts with a new and trivializing entertainment content. The combative values for which these arts were created and perfected in their traditions are subordinated to a theatrical spectacle in which no one gets hurt, by movements trained to look cool rather than defeat incoming violence. Theatricality is a tradition in Chinese martial arts. Even in their military home, these arts escaped from violence into aesthetics in the ancient military practice of armed dancing. Playing martial roles in a theatrical or operatic troupe was, after the military, a main employment for men with martial arts training, and they predictably sacrificed combative efficacy for cool form.11 All the more so in the movies. Cinematic martial arts are a different kind of movement, produced by different training, for purposes extraneous to the

BARRY ALLEN

305

actual practice of the martial arts they imitate. To take an example, consider Bruce Lee, photographed many times with his hands in a pose like that in Figure 15.1. Note especially the fingers. In his movies, he falls into such a pose the way cowboys in a Western fall into a “put up yer dukes” pose. It’s his way of saying the fight is on. I wonder what people make of those fingers. Do they think that holding the hands like that is some esoteric kung fu secret—do they think the pose is martial, the hands weaponized? It is not impossible that Lee wanted to encourage such an assumption, though practically any Chinese recognizes this gesture from Chinese opera, where it is called the orchid pose, and is limited by convention to female roles (Fig. 15.2). Lee’s father was a prominent opera actor, and his co-action choreographer for his most well-known films, Lam Gunbo, trained as a Peking Opera performer, where he specialized in female roles. Lee’s pose in Figure 15.1 is faux-operatic, not martial, and the splayed fingers have no combative value. On the contrary, since you cannot hit someone without folding up those fingers first, why not start with them in a more relaxed position, or even a fist? Contrast Lee’s flashy fingers with a real martial arts application of finger position. The difference in grip between Figures 15.3 and 15.4 may not look

FIGURE 15.1: Bruce Lee. Note the fingers. Author’s photograph.

306

AESTHETICS IN ASIAN MARTIAL ARTS

FIGURE 15.2: Chinese opera orchid pose, Mei Lanfang (1917). https://kknews.cc/ history/zgxz5q3.html (public domain).

FIGURE 15.3: Wrist hold (incorrect, weaker). Author’s photograph.

BARRY ALLEN

307

FIGURE 15.4: Wrist hold (correct, stronger). Author’s photograph.

like much; people may even think, wrongly, that Figure 15.3 shows the stronger grip. If you think so, you can try it for yourself and feel the difference. If you are right-handed, reach across your chest and grab your own left wrist above the hand using all your fingers. Squeeze as tightly as you can for a couple of seconds. Then, without changing the pressure of the grip, simply lift the index finger. You will instantly feel the grip tighten. Having the index finger protrude in the grip is completely and solely instrumental, and what it is the instrument of is competent violence. The point is general. Whatever aesthetic quality martial arts techniques and demonstrations may express is an unintentional by-product of combative effectiveness. This assurance does not apply, however, to the cinematic mimesis of these arts, where the principle is no longer combative effectiveness but spectacle.

NOTES 1. F. Sparshott, A Measured Pace: Toward a Philosophical Understanding of the Arts of Dance (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995), p. 62. 2. On “knowing where the energies go,” a description introduced for dance, see Sparshott, A Measured Pace, p. 108. 3. On the aesthetics of martial arts, see E.C. Mullis, “Martial Somaesthetics,” Journal of Aesthetic Education, vol. 47, no. 3, 2013, 96–115 and B. Allen,

308

AESTHETICS IN ASIAN MARTIAL ARTS

Striking Beauty: A Philosophical Look at the Asian Martial Arts (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015). 4. M. Cunningham, The Dancer and the Dance (New York: Marion Boyars, 1985), p. 68. 5. On beauty in athletics, see H.U. Gumbrecht, In Praise of Athletic Beauty (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006) and B. Lowe, The Beauty of Sport (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977); on beauty in movement in general, P. Souriau, The Aesthetics of Movement, trans. M. Souriau (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1983). 6. On wu wei, see Slingerland, Effortless Action: Wu-Wei as Conceptual Metaphor and Spiritual Ideal in Early China (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003) and B. Allen, Vanishing into Things: Knowledge in Chinese Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2015). 7. On the history of Chinese martial arts, see Allen, Striking Beauty; “Asian Martial Arts: The Anarchic Legacy of the War Machine,” International Journal of the History of Sport, vol. 33, no. 9 (2016): 882–92; B.N. Judkins and J. Nielson, The Creation of Wing Chun (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2015); P.A. Lorge, Chinese Martial Arts: From Antiquity to the TwentyFirst Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); M. Shahar, Shaolin Monastery: History, Religion, and the Chinese Martial Arts (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2008); and D. Wile, Ta’i Chi’s Ancestors: The Making of an Internal Martial Art (New City, NY: Sweet Ch’i Press, 1999). 8. On the globalization of Asian martial arts, see P. Bowman, Martial Arts Studies: Disrupting Disciplinary Boundaries (London: Rowman & Littlefield International, 2015). 9. On martial arts cinema, see P. Bowman, Beyond Bruce Lee: Chasing the Dragon Through Film, Philosophy and Popular Culture (London: Wallflower Press/ Columbia University Press, 2013); S.Q. Yu, Jet Li: Chinese Masculinity and Transnational Film Stardom (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012); and S. Teo, Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009). 10. On wuxia and martial arts cinema, see Teo, Chinese Martial Arts Cinema. For an example of a wuxia martial arts novel by a contemporary master, see L. Cha, The Deer and the Cauldron: A Martial Arts Novel, trans. John Minford, 3 vols. (Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 1997). 11. Judkins and Nielson, The Creation of Wing Chun, p. 66.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Allen, B., “Asian Martial Arts: The Anarchic Legacy of the War Machine,” International Journal of the History of Sport, vol. 33, no. 9: 882–92, 2016. Allen, B., Striking Beauty: A Philosophical Look at the Asian Martial Arts, New York: Columbia University Press, 2015. Allen, B., Vanishing into Things: Knowledge in Chinese Tradition, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2015.

BARRY ALLEN

309

Bowman, P., Beyond Bruce Lee: Chasing the Dragon Through Film, Philosophy and Popular Culture, London: Wallflower Press/Columbia University Press, 2013. Bowman, P., Martial Arts Studies: Disrupting Disciplinary Boundaries, London: Rowman & Littlefield International, 2015. Cha, L., The Deer and the Cauldron: A Martial Arts Novel, trans. John Minford, 3 vols., Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 1997. Cunningham, M., The Dancer and the Dance, New York: Marion Boyars, 1985. Gumbrecht, H.U., In Praise of Athletic Beauty, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006. Judkins, B.N. and J. Nielson, The Creation of Wing Chun, Albany: State University of New York Press, 2015. Lorge, P.A., Chinese Martial Arts: From Antiquity to the Twenty-First Century, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Lowe, B., The Beauty of Sport, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977. Mullis, E.C., “Martial Somaesthetics,” Journal of Aesthetic Education, vol. 47, no. 3: 96–115, 2013. Shahar, M., Shaolin Monastery: History, Religion, and the Chinese Martial Arts, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2008. Slingerland, E., Effortless Action: Wu-Wei as Conceptual Metaphor and Spiritual Ideal in Early China, New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Souriau, P., The Aesthetics of Movement, trans. M. Souriau, Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1983. Sparshott, F., A Measured Pace: Toward a Philosophical Understanding of the Arts of Dance, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995. Teo, S., Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009. Yu, S.Q., Jet Li: Chinese Masculinity and Transnational Film Stardom, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012. Wile, D., Ta’i Chi’s Ancestors: The Making of an Internal Martial Art, New City, NY: Sweet Ch’i Press, 1999.

