In China’s fickle and noisy art circle of today, there is a growing tendency to seek the “self” in Chinese art. Perhaps it is an inevitability of a historical stage, but it may also be more about the regeneration of Chinese cultural character in the face of globalisation and the “entry” of Western cultural capital. After filtering out the “aesthetic education to save the country”, “realism”, “revolutionary realism”, “'85 New Wave”, and various phenomena in "Post '89", and after experiencing the creation of art clusters such as Yuanmingyuan, Songzhuang, Shangyuan, and 798, what exactly should Chinese contemporary art be like? The core of the question increasingly demands our thinking.
Some unknown artists who were particularly active in the 1970s and 1980s and who continue to create with their own lives are being mentioned again, such as the No Name Painting Association, and many other sincere creators. The insight of history cannot be underestimated. The Exhibition featuring Liu Shiming’s Sculptures curated and launched by Yin Shuangxi and Sun Wei allow us to meet Liu Shiming again, revisit our memories, see through the fog of history, and contemplate the essence of art.
The sincerity of an artist must coexist with two other elements. One is the artwork, and the other is the character.
Liu Shiming is a sculptor, and in terms of seniority, he should be considered as one of the older generation. Enrolled by Xu Beihong personally in 1946, Liu was a student at the National Art School in Beiping. He was instructed by Hua Tianyou and Wang Linyi. Upon graduation, he stayed at the school to teach and worked in the sculpture group for the Monument to the People’s Heroes. In the 1950s, his two works, Measure the Land and Splitting the Mountains to Let the Water Flow, manifested the strength of the people in the special era of new China. He was greatly appreciated as an emerging talent. According to the general classification in art history, he is an artist of New China. His initial works indeed effused the typical hallmark of Red China. His enthusiasm towards the new society, which could also be regarded as the pursuit of the artist as many of his contemporaries emerged through the same route which could have ensured smooth sailing through his career. However, after earning high expectations from the circle of sculpture in Beijing, Liu in his youth vanished. He requested to leave for Henan in the early 1960s.
I am not sure how Liu now aged 80 would review his life. From a fatalistic point of view, his experience is a reincarnation of the traditional intellectuals who renounced the world. Many people, including his teachers, peers, and friends, considered Liu to be a less active person and on the introverted side. Self-willed, he indulged in folk “scenes”, aloof to the rest of the world. He returned to simplicity, back to the authenticity of feelings. For two entire decades in the 1960s and 1970s, he lived alone in Henan and Hebei, abandoning himself to the infinite charm of folk art. Later, when he was back in Beijing, he spent six years diligently restoring cultural relics in the National Museum of Chinese History. Everyone knows that it was a special period in Chinese history. As we see it today, Liu’s choice seems to be a wise one. But judging from the situation back then, it was actually out of frustration.
In fact, no matter what kind of effort that a caring and devoted person makes, time and experience will turn it into wealth. Liu’s “relocation” was, after all, a favour and an unexpected turn of fate for an artist who already longed for the charm of folk art with all the various languages of expression. Upon the founding of the People’s Republic of China, and the subsequent political needs, Chinese art deviated from the essence of art for a long period of time. Art became a specific need and a formatted “thought”. At this time, Liu was “free and unfettered” in the countryside, living at the “bottom”, enjoying Bangzi opera, witnessing the various forms of life on the loess land, walking among the ordinary but real people, and experiencing the joys and sorrows shared by all human beings. Again, this was a form of happiness. As a person is summed up by his experience, what Liu owns is his unique past. In regards his ten years of life in Henan and four years in Hebei, he reflected, “I usually read newspaper reports, but I cannot remember what the newspaper said. Yet, I can remember what I saw and what I heard.” In such plain words, can we still get what the artist means?
In 1980, Liu Shiming returned to the Central Academy of Fine Arts and started teaching part-time in the Sculpture Department. Back then, a new wave of art was surging in China, and postmodern research was thriving abroad. However, Liu neither approached the “academic school”, nor did he show an “attitude” towards any trend. He created sculptures large and small, mostly life-like, improvised, and very folk-like. Intriguingly, these tableaux of ordinary life contained many “touching points”. But they were so trivial that they have been forgotten by people. Liu’s pursuit has probably surpassed creation in the ordinary sense, and there are more elements of aftertaste and satisfaction in it. Such an experience is especially valuable for the essence of Chinese art creation in the 1980s.
On opening Liu’s catalogue of works, four series can be identified, which are Boat, Farm Cave Dwelling and Farmhouse, Loess Style and Urban Style. The works created in the 1980s and 1990s are dispersed across the four series regardless of the sequence of time. They represent all the endeavours of Liu within roughly two decades which marked his creative peak. Liu has devoted half of the best forty years of his life to experience and precipitation, and spent the other half on reflection and re-creation. It seems an arrangement that has been planned for a long time, but it also appears so natural, which is unbelievable.
Among Liu’s works, the approach to expression is distinctively “folk”. The essence of folk art lies in simplicity and few limitations, so artists who are well versed in this have more freedom, and all the rules pertaining to various “-isms” and “schools” make no sense here. The most “plain” and direct satisfaction and expression in folk art, on some occasions, deliver the most profound exposition.
