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“You haven’t finished with the four kinds of art. What about Socialist Realism?”
This I absolutely remember from college. “It gives an almost scientific likeness—like a mirror—of the real world: the masses building a dam, young women making cloth in a factory, tractors and tanks rolling down a country road side by side uniting workers and soldiers. Like what you did for China Reconstructs. My mother and aunt”—again I don’t specify who was who—“used to save the issues with your artwork.”
“May saw those?”
May,
again. He seems to have more curiosity about her than he does about me.
“Yes, she pinned them to the wall above her bed.”
A slight smile comes to his lips. I can see he’s flattered.
“What else?” he asks.
About May? About art? I stick with art.
“There are cartoons. Good for politics …”
He nods, but I can see his mind is still enjoying that someone far away in another country still aches for him.
“And the fourth?” he asks.
Blood flushes my cheeks. It’s as though everything I’ve ever learned or seen has abruptly left my brain. In my mind, I’m looking at the walls in our house in Chinatown, in the cafés and curio shops I’ve been in all my life, in the garages and stores …
“Landscapes! Flowers and butterflies! Pretty ladies gazing into a pond or lingering in a pavilion! Calligraphy!” One of those has to be right.
“Traditional Chinese painting,” he says approvingly. “It is at the opposite spectrum from New Year’s calendars. It is far removed from the lives of soldiers, workers, and peasants. Some consider it too elitist, but it is an accepted art form nevertheless. So which is your specialty?”
“People in Chinatown always said my calligraphy was uncorrupted …”
“Show me.”
Now I’m to do calligraphy for this man—my father? Why do my artistic skills matter? Is this an investigation to see if I’m really his daughter? What if I fail?
Z.G. gets up and motions me to follow him to the desk. He pulls out the Four Gentlemen of the scholar: paper, an inkstone, an ink stick, and a brush. He calls for one of his servants to bring water. Then he watches me grind the ink on the stone and mix in water until I have the desired opaqueness, and then the way I hold the brush and sweep it across the paper as I write a couplet. I don’t want to write a common saying, such as “May you be blessed with peace and safety in the coming year.” A good couplet requires symmetry—sentence for sentence, noun for noun, and verb for verb. I remember one I did for our neighbors a couple years ago. For the first part of the couplet, I write the characters winter gone, mountains clear, water sparkles. As soon as I’m done, I begin the second part, which would hang on the other side of the door: spring comes, flowers fragrant, bird sings.
“Your ch’i yun—breath resonance—is good,” Z.G. says, “but as the great leader himself has observed, this kind of art can no longer be pursued as an ideal in and of itself. So, are you using tradition to serve the present? No question. Your need is great in this moment and I can see that. I look at your work and I’m not sure if I see feudal dregs or fragrant flowers, but you could learn from me.”
I don’t understand half of what he’s said. How does he see feudal dregs or fragrant flowers in my couplet? But it doesn’t really matter for now, because I’ve passed his test.
“It’s a good thing you came today, because I’m going to the countryside to teach peasants art,” he announces. “You’re coming with me as my helper. I was given enough rice coupons for my … trip that I can share them with you. People in the countryside won’t know how ignorant you are.”
The countryside? Every decision I take sends me farther from everything and everyone I know. I’m fearful but also excited … and honored.
AN HOUR LATER, Z.G. hands his two pieces of Long March luggage to his chauffeur, who packs these bags along with my suitcase and several other boxes and satchels filled with art supplies into the trunk of a Red Flag limousine. Then the chauffeur drives us to the dock, where we board a ferry bound for Hangchow. Once we’ve dropped our bags in our cabins, we go to the restaurant. Z.G. orders for us, and the food is pretty good. While we eat, he tries to explain a bit of what we’ll be doing and I try to prove myself to him.
“We’re at the end of a campaign called Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom—”
“And Let a Hundred Schools of Thought Contend,” I finish for him. “I know all about it. Mao encouraged artists, writers, and, well, everyone to make criticisms against the government in an effort to keep the revolution fresh and growing.”
He gives me another one of those looks I can’t interpret.
“As part of the campaign, artists like me have been asked to leave our studios, meet the masses, and experience real life,” he continues. “We’re going to Green Dragon Village in Anhwei province. It’s one of the new collectives. They are—”
“I know about those too!” I exclaim. “I read about them in China Reconstructs. First there was land reform, when landowners gave their land to the people—”
“Confiscated and reallocated is more like it.”