310

GLOSSARY

Baguwen ‫ޛ‬㛑᮷ eight-legged essay Baihua ⲭ䈍 vernacular Chinese Bi ㅶ brush Bian ਈ change, modification Bianhua ༹ॆ modification-transformation Biantong 䆺䙊 flux and continuity (in the Yijing, the “Book of Changes”) Buer нҼ non-duality Chan yi ⿚᜿ Chan sense (a particular form of sensitivity or feeling attuned with Chan worldview) Chan zong ⿚ᇇ Chan school of Buddhism Chi ᚕ sense of shame Chu ࡍ original Dao 䚃 the “Way,” the process of nature and of the whole world in its becoming Dawutai བྷ㡎ਠ “Grand Theater” Dimo ൠ㧛 earth-veins Dongxi ᶡ㾯 thing (literally, “east-west”) Doucha 兕㥦 tea contest Duilian ሩ㚄 couplet in Chinese poetry Duixiang ሽ䊑 object (modern notion) Dunwu 亯ᛏ sudden enlightenment, or awakening Fa ⌅ rule, law Fengshui 付≤ geomancy (literally: “wind-water”) 311

312

GLOSSARY

Fushao 㾶⠂ upside-down firing, in the art of pottery Ganxing ᝏ‫ ޤ‬inspiration, incitement Ge ⅼ song Gelü Ṭᖻ regular, formal prosodic structure Geshi Ṭ䂙 regular, formal prosodic structure Gongfu ࣏ཛ constant, hard practice, discipline Guyue ਔ′ ancient music He ઼ harmony, balance Hua ⮛ painting, image Huaju 䈍ࢗ spoken drama Huashen 㣡⾎ the “flower’s spirit,” the inner spiritual character Huaxing 㣡ᖒ the “flower’s form,” the external form Jiashan ‫ٷ‬ኡ artificial mountain Jian 䰤 between Jianwu ╨ᛏ gradual enlightenment, or awakening Jing Ჟ natural scenery Jing ຳ world, territory, circumstances Jingjie ຳ⭼ ultimate expression of traditional Chinese poetry (see also yijing) Jingshen ㋮⾎ spirit Jinti shi 䘁億䂙 “poem in the new style,” the regular poem in ancient times Junzi ੋᆀ exemplary person (literally, the “son of the prince”) Kong オ emptiness Kong ling オ⚥ subtle void Kun ඔ receptivity (in the Yijing, “Book of Changes”) Le Ҁ joy Li ⨶ structure, inner principle Li ⿞ rite, righteous behavior; doing what is ritually appropriate Lingjing ⚥ຳ lively realm Liuyi ‫ޝ‬㰍 the “Six Arts,” in the Zhou dinasty (1122–256 BCE): rites, music, calligraphy, archery, charioteering, mathematics Lü ን to tread on (a path) Lüshi ᖻ䈇 an eight-line verse form; one of the most important examples of classical Chinese poetry Mei 㖾 aesthetically beautiful Meixue 㖾ᆖ aesthetics (modern term to translate the Western notion)

GLOSSARY

313

Meixuere 㖾ᆖ✝ the “aesthetic craze,” the extreme interest and passion for aesthetics, during the 1980s Men 䮰 gate, door Miao wu ࿉ᛏ subtle, profound, or wondrous awakening (Buddhist notion) Mo ໘ ink, tone Qi ≄ breath, air, energy, vital force, atmosphere (classical Chinese: ≓) Qi ಘ tool, utensil, concrete thing, phenomenon Qian Ү penetration (in the Yijing, “Book of Changes”) Qing ᛵ mood, feeling Qingci 䶂⬧ blue-green ware Qiyun shendong ≄严⭏ࣘ (classical Chinese: ≓丫⭏अ) “spirit resonance, life-motion,” the most important aesthetics principle, according to the calligrapher and art historian Xie He (sixth century) Quwei 䏓ણ taste Ren ӱ humaneness, sense of humanity, benevolence; the outward expression of Confucian ideals Ru ݂ classicists, literati (also: Confucians) Sanyuan й䘌 three depths, or three distances (a form of perspective used in ink painting) Shan ழ good, ethically corrected Shanchuan ኡᐍ landscape (literally, “mountains–rivers”) Shanshui ኡ≤ landscape (literally, “mountains–waters”) Shen ⾎ spirit, spiritual dimension Shen yun ⾎严 subtle charm in a rhythmic significance Shengren ൓Ӫ the Daoist sage Shengqi ⭏≓ living breath Shi ࣯ configuration, “lifelines,” influence, tendency Shi ᇎ full, real, solid, true Shi һ event, phenomenon, thing Shi 䂙 poetry Shi ⽪ to show, reveal Shou ᡻ hand, arm Shu ᴨ writing, calligraphy Shufa ᴨ⌅ writing method, law, standard; “art” of writing Si ᙍ thought Si junzi ഋੋᆀ the “four gentlemen”: chrysanthemum, plum, orchid, and bamboo

314

GLOSSARY

Ti փ lived body, bodily structure (classical Chinese: 億) Tiandi ཙൠ heaven and earth Tianxia ཙл the world (“[what lies] under the sky”) Tu െ shape Tu hao ‫“ ∛ބ‬hare’s fur” (effect on manufactured bowl) Wenyan ᮷䀰 literary Chinese Wu 㡎 dance Wu ᛏ enlightenment, awakening (Buddhist notion) Wu ↖ martial, military Wu ❑ not, nonbeing, absence, having-vacuity, voidness Wu ⢙ thing, object Wuxia ↖‫“ א‬martial heroes,” a genre of Chinese fiction concerning the adventures of martial artists in ancient China Wuwei ❑⛪ non-action Xianliang ⧠䟿 present revelation Xiang 䊑 image, phenomenon Xiang ᜣ to imagine, to think, to wonder Xiao ᆍ filial piety Xie ߉ writing Xin ᗳ heart-mind Xing ᖒ shape, form Xingling ᙗ⚥ sensitivity Xing qu ‫ޤ‬䏓 poetic charme Xingwutai 䟂㡎ਠ “Waking Theater” Xinsheng ᯠ㚢 new sounds Xinshou ؑ᡻ trusting one’s hand (in painting) Xinyue ᯠ′ new music Xiqu ᠿᴢ “song–dance” theater Xiuji ‫؞‬ᐡ self-cultivation Xu 㲋 blank, void, emptiness Yang 䲭 active, light, penetrating pole (coupled to Yin) Yao 㰕 remedy, medicine Yayue 䳵′ virtuous music Yi 㢪 art Yi ᜿ intention, meaning, idea Yi 㗙 appropriateness, righteousness (with respect to the situation in which one is involved) Yi ⮠ social distinctions

GLOSSARY

315

Yijing ᜿ຳ poetic state par excellence, the ultimate expression of traditional Chinese poetry (or also “mindscape”; see also jingjie) Yin 䲠 passive,dark, receptive pole (coupled to Yang) Yinsheng ␛㚢 lascivious sounds Yixiang ᜿䊑 image Yiyi ᜿ѹ meaning You ᴹ being-there, having-substance Youdi ⋩┤ “oil spot” (effect on manufactured bowl) Yue Ҁ music, joy (classical Chinese: ′) Yun 丫 rhythm, resonance Yunjiao san 䴢㞣ᮓ “dispersed cloud feet,” in the preparation of tea Zaohua 䙐ॆ modification-transformation (i.e. artistic production) Zhaoliang ➗Ӟ enlightenment Zhexue ଢᆖ philosophy (modern term to translate the Western notion) Zhen ⵏ truth, autenticity Zhen ren ⵏӪ the true, or authentic man Zheng ↓ upright, correct, standard, proper conduct Zheng ᭯ to govern properly Zhengshen ↓㚢 correct sonorities, or notes Zhengyue ↓′ correct music Zhi Ც knowledge, wisdom Zhong he ѝ઼ “equilibrium harmony,” harmonic middle Zhong yong ѝᓨ the “golden mean,” Confucian doctrine and classical text Zhuang ⣰ form Ziran 㠚❦ nature, naturalness, spontaneity

