The site of the demolished kiln at the old campus of Central Academy of Fine Arts bears too many precious memories to let go of. To the south of our house was a workshop, a shabby kiln that the great sculptors would never glance at, but the owner of that kiln was a real living god, Mr. Liu, who devoted his infinite love to it and produced a great deal of good works there.
In those days we kneaded clay, chatted and took care of the electric kiln. Mr. Liu was my teacher. Not only did he teach me the technique of firing, but I also learned a bit about how to be an artist. Of course, there was not any lesson plans, but I stole the learning deliberately. Only his single-mindedness was hard to learn. One year, we had a flea infestation in our dilapidated kiln. I didn’t dare go inside, but he didn’t listen to me and insisted on continuing to work, tying his trouser leg bottoms tightly and going bare-chested, and when I went to see him at noon, I found a lot of big swelling lumps on his chest and back. I could feel itchy just by looking at them, but he had finished a piece of work there: Jigong Drinking.
Let me tell you a joke. Whenever I had a bad appetite, I would go to the shabby kiln to see him eat. The food was extremely simple, but seeing him chew with great expression, listening to his gurgling and swallowing sounds, and the manner of devouring made you want to behave in gluttonous way. He is not a gastronome of fine food and decent drink. In today’s terminology, he is truly committed and his dedication is really moving, and watching him make little clay figures is infectious. He always seems to be talking to the clay when he is making a work, beaming with joy. It is surprising that he succeeds in almost every one he makes. I think it may not be because of the skillful technique, but because he does exactly what he loves, creates with real dedication and devotes himself to it without distractions. These works of his, the big pigs and little piglets in the small farmhouse yard, the young woman breastfeeding her baby, the two sparrows, are all so cordial, so intimate, so lovely, and particularly fresh, which we keep watching and do not want to leave, never having a feeling of separation.
Mr. Liu is so willing to live in poverty that once a French friend of mine took a fancy to his things, he wanted them badly but did not have much capital. If it were somebody else things would have been very embarrassing, but he would like to give them away for nothing, describing it euphemistically as meeting a bosom friend. He seems to me really like Jigong wore in a ragged hat and worn shoes, but the “mud pills” he rubbed out from his body were a panacea for illnesses. The same applies to Mr. Liu, whose clay figures are not for money. They are the real arts, more priceless than gold, and the clay figures he creates from his sincere heart are a panacea for the recurring illness in the art world today—formalism of all kinds.
In those days we kneaded clay, chatted and took care of the electric kiln. Mr. Liu was my teacher. Not only did he teach me the technique of firing, but I also learned a bit about how to be an artist. Of course, there was not any lesson plans, but I stole the learning deliberately. Only his single-mindedness was hard to learn. One year, we had a flea infestation in our dilapidated kiln. I didn’t dare go inside, but he didn’t listen to me and insisted on continuing to work, tying his trouser leg bottoms tightly and going bare-chested, and when I went to see him at noon, I found a lot of big swelling lumps on his chest and back. I could feel itchy just by looking at them, but he had finished a piece of work there: Jigong Drinking.
Let me tell you a joke. Whenever I had a bad appetite, I would go to the shabby kiln to see him eat. The food was extremely simple, but seeing him chew with great expression, listening to his gurgling and swallowing sounds, and the manner of devouring made you want to behave in gluttonous way. He is not a gastronome of fine food and decent drink. In today’s terminology, he is truly committed and his dedication is really moving, and watching him make little clay figures is infectious. He always seems to be talking to the clay when he is making a work, beaming with joy. It is surprising that he succeeds in almost every one he makes. I think it may not be because of the skillful technique, but because he does exactly what he loves, creates with real dedication and devotes himself to it without distractions. These works of his, the big pigs and little piglets in the small farmhouse yard, the young woman breastfeeding her baby, the two sparrows, are all so cordial, so intimate, so lovely, and particularly fresh, which we keep watching and do not want to leave, never having a feeling of separation.
Mr. Liu is so willing to live in poverty that once a French friend of mine took a fancy to his things, he wanted them badly but did not have much capital. If it were somebody else things would have been very embarrassing, but he would like to give them away for nothing, describing it euphemistically as meeting a bosom friend. He seems to me really like Jigong wore in a ragged hat and worn shoes, but the “mud pills” he rubbed out from his body were a panacea for illnesses. The same applies to Mr. Liu, whose clay figures are not for money. They are the real arts, more priceless than gold, and the clay figures he creates from his sincere heart are a panacea for the recurring illness in the art world today—formalism of all kinds.
March, 1998