316

ANNOTATED ESSENTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Barnhart, Richard M., with Chongzheng Nie, Shaojun Lang, and James Cahill, Three Thousand Years of Chinese Painting, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997 This book has been written by a team of eminent international scholars, and deals with the history of Chinese painting from Neolithic painted petroglyphs, early paintings on silk, and twelfth-century landscapes to the modern and contemporary handscrolls. The volume presents a huge series of images, analyzing and describing many examples of Chinese painting through museums, archives, and archaeological sites. One of the specificities of the book lies in the interest of finding art in different places and domains—caves, temples, public or private collections, showing the strength of a long tradition and the development of a particular practice, that of painting, in its different features and possibilities. Even if in the history of Chinese the utmost importance has been attributed to the landscape ink painting, there are other important traditions, such as, for instance, narrative painting, color painting, the pictures of characters, and the forms of contemporary Chinese painting. The volume presents at its end a glossary of techniques and terms and a list of artists by dynasty. Billeter, Jean-François, Essai sur l’art chinois de l’écriture et ses fondements, Paris: Allia, 2010 Almost since its origin, calligraphy has been regarded in China as one of the “fine arts” (avant la lettre): older than painting, the art of writing has also been often placed above it. Through the characters or sinograms, written in different styles, the calligrapher can express a moral conviction, a way of being, a sensitivity, and also emotions. With clarity and an educational concern, Billeter reveals the hidden springs of this art, penetrating the very mechanisms of its expression. Going through the history of calligraphy, he explains the philosophical insights that lie at the basis of the practice of brush and ink.

317

318

ANNOTATED ESSENTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Cai, Zongqi, Chinese Aesthetics: The Ordering of Literature, the Arts, and the Universe in the Six Dinasties, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004 This work presents an important collection of essays focused on Chinese aesthetic thought and practice during the so-called Six Dynasties era (220–589 CE). After a comprehensive sketch of the historical context, the reader can follow the main lines of literature, music, painting, calligraphy, and gardening that flourished in those centuries. The chapters are enriched with original texts, translated and analyzed in great detail, and show ostensively the deep relation and interplay between life and art, immanence and transcendence, the aesthetic and the philosophical dimensions of artistic practices in a very important era that is not usually at the center of the studies—bracketed as it is between the Han and the Tang dinasties. Cheng, François, Souffle-Esprit: Textes théoriques sur l’art pictural chinois, Paris: Seuil, 2006 Classical Chinese painting flows in different currents and traditions, but along with calligraphy it is usually regarded as one of the highest expressions of Chinese art and spirituality. Throughout the centuries, theorists and painters have written down their reflections on art. Taking into account the notion of “spirit-breath” (shen-ch’i, or shenqi ⭏≄), Cheng describes the cosmological conceptions at the very basis of the practice of ink and brush, and presents an organic selection of translated and annotated texts, organized under specific headings—pictorial art overall, trees and rocks, flowers and birds, landscapes, and human beings. Dale, Corinne H. (ed.), Chinese Aesthetics and Literature: A Reader,, New York: SUNY series in Asian Studies Development, 2004 Featuring the work of many renowned scholars in Chinese studies, this book offers a detailed introduction to Chinese aesthetics and literature, dealing with the major modern genres of poetry, fiction, and drama. A historical survey of Chinese literature and a general explanation of its philosophical roots in Daoist, Buddhist, and Confucian thought precede a section with the presentation and comments about the traditions of lyric poetry, fiction, and theater. Then, the contributors shed a light on the political and social crises of twentieth-century China and on the modern currents of literature, up to the twenty-first century. Escande, Yolaine, Textes chinois de peinture et de calligraphie. Tome 1 : les textes fondateurs (des Han aux Sui); Tome 2 : les textes fondateurs (les Tang et les Cinq Dynasties), Paris: Klincksieck, 2003 In China, painters and calligraphers very often wrote texts and treatises on their art practice, and many art historians or critics also practiced art, shifting gladly between the different activites. In this huge work in two volumes, the French scholar presents in parallel translations and comments on both painting and calligraphy, offering a complete translation in French of more than thirty fundamental treatises, from the beginning of our era to the tenth century. At the core of all the following reflections, the reader can find the “six rules of painting” by Xie He (sixth century), among which the notion of qiyun shendong (“spirit resonance, life-motion”) is still of paramount importance today.

ANNOTATED ESSENTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

319

Hu-Sterk, Florence, La beauté autrement: Introduction à l’esthétique chinoise, Paris: You-Feng, 2004 This introduction to Chinese aesthetics is intended for any reader, trying to show off important issues concerning Chinese art and thought. The author goes deep in examining how the specificity of Chinese ideographic writing influenced the artistic perspectives, or trying to answer why music received a different appreciation with to calligraphy, painting and poetry, why parallel verses occupy such an important place in poetry, or by what miracle did monochrome replace colors in pictorial art. Finally, another idea of “beauty” comes out, opening a dialogue between different conceptions of what we call “aesthetics” and “art.” Jullien, François, La grande image n’a pas de forme ou du non-objet par la peinture, Paris: Seuil, 2003 The arts of painting from ancient China are regarded and analyzed in order to dig out a different approach to the world, to nature, and to life itself. Apart from the Western tradition of paiting and representation, Chinese ink painting reveals another perspective on the image, on brushstrokes, and on the notion of landscape. A painting is not an obect, nor it is nature: and the practice of tracing lines on a piece of paper or silk is not only a matter of technique, but more deeply an ethical act, or the means to understand how to follow the movement of nature itself, being transformed by the breathing of emptiness and the fullness. Li Zehou, The Path of Beauty, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995 Since its first publication in Chinese in 1981, this book has been become a sort of classic in the study of Chinese aesthetics, and it has been translated into many languages. The author is a renowed philosopher and aesthetician, and he traces an overall historical description of the main artistic practices—sculpture, painting, calligraphy, poetry, and artcraft. By doing so, he underlines the general trends and the fundamental and common basis at the core of Chinese sensibility and the inner nature of artistic values from antiquity to modern times, focusing on the evolution of the social, philosophical, and spiritual pillars that built up the Chinese culture. Pohl, Karl-Heinz, Ästhetik und Literaturtheorie in China: Von der Tradition bis zur Moderne, Munich: K.G. Saur – De Gruyter, 2007 In this volume, the author offers to the reader a comprehensive history of Chinese literature, from the Zhou era (eleventh century BCE) to the Qing dinasty (1644–1911) and the transition to modernity, building up a comprehensive account of the approximately 3,000-year Chinese literary history, presenting every literary genre in its historical development from its beginnings to the present. But the book is not only devoted to the history of an artistic discipline: in fact, the author thoughtfully intertwines the historical descriptions with reflections on the aesthetic trends and insights that underlie the periods and literary tradition. Moreover, a general perspective about the deep connection between language, form of writing, and thought, is presented in the first chapter and reveals its potential through the entire volume. Rastelli, Sabrina, L’arte cinese, Turin: Einaudi, 2016 In this volume, the history of China is explored from the late Neolithic period up to the Tang dynasty (618–907 CE). The works of art are placed in their original

320

ANNOTATED ESSENTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

context to fully understand their meaning and their specificities. The works of art and craft are not described and evaluated exclusively on the basis of stylistic and aesthetic criteria, but also—relying on information derived from the most recent archaeological discoveries—placing them in their primary context. The meaning and the scope of the artistic creation is thus explored, in order to answer also the questions that are raised about its destination and its public. Wu Hong (ed.), Contemporary Chinese Art: Primary Documents, New York: MoMA, 2010 This is a systematic introduction to contemporary Chinese art, as one of most innovative trends in art today. Showing off an important set of primary documents, which until this volume were available only in Chinese, and thus providing a useful selection of translated texts, this volume brings to the attention of the scholar or the enthusiast some key documents such as prefaces, manifestos of avant-garde groups, interviews, critical essays, or other official texts that witness the present-day situation of Chinese artistic movements from the late 1970s to the 2000s.

CONTRIBUTORS

Barry Allen is Professor of Philosophy at McMaster University in Canada. He has held visiting appointments in Jerusalem, Istanbul, Shanghai, and Hong Kong, and is associate editor at the interdisciplinary journal Common Knowledge. His research concerns aesthetics, technology, the theory of knowledge, and Chinese philosophy. Among his publications: Truth in Philosophy (1993), Knowledge and Civilization (2004), Artifice and Design: Art and Technology in Human Experience (2008), Vanishing into Things: Knowledge in Chinese Tradition (2015), and Striking Beauty. A Philosophical Look at the Asian Martial Arts (2015). Roger T. Ames is Humanities Chair Professor at Peking University, Co-Chair of the Academic Advisory Committee of the Peking University Berggruen Research Center, and Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the University of Hawaii. He is former editor of Philosophy East & West and founding editor of China Review International. Among his books: Thinking Through Confucius (1987), Anticipating China (1995), Thinking from the Han (1998), and Democracy of the Dead (1999) (all with D.L. Hall); Confucian Role Ethics: A Vocabulary (2011), and, most recently, Human Becomings: Theorizing “Persons” for Confucian Role Ethics (forthcoming). His publications also include translations of Chinese classics: Sun-tzu: The Art of Warfare (1993); Sun Pin: The Art of Warfare (1996) (with D.C. Lau); with H. Rosemont, the Confucian Analects (1998), and the Classic of Family Reverence: The Xiaojing (2009); Focusing the Familiar: The Zhongyong (2001), and, with D.L. Hall, The Daodejing (2003).

321

322

CONTRIBUTORS

Yolaine Escande is Research Director at the French National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS); she is also on the editorial board of the journal Universitas: Monthly Review of Philosophy and Culture. Her research field focuses on Chinese aesthetics, graphic arts, theory of arts (calligraphy and painting), and comparative aesthetics. She has translated from Chinese to French fundamental treatises on Chinese calligraphy and painting (Notes sur ce que j’ai vu et entendu en peinture 1994, Traités chinois de peinture et de calligraphie: des Han aux Sui, vol. 1, 2003 and Les Tang et les Cinq Dynasties, vol. 2, 2010, and has presented Chinese aesthetics principles (L’Art en Chine, 2001; Montagnes et eaux: La culture du shanshui, 2005; Jardins de sagesse en Chine et au Japon, 2013). She has also edited books concerning artistic, philosophical, aesthetical, and cultural interactions with Western art. Marcello Ghilardi is Associate Professor of Aesthetics at the University of Padova, Italy. His research interests focus on phenomenology, hermeneutics, deconstructionism, the relation between art and existence, and the question of otherness. He has translated into Italian Shitao’s Discourses on Painting by the Monk Bitter Cucumber (Gugua heshang huayulu 㤖⬌઼ቊ⮛䃎䤴, 2014) and published essays and articles on Chinese and Japanese aesthetics. Among his recent books, Filosofia dell’interculturalità (2012). The Line of the Arch (2015). Il vuoto, le forme, l’altro (2017), La radice del sole (2019), and Arte e meditazione (2020). Li Kelin is an associate professor at the Philosophy School in Renmin University of China. Her research interests include contemporary aesthetic theory, comparative study of modernity, and contemporary European philosophy. She has published in the area of the philosophy of sensation and modernity in Chinese aesthetics. Her most recent book is The Liberation of Sensation From Reason (2010). Hans-Georg Moeller is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Macau. His research focuses on Chinese and Post-Comparative Philosophy and on Social and Political Thought. He is author and editor of numerous publications on these themes, including most recently You and Your Profile: Identity After Authenticity (2021, co-authored with Paul D/Ambrosio) and Critique, Subversion and Chinese Philosophy (2020, co-edited with Andrew Whitehead). Elisa Levi Sabattini was Associate Professor of Chinese Philology at L’Orientale University of Naples (Italy) and is an affiliated scholar at the Louis Frieberg Center for East Asian Studies of the Hebrew University

CONTRIBUTORS

323

of Jerusalem (Israel). She received her PhD from Ca’ Foscari University at Venice as a cotutelle degree with the INALCO at Paris in 2006 with a dissertation on music in early China. Her research focuses on the intellectual history of early China, with special attention to Western Han political rhetoric within the construction of the monarchic system, early economic thought, aesthetic thought as a bridge in transition times, and the idea of “diplomatic war.” Graham Parkes is Professorial Research Fellow at the University of Vienna. He has translated Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra (2005), and published many volumes, among them Heidegger and Asian Thought (1987), Nietzsche and Asian Thought (1991), Composing the Soul (1994), and Reading Zen in the Rocks: The Japanese Dry Landscape (2000, with F. Berthier). Now he works mainly in East Asian and environmental philosophies. Peng Feng is Professor at Peking University School of Arts in Beijing, China. His research interests focus on Chinese aesthetics, contemporary art theory, and criticism. He has published on the history of Chinese aesthetics, comparative aesthetics, analytical aesthetics, contemporary art theory, and criticism. His most recent books are An Introduction to Artology (2016) and The Return of Presence (2016). Nicoletta Pesaro is associate professor of Chinese Language, Literature and Translation at Ca’ Foscari University of Venice, where she coordinates the MA program in Interpreting and Translation for Publishing and for Special Purposes. Her research interests focus on modern Chinese literature, narrative theory, and translation studies. She has published several articles and translations of modern Chinese literature. She has recently co-authored with M. Pirazzoli a book on the history of Chinese fiction in the twentieth century, La narrativa cinese del Novecento: Autori, opere, correnti (2019). She is the editor-in-chief of the book series Translating Wor(l)ds. Karl-Heinz Pohl, formerly Professor of Chinese Literature and History of Ideas at Tübingen University, held the Chair of Chinese Studies at Trier University. His fields of research include Chinese history of ideas, ethics and aesthetics of modern and pre-modern China, and intercultural communication and dialogue between China and the West. Among his publications are Cheng Pan-ch’iao: Poet, Painter and Calligrapher (1990) and Aesthetics and Literary Theory in China: From Tradition to Modernity (in German and Chinese translation, 2006); among his edited volumes, Chinese Thought in a Global Context: A Dialogue Between Chinese and Western

324

CONTRIBUTORS

Philosophical Approaches (1999) and Chinese Ethics in a Global Context: Moral Bases of Contemporary Societies (with Anselm W. Müller, 2002). Sabrina Rastelli is Associate Professor of Chinese Art and Archaeology at Ca’ Foscari University, Venice, in the Department of Asian and North African Studies. Her research interests focus on Chinese art history, ceramics, funerary art, and contemporary art. She has published extensively on Chinese ceramics and different aspects of the history of Chinese art. Her most recent book is L’arte cinese I: Dalle origini alla dinastia Tang [Chinese Art I: From the Origin to the Tang Dynasty] (2016). Wang Keping is Senior Fellow of the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences (CASS), and Emeritus Professor of CASS University in Beijing. His academic interests include ancient philosophy and aesthetics. His recent publications include Harmonism as an Alternative (2019), Chinese Culture of Intelligence (2019), and Rediscovery of Sino-Hellenic Ideas (2016). Xia Kejun is Professor at Renmin University of China in the School of Liberal Arts. He is a philosopher, critic, and curator. In his philosophical writings he has sought a new path for Chinese philosophy into the world through his development of the concept of Rest or Remains, Khoral-topia. Xia has curated many important exhibitions of contemporary art in China, Taiwan, and Europe with new ideas of infra-mince and infra-image. Ye Lang is Professor at Peking University in the Department of Philosophy. His research interests focus on Chinese aesthetics and aesthetic theory. He has published on the history of Chinese aesthetics, Chinese literature, painting, and theater art. His most recent book is The Aesthetic as a Spiritual Pursuit (2016). Zhou Xian ઘᇚ is Professor at the School of Art of Nanjing University in China. His research interests focus upon aesthetics, art theory, literary theory, and cultural studies. He has published many articles and books on aesthetics and related fields, including The Logic of Art Theory (2018), Traveling Theory Between Cultures (2017), What Is Aesthetics? (2015), The Turn of Visual Culture (2008), and Critique of Aesthetic Modernity (2005). His latest book is The Cultural Logic of Art Theory (2018).

INDEX

abstract expressionism 141 abstraction 152 Adorno, T.W. 8, 148 advertising 248–249 aesthetic appreciation 54, 56, 57, 57–58, 59 aesthetic attitude, Daoism 27–28 aesthetic categories 155–178 appreciative tradition 157 characterological vocabulary 163–178 classification axes 156 physiological vocabulary 157–160, 161, 162–163 aesthetic change 213–229 ceramic decoration 216–218 ceramic genres 222–225, 226, 227–229, 227, 229 market demands 215–216 tea bowls 219 technological advances 220–222, 220, 221 aesthetic creativity 186 aesthetic effect 67–68 aesthetic experience 2, 9–10, 12, 54, 55, 57, 201, 209, 219 aesthetic fetishism 186 aesthetic judgment 43, 46, 140, 143–144, 190 aesthetic order 63, 70–76

aesthetic psychology 46 aesthetic theories 51–59 dualist approach 53, 57 Grand Aesthetic Discussion 51–52, 58 and the image 53–58 and the image world 54 integration 52–53 international 52 and mind 54–55 aestheticism 7, 184 aestheticization of everyday life 6, 8–9, 183–195 aesthetic fetishism 186 and beauty 185 consumer culture 185–188 definition 183–184 experience 188, 193 middle class 191–193, 194 origins 183–184 petit bourgeois 193 promotion of 192–193 and social development 194–195 taste 188–191, 191, 193 utopian overtones 184 aestheticized experience 188, 193 aesthetics definition 186 importance 5 and logic 64 325

326

origins 2 politicalized 187 use of term 1–3 Western tradition 2 aims 11 alcohol 219–220 Allen, Barry 10–11 Ames, Roger 7, 17, 116 An Outline of the History of Chinese Aesthetics (Ye Lang) 51–52, 106 Analects of Confucius 20, 71, 74, 76, 279 Anaximines 279–280 appreciative tradition 157 appropriateness 73 archetypes 46 art approaches to 107 Chinese tradition 1–2 death of 151 definition 5, 107 ontology of 113–115 separation from life 184 stages of 108–109 theory of art as sedimentation 44–46 use of term 1–2, 3 Western tradition 1 art making 24 art theory 44–46, 155 artistic conception 115–116 artistic creation 28–30, 91, 96, 128–129, 130, 131–133, 156, 162 athletic beauty 302 Bachelard, Gaston 146 Bai Juyi 293 Bao Shichen 159 Baudelaire, Charles 139–140, 147 beauty 6, 8, 22, 24, 44, 57, 64, 201 and aestheticization of everyday life 185 appreciation of 189 athletic 302 definition 186 as experience 54 and the image 53, 55 love of 189 and music 206–207 of nature 6, 8, 137–152 and the ugly 25–27

INDEX

Beauty Lies in the Image (Ye Lang) 53 Beijing 242 Changdian 249–250 inertia 249 theatrical practice 243, 249–254 Benjamin, Walter 145, 147, 248 Bermann, Sandra 4 bian 66 biantong 64, 66 birth 279 Bloch, Ernst 146 Böhme, Gernot 112 Book of Changes cosmology 63–70 role ethics 70–76 Book of Songs 83, 111 Bourdieu, Pierre 189–191 breathing system 44 brushstrokes 287 appreciation of 155–156 and character improvement 171–177 characterological 156, 163–178, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177 effects 157 moral signification 163–164, 164 physiological 156, 157–160, 161, 162–163 terminology describing 163 Buber, Martin 57 Buddhism 6, 7, 38–41, 294 appeal 36 Chan 35–41, 85, 88–89, 95, 96, 112 Chan sense 37–38 introduced into China 35 metaphysical dimension 35–36 poetic wisdom 36–37 Cahill, James 288 Cai Jing 178, 225 Cai Xiang 178, 219 Caillois, Roger 146 calligraphy 8, 82–83 aesthetic categories 155–178 appreciation of brushstroke 155 and character improvement 171–177 characterological vocabulary 163– 178, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177

INDEX

masters 177–178 physiological vocabulary 157–160, 161, 162–163 political appropriation 8 process 162–163 role of 177 sick scripts 171 Can Xue 262, 271, 272 cannibalism 265–266 Carter, Curtis 114 ceramics 9, 213–229 collecting 215, 225 dating 222, 223–224 decoration 216–218, 217, 220, 220 Ding ware 226, 227, 228, 233n40, 235n65 genres 222–225, 226, 227–229, 227, 229 glazes 218, 223–225, 228, 234n54, 234n55 imperial kilns 228–229 Jun ware 223–225, 235n56 kiln centres 214, 216, 233n40, 233n41 locus IV 222–223, 228, 229 market demands 215–216 metal rims 221–222 peony decoration 216, 217 production 214, 215–216 quality 215 ritual shapes 235–236n67 Ru ware 222–223, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 232n36, 234n55 Southern Song Guan ware 235– 236n67 tea bowls 219 and tea consumption 219 techniques 214, 220–222, 220, 221, 233n45 whitewares 218 Yaozhou blue-green ware 218 Chambers, Sir William 288–289 Chan Buddhism 35–41, 85, 88–89, 95, 96, 112 aesthetics 36 appeal 36 Chan sense 37–38 poetic wisdom 36–37 the subtle void 38–41

327

Chan sense 37–38 chan yi 37–38 character improvement, and calligraphy 171–177 Chen Duxiu 255–256 Chen Wanli 224 Chen Yizeng 158–159 Cheng, François 138 Cheng Zhide 108 chi 76 Chinese classical thought 4 Chinese otherness, danger of 3 Chinese writing 81–82 Chu Suiliang 171, 172–173, 172, 176, 176, 177 cinema, martial arts 301, 305, 307 class consciousness 267 class divisions 34 cognitive ability 142 cognitive knowledge 54 commodity fetishism 189, 194 commodity society 248 comparison 25 Confucianism 6, 7, 19–25, 36, 46, 83, 96, 279 comparison to Daoism 25, 29–30 cosmology 63–70, 76 doctrine of the Golden Mean 23 equilibrium harmony 23–25 the ideal personality 19–23, 24 Mohist critique of 30, 30–32 and music 201–209 role ethics 7, 63, 70–76 Confucius 19, 25, 73–74, 76, 286 consumer culture 185–188 consumer goods 5 consumer society, Chinese 186–188 consumption 189–190 contemplation 132 Contemporary Chinese Dictionary 115–116 contrapuntal harmony 64 correlative thinking 291 cosmic energy 280–281 cosmic life 66 cosmology 7, 63–70, 70–71, 76, 280–281 courtesans 244 creative advance 66–67, 67–68 creativity, freedom of 24

328

cruel aesthetics 187 Culler, Jonathan 116 cultural capital 190 cultural communication 253 cultural heritage 6 cultural industry 192 cultural interference 5–6 cultural paradigms, mutual understanding 4 cultural psychology 34–35, 46 Cultural Revolution 187 cultural studies 187 cultural-psychological formation 96 culture 3, 5–6 and ideology 192–193 Cunningham, Merce 302 daily life, aestheticization of 6, 8–9, 183–195 aesthetic fetishism 186 and beauty 185 consumer culture 185–188 definition 183–184 experience 188, 193 middle class 191–193, 194 origins 183–184 petit bourgeois 193 promotion of 192–193 and social development 194–195 taste 188–191, 191, 193 utopian overtones 184 dance 301 Danto, Arthur 195n2 dao 114 Dao, the 20, 26, 27, 33, 35–36, 64–65, 81, 83–84, 123 Daoism 6, 7, 25–30, 36, 37, 83–84, 96, 112, 279, 289, 294 aesthetic attitude 27–28 art creation 28–30 the beautiful and the ugly 25–27 binary pairs 25 comparison to Confucianism 25, 29–30 fasting of the mind 27–28 mutual production 28–29 naturalism 25 self-purification and deep contemplation 27–28 spontaneous naturalness 29–30

INDEX

De 27 Debord, Guy 185–186 deep contemplation 27–28 Deng Yizhe 105, 108–110 Derrida, Jacques 146, 151 desire 142, 145 Dickie, George 107 disaster modernity 140 Dong Qichang 170–171 drama 9–10, 241–256 Beijing theatrical practice 243, 249–254 folk 242 and modernity 254–256 and national identity 249–254 position 254–255 rise and fall of huaju 241–243 Shanghai theatrical practice 243, 243–249 social function 255 song-dance 242 spectacle 248 stage technologies 247–248, 251–252, 256 theatres 245–249 dreamstones 289 Du Fu 85, 287 Du Mu 255 Du Wan 289, 290–291 dualist approach 53, 57 Duchamp, Marcel 152, 184, 195n2 dun wu 37 Eagleton, Terry 192 earth energy 281 Edwards, Justin 262 Egan, Ronald 216 eight-legged essay, the 82 elementality 146 elements 280–281 elitism 184 emotions 23, 44 channelling 20 equilibrium harmony 23–25 influence 209 moderation of 23–24 and music 201, 206–208 Empedocles 280 emptying 150–151

INDEX

enchorial-topia naturalism 151–152 energy flows 296 enlightenment 36, 55, 56–57, 91, 95 and rules 88–89, 96 Enlightenment, the 9–10, 140–141 equilibrium harmony 23–25 Erkenntnis 114 Erlebnis 53, 114 Escande, Yolaine 8 ethical aestheticism 70–76 ethical norms 45 Eurocentrism 3 European thought 3–4 everyday life. see aestheticization of everyday life examination system 82 experience, aestheticized 188, 193 expressionism 141 external form 125 fa 7, 66, 80–81, 85 face 76 family reverence 75–76 fasting of the mind 27–28 Featherstone, Mike 185, 191, 195 Fei yue 34 Feng Fang 159 fengshui 10, 278, 296 fetishism 186, 189, 194 figuration 124, 125–128, 126 First World War 242 Five Processes, the 280–281 flowers 146, 216–218, 217 folk drama 242 forest depletion 218 form, and virtue 26 Foucault, Michel 140, 152, 195 Foundations of Aesthetics. (Ye Lang) 53–54, 57–58, 59, 106 free will 143 freedom 20, 21 of creativity 24 and nature 143–144 spiritual 25, 28 Freud, S. 46 friendship 67–68 Fu Shan 170 fugu 88

329

Gadamer, Hans-Georg 57 ganxing 53 ganying 289 Gao Bing 88 Gao Xingjian 263 Gaoxian 164–166, 165, 171–172 gardens 217–218. see also rock gardens ge 201 German aesthetics 106 Ghilardi, Marcello 8 Giles, Herbert 109 globalization 52 God 30, 68–70, 143 Golden Mean, doctrine of the 23 goodness, and sociality 24 graciousness 76 Graham, Angus 279 Grand Aesthetic Discussion, the 51–52, 58 Grand Theater, Shanghai 245 Graulund, Rune 262 Great Cultural Revolution 106 Great Tradition, the 64 Greek ontology 65 grotesque, the 261–272 bestiality 267–268 classical 274n32 definition 262 humanimals 268 pervasive presence 261–262 psychological realism 262 and reality 264–266 representation of human beings 266–269 structure 269–271 style 271–272 time and space in 270–271 tradition 261–264 Gugua heshang huayulu (Shitao) 125–128 Guo Moruo 202 Guo Ruoxu 177 Guo Xu 284 Hadot, Pierre 203 Han Shaogong 262, 268–269 Han Yu 164 hao 164 harmony 68–70, 71–72, 208, 209, 278 Hay, Jonathan 129

330

INDEX

he 68, 69, 71, 76, 204 Hegel, G.W.F. 109 Heidegger, Martin 146, 195 Henan Cultural Relics and Archaeology Institute 223 hermeneutic colonization 3 historical materialism 46 historical reason 145 historical sequence 6 Hockx, Michael 267 Hölderlin, F. 140, 141, 142, 145 Hong Kong, martial arts cinema 303–304 Hong Shen 242 Hsia, C.T. 265 Hsiung Ping-Ming 177–178 Hu Yinglin 89 Huaisu 160, 161 huaju 9–10, 241–256 Beijing theatrical practice 243, 249–254 definition 242 early performances 247–248 limitations 242 novelty 248–249 rise and fall 241–243 Shanghai theatrical practice 243, 243–249 stage technologies 256 Huang Gongwang 170 Huang Tingjian 86, 160, 178 Hui Neng 36–37 Huizong, Emperor 166, 225, 227, 229, 283–284, 294 human condition 36 human nature 33, 45, 189, 267 humaneness 19, 20–21, 22 hybrid modernity 143–144, 151

image creation 127 image world, the 54 image-phenomenon. see xiang individuality 131 infra-naturalism 151–152 ink painting 8 inspired interest 42 intellectual fermentation 9–10 interactive transformation 66–67 intercultural thought 3–6 interference 5, 5–6 interrupted modernity 141, 143–144

ideal personality, the 19–23, 24 identity national 249–254 Shanghai 243 ideology, and culture 192–193 image, the 53–58, 66 and beauty 53, 55 generation of 54 ontology of 123–124 yijing 112

Lacoue-Labarthe, Philippe 145 landscape 126, 147, 283, 286–289, 286 landscape painting 121–133, 287–288 language 108, 147, 271 of nature 148 tonal nature of 82 Lanxin Grand Theater, Shanghai 246 Lao She 10, 261 Laozi 25, 25–26, 27, 28, 131–132

Japan 2, 121, 124, 128, 132, 253, 294 Ji Cheng 284–285, 288, 289, 291, 294–295 jian 4 Jiang Deming 249 Jiang Ji 250 jianwu–dunwu 95 jiashan 294–295 jie 208 Jie yong 34 Jin dynasty 228, 229 Jing Hao 122, 157, 158 jingjie 41–42, 105 jingshen 54 journeying stones 289 Jullien, François 3, 12, 151 junzi 202 Kant, Immanuel 43, 46, 141, 142–144, 144, 145–146, 188 Kao, Yu-Kung 111–112, 116 Keightley, David 69 Kinkley, Jeffrey 269 knowledge, boundaries of 143 kong ling 40

INDEX

le 34 Lee, Bruce 305, 305 Legalism 7, 80–81 li 69, 71, 72–74, 133 Li Bai 85 Li Bo 175, 175 Li Gefei 218 Li Kelin 9–10 Li Mengyang 88, 93 Li Shuchang 247 Li Yu 254–255 Li Zehou 38, 44–46, 96, 106, 209 Liang Qichao 255 life philosophy 34–35 life wisdom 40 lifestyle 75–76 literary aesthetics 10 the grotesque 261–272 grotesque tradition 261–264 May 4th Movement 263–264 and modernity 262–263 mythorealism 262 paths 261 psychological realism 262 and reality 264–266 representation of human beings 266–269 style 271–272 time and space in 270–271 Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, The (Liu Xie) 84 literary theory 80 Liu Gongquan 164, 166, 168, 171, 174 Liu Xie 84 Liu Yuxi 112 liuyi 202 Loehr, Max 83 logic 64 lotus 216 lou 293 Lovell, Julia 263 Lü Benzhong 86–87 Lu Ling 262, 264, 267, 271, 272 Lu Xun 10, 261, 262, 264–266, 266–267, 268, 270 The Diary of a Madman 266, 270 “The Loner” 270 “Medicine” 265–266 Old Tales Retold 266–267

331

representation of human beings 266–267 “The White Light” 270 Luo Gang 106 Luoyang 218 Ma Jian 269 Mao Zedong 263 martial arts 10–11, 301–307 athletic beauty 302 cinema 301, 305, 307 effectiveness 302 effortlessness 302–303 elegance 302 finger position 305, 305, 306, 307, 307 literature 303–304 practice 301–303 theatricality 304, 305, 306 martial arts cinema 301, 303–305, 305, 307 Marx, Karl 46, 189 Marxist aesthetics 106 mass media 192 May 4th Movement 10, 249, 250, 263–264, 267, 271, 273n5 meaning, bestowing 55 meditation 128–129 mei 2, 164, 201, 206 Mei Lanfang 251–252, 253–254, 306 meixue 2, 201 men 66 Mencius 21–22, 71, 279 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 145–146 metaphysical dimension 35 metaphysics 69, 113–115 Mi Fu 163, 178, 284, 284 Mi Wanzhong 296 miao wu 37 middle classes aestheticization of everyday life 191–193, 194 definition 191 mimesis 124, 147 mind 54–55, 109 mind-image 6 mindscape. see yijing Ming period 80, 82, 88–91 rock gardens 284–285

332

miniaturization 291 minimalist art 151 Mo Yan 262, 265–266, 268, 269, 271, 271–272 moderation 23–24 modern Chinese aesthetics the poetic state par excellence 41, 41–43 rise of 41–46 theory of art as sedimentation 41, 44–46 modernism, coming catastrophe for 147 modernist art 184 modernity 139, 139–141, 150, 151, 184, 195, 243, 245 and drama 254–256 and literary aesthetics 262–263 and nature 141–144 modification-transformation 8 Moeller, Hans-Georg 116 Mohism 30–35 critique of Confucianism 30, 30–32 and music 30–35 moral life 7, 71, 76 moral order 143–144 moral power 20 moral signification 163–164 morality 71–72, 76 Moriarty, John 297 mountains 289–290, 290 artificial 288, 294–295 mountain–water painting 109–110 Mozi 30–35 treatment of music 30–32 Mu Rugai 252–253, 254 music and musical performance 9, 201–209 ancient music 204, 206 and beauty 206–207 being perfected in 21 definition 201–202 effects 208 and emotion 201, 206–208 ethical role 204–208 function of 34 Mohism and 30–35 new music 204, 204–206 and politics 203–204 power 204

INDEX

and ritual 202–204, 209 as spiritual exercise 203 transformative potential 202 music-rites tradition 34 mutual production 28–29 Muzong, Emperor 164 mythology, and nature 148 mythorealism 262 national identity 249–254 national rejuvenation 248 natural correspondence 147 natural philosophy 278 natural processes, human participation 67 naturalism 25 naturalness 7, 142, 151–152 forms of 149–150 of nature 151 and rules 79–80, 83–85, 95 spontaneous 29–30 nature 55–56 and aesthetic judgment 143–144 beauty of 6, 8, 137–152 fifth dimension 138 and freedom 143–144 growth of 150 highest purpose 144 Kant’s architecture 142–144 language of 148 as medium 149–150 and modernity 141–144 and mythology 148 naturalness of 151 nondimensional 138–139 rediscovering 144–150 seeing 109–110 New Culture movement 10 New Youth (magazine) 250, 253 Newman, Barnett 141 Nietzsche, F. 141, 142, 145, 280 Ning Ken 264–265 nirvana 39, 41 Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism 41 novelty 248–249 ontology 6 of art 113–115 optimizing harmony 68–70, 71

INDEX

optimizing symbiosis 68, 68–70 Orientalism 250 otherness 3 Ouyang Xiu16 216 Ouyang Xun 156, 171, 173, 173 Owen, Stephen 112 painting 8, 147 aesthetic categories 155–178 appreciation of brushstroke 155–156 artistic creation 128–129, 130, 131–133 characterological vocabulary 163–178 dynamic of 125 etymology 155–156 figuration 124, 125–128, 126 image creation 127 and naturalness 84 physiological vocabulary 157–160, 162–163 process 162–163 Qing period 91–93 representation 125–128, 126 and rock gardens 287–288 rules 84, 91–93 spontaneous 123 status 121 xiang 121–133 yijing 107–108, 108–110 Pang Laikwan 246 Pang Pu 114 paper-making 217 Paris 245 Paris Opera House 247 Parkes, Graham 10 Peking Opera 242, 305, 305, 306 costumes 252 critiques 250, 252–253, 254 defence of 250–251 exotic imagination 248 and national identity 249–254 ontology 253 stage technologies 248, 251–252 Peng Feng 7 Penglai Island (Yuan Jiang) 282 personal cultivation 74 Pesaro, Nicoletta 10 petit bourgeois 193 philosophers, task 1

333

philosophical aesthetics 12 philosophical vision 11 philosophy 52, 278 and poetry 43 use of term 2, 3 plasticity 146 Plato 123–124, 150 pleasure 188 poetic wisdom 36–37 poetry 21, 57, 115 Chan Buddhism 37–38 fifth dimension 138 methods 85–88 Ming period 82, 88–91 and modernity 139–141 naturalness 79 and naturalness 83–85 Nature beauty 8, 137–152 and philosophy 43 the poetic state par excellence 41–43 Qing period 88, 90, 93–96 regularity in 81–83 regulated verse 111–112 representative 79 rules 7, 79–96 Song dynasty 85–88 spontaneous naturalness 29 suggestive qualities 79 Tang period 82, 84–85, 86, 111 yijing 107–108, 108–103 Pohl, Karl-Heinz 7, 17, 116 political appropriation 8 political stability 204 political systems 45 postmodernism 185 Postrel, Virginia 186 poverty 33–34 presence 125 present revelation 56 printing 231n17 propriety 72–73 psychoanalysis 46 psychological realism 262 public lighting 245 purism 184 qi 66, 114, 122, 125, 132, 277, 278–282, 291, 296

334

Qi Rushan 253–254 qian 66 Qian Wenshi 129 qiankun 66 Qin Dashu 220–221 Qin dynasty 80 Qing period painting 80, 91–93 poetry 80, 88, 90, 93–96 qiyun 8 Rastelli, Sabrina 9 reality 36–37 and literary aesthetics 264–266 reason 144–145 regularity 7 related naturalness 149–150 relativity 25 religion 45 ren 19 representation 125–128, 126 resemblance 147 revolution, 1949 106 revolutionary aesthetics 187 Rickett, Adele Austin 116 righteousness 22 ritual 76, 235n60 musical performance 202–204, 209 and politics 203–204 rock gardens and rocks aesthetics 286–287 arrangement 286–289, 294–295 artificial mountains 288, 294–295 energy 278–282, 291 fengshui 296 historical context 283–286 Japanese 294 Ming period 284–285 and painting 287–288 placing rocks 284–285 purpose 285–286, 295–297 role of stone 10, 277–297 scale 287, 289–294, 290, 292 Song dynasty 283–284 Taihu rocks 281–282, 291–294, 292 tonic effect 295–297 Rogers, Mary Anne 227 role ethics 7, 63, 70–76

INDEX

Rothko, Mark 141 rules 133n1 dead 93–94 and enlightenment 88–89, 96 and idea 89–91 and methods 85–88 natural 94 and naturalness 79–80, 83–85, 95 of non-rule 91–96 painting 84, 91–93 role of 7, 79–96 socio-historical background 80–85 Sabattini, Elisa Levi 9 sage-saints 19–23 sanyuan 108 Schaeffer, Jean-Marie 156 School of Law 80 science 45 scientific productivity 144–145 sedimentation, theory of art as 41 seeing 132 self-cultivation 2, 155 self-expression 129 self-identity 10 selfishness 27 self-purification 27–28 self-reflection 5 sensual experience 57 sentimental evolution 23 shame 76 shamelessness 76 shan 206 Shanghai 242 commercialism 243–244 identity 243 and modernity 243 political hierarchy 244 population 243 public lighting 245 theaters 245–249 theatrical practice 243, 243–249 shen 66, 95 Shen Deqian 90 Shen Fu 287 Shen Kuo 109, 110 shencai 164 Sheng Keyi 269 sheng ren 25

INDEX

Shengjing Times (newspaper) 252 shengsheng 65 shi 28, 72, 201 Shih Shu-mei 243–244 Shitao 92, 125–128, 126, 130 shou 131, 293 significant form 46 Sima Guang 218 similarity 131 Six Energies, the 281 social development 194–195 social disorder 33 social function 255 social harmony 204 social injustice 194 social stratification 192 sociality 44–45 and goodness 24 Song dynasty 2, 85–88, 163 ceramic genres 222–225, 226, 227–229, 227, 229 ceramics 213–229 ceramics production 214, 215–216 conservatives 230n7 high official origins 230n6 kiln centres 214, 216, 233n40, 233n41 locus IV 228 New Policies of Wang Anshi 215 rock gardens 283–284 state administration 214–215 tea consumption 219 technological advances 220–222, 220, 221 texts 217 trade 215 spectacle drama 248 society of the 185–186 spirit 54 spiritual brightness 164 spiritual character 125 spiritual delight 38 spiritual exercise 203 spiritual freedom 25, 28 spiritual realm 6 spiritual resonance 8 spirituality 21 spontaneous naturalness 29–30

335

stone 281–282 arrangement 286–289, 294–295 artificial mountains 288, 294–295 energy 277, 278–282, 291 fengshui 296 heaviness 289–290 historical context 283–286 placing 284–285 power 288 reverence for 277, 284, 284 role of 10, 277–297 scale 289–294, 290, 292 Taihu rocks 291–294, 292 tonic effect 295–297 stone screens 289 stratification 44–46 Su Shi 87–88, 166–168, 178 Su Zhe 227, 227–228 subjectivity 55 sublime, the 143, 145 subtle awakening, notion of 37 subtle void, the 38–41 Sun Guoting 171 surrealism 141, 147 swinging gates metaphor 66–67, 67–68 symbols 45 sympathetic resonance 289 System of Modern Aesthetics (Ye Lang) 52–53 Taihu rocks 281–282, 291–294, 292 Taiping rebellion 244 Taizong, Emperor 163 Tang Junyi 70 Tang period 82, 84–85, 86, 108, 111, 160, 163, 216 Taoism 127 taste 9, 188, 191, 193 tea consumption 219 teahouses 244–246 technology 144–145, 150, 151, 152 teleology 68–70 theaters 245–249 theatrical practice Beijing 243, 249–254 Shanghai 243, 243–249 Theory, Culture & Society (journal) 183 Thomasson, A.L. 113

336

ti 69, 71, 72 tiandi 66 tong 66 tou 293–294 tradition 76 transcultural approach 41, 46 transformation 128–129, 130, 131–133 ugly, the, and the beautiful 25–27 unconscious, the 46 universal participation 4 utilitarianism, Mohist 30–35 value judgment 25 Virilio, Paul 245 virtual place 140 virtue, and form 26 visual stimulation 248 vocabulary 8 vulgarity, avoiding 163 Wang, David Der-wei 261, 273n15 Wang Anshi 225, 230n7 Wang Duo 178 Wang Fuzhi 56, 57 Wang Guowei 41–43, 105, 106 Wang Keping 6, 17 Wang Meng 170 Wang Wei 38, 108, 110, 111–112, 294 Deer Park Hermitage 137–139 Wang Xizhi 160, 177–178 Wang Yangming 55, 56–57 Wang Zhongsheng 250 wanwu 64, 65 Warhol, Andy 184, 195n2 waste 31–32 Weber, Max 184, 194–195 Wei, Lady 160 Weitz, Morris 107 Whitehead, A.N. 63, 64, 67–68, 69 wisdom 40 Wood, Nigel 234n54 writing 121 wu 28, 85–86, 131, 201 wu wei 302–303 Wu Zhen 170 wuxia 303–304

INDEX

Xia Kejun 8 xiang 8, 55, 66, 114, 121–133 artistic creation 128–129, 130, 131–133 representation 125–128, 126 translation 123 Xiang Mu 168 xianliang 56 xiao 75 Xiao Hong 262, 267, 270–271 Xie He 84, 122, 133n1, 288 xin 54–55, 131, 132 xing 123, 125 xiqu 242 xu 28, 138 Xu Bozu 90–91 Xu Hao 158 xu shi xiang sheng 29 Xunzi 33–35 Yan Lianke 262, 265, 269, 271 Yan Yu 41–42, 88 Yan Zhenqing 166, 167, 169–170, 169, 171, 173, 174 yang 280, 281 yao 208 Ye Lang 6, 8, 17, 51–52, 52–53, 53–54, 57–58, 59, 106 Ye Xie 93–94, 95, 114–115 Yeh, Catherine 244, 251 yi 1–2, 73, 90–91, 155 Yi Shunding 251 yijing 7, 105–116 characters 115 discourse 105–106 extensional approach 106–108, 108 generating of 112 intensional approach 108–113 Marxist aesthetic perspective 106 as mindscape 116 and ontology of art 113–115 phenomenological description 108 translation 112, 115–116 yin 280, 281 Yinde Zhang 268 yinyang 66 yixiang 6, 53, 108, 114 yixiang shijie 54 yiyi 55

INDEX

you 28 Yu Hua 262, 264, 269, 274n32 Yu Shinan 158, 159, 162 Yuan Hongdao 89–90 Yuan Jiang, Penglai Island 282 Yuan Zhongdao 89–90 Yuan Zongdao 89, 90 yue 34, 201–202, 203 zaohua 8 Zeitgeist 44–45 Zen 42 Zhang Deyi 247 Zhang Houzai 253 Zhang Huaiguan 160, 162, 163–164 Zhang Xu 128, 160, 161, 164–166 Zhang Yanyuan 156 Zhanggongxiang 228–229, 234n45, 235n64 Zhao Mengfu 166, 166, 168–169, 169–171

337

zhaoliang 55 zhen ren 25 zheng 73, 83, 88 Zheng Xie 92–93, 95 zhexue 2 zhong he 23–25 zhong yong 23 zhou 293 Zhou Xian 8–9 Zhou Zuoren 250 Zhu Guangqian 53, 57, 58–59, 209 Zhu Tingzhen 94–95 Zhu Xi 85–88 Zhuangzi 25, 26–27, 27–28, 29, 30, 115, 150–151, 279, 287 ziran 7, 8, 55–56 zones of interference 6 Zong Baihua 53, 56, 57, 58–59, 105–106, 106 Zuo Commentary, the 281

338