I am especially drawn to four sculptures of Liu’s, including Ansai Waist Drummer (1986), Chinese Hwamei (1988), Head of A Child (1994), and Jigong Drinking (1997). The first one can be considered as a successor of Splitting the Mountains to Let the Water Flow, but in a language that is more concise. It is almost one geometric shape, with an emphasis on the dynamics and an exaggeration of the strength. Details are concealed in the structure. The practice obviously originates from ancient Chinese pottery. This pursuit of Liu must have something to do with the restoration he worked on in the museums. The second sculpture carries on the traditions of animal pottery in terms of posture and technique. But how Liu processes the order within disorder, and disorder within order, reminds me of the new school of literati painting. The third one is a kind of “academic” improvisation. After all, Liu is not purely a folk artist. The training of basic skills in his early years has led to the unconscious application and control, and we can more or less sense the minor anxiety and pride in his frank and silent personality. The last piece shows how handy he was with the creation. It is the result of both intended and inadvertent moves. This is probably what moves people the most in Liu’s sculptures.
Interpreting an artwork is to read the mind of the artist. In the same vein, understanding the artist’s true heart facilitates the understanding of the exact orientation and pursuit of his artworks. The unusual significance of Liu Shiming lies in the fact that amidst the clamour of avant-garde in Chinese contemporary art, when the whole art circle of China looks on the cultural globalisation in confusion, Liu provides us with a quiet and simple case and enables us to better ponder over the essence of Chinese contemporary art.
Some unknown artists who were particularly active in the 1970s and 1980s and who continue to create with their own lives are being mentioned again, such as the No Name Painting Association, and many other sincere creators. The insight of history cannot be underestimated. The Exhibition featuring Liu Shiming’s Sculptures curated and launched by Yin Shuangxi and Sun Wei allow us to meet Liu Shiming again, revisit our memories, see through the fog of history, and contemplate the essence of art.
The sincerity of an artist must coexist with two other elements. One is the artwork, and the other is the character.
Liu Shiming is a sculptor, and in terms of seniority, he should be considered as one of the older generation. Enrolled by Xu Beihong personally in 1946, Liu was a student at the National Art School in Beiping. He was instructed by Hua Tianyou and Wang Linyi. Upon graduation, he stayed at the school to teach and worked in the sculpture group for the Monument to the People’s Heroes. In the 1950s, his two works, Measure the Land and Splitting the Mountains to Let the Water Flow, manifested the strength of the people in the special era of new China. He was greatly appreciated as an emerging talent. According to the general classification in art history, he is an artist of New China. His initial works indeed effused the typical hallmark of Red China. His enthusiasm towards the new society, which could also be regarded as the pursuit of the artist as many of his contemporaries emerged through the same route which could have ensured smooth sailing through his career. However, after earning high expectations from the circle of sculpture in Beijing, Liu in his youth vanished. He requested to leave for Henan in the early 1960s.
I am not sure how Liu now aged 80 would review his life. From a fatalistic point of view, his experience is a reincarnation of the traditional intellectuals who renounced the world. Many people, including his teachers, peers, and friends, considered Liu to be a less active person and on the introverted side. Self-willed, he indulged in folk “scenes”, aloof to the rest of the world. He returned to simplicity, back to the authenticity of feelings. For two entire decades in the 1960s and 1970s, he lived alone in Henan and Hebei, abandoning himself to the infinite charm of folk art. Later, when he was back in Beijing, he spent six years diligently restoring cultural relics in the National Museum of Chinese History. Everyone knows that it was a special period in Chinese history. As we see it today, Liu’s choice seems to be a wise one. But judging from the situation back then, it was actually out of frustration.
In fact, no matter what kind of effort that a caring and devoted person makes, time and experience will turn it into wealth. Liu’s “relocation” was, after all, a favour and an unexpected turn of fate for an artist who already longed for the charm of folk art with all the various languages of expression. Upon the founding of the People’s Republic of China, and the subsequent political needs, Chinese art deviated from the essence of art for a long period of time. Art became a specific need and a formatted “thought”. At this time, Liu was “free and unfettered” in the countryside, living at the “bottom”, enjoying Bangzi opera, witnessing the various forms of life on the loess land, walking among the ordinary but real people, and experiencing the joys and sorrows shared by all human beings. Again, this was a form of happiness. As a person is summed up by his experience, what Liu owns is his unique past. In regards his ten years of life in Henan and four years in Hebei, he reflected, “I usually read newspaper reports, but I cannot remember what the newspaper said. Yet, I can remember what I saw and what I heard.” In such plain words, can we still get what the artist means?
In 1980, Liu Shiming returned to the Central Academy of Fine Arts and started teaching part-time in the Sculpture Department. Back then, a new wave of art was surging in China, and postmodern research was thriving abroad. However, Liu neither approached the “academic school”, nor did he show an “attitude” towards any trend. He created sculptures large and small, mostly life-like, improvised, and very folk-like. Intriguingly, these tableaux of ordinary life contained many “touching points”. But they were so trivial that they have been forgotten by people. Liu’s pursuit has probably surpassed creation in the ordinary sense, and there are more elements of aftertaste and satisfaction in it. Such an experience is especially valuable for the essence of Chinese art creation in the 1980s.
On opening Liu’s catalogue of works, four series can be identified, which are Boat, Farm Cave Dwelling and Farmhouse, Loess Style and Urban Style. The works created in the 1980s and 1990s are dispersed across the four series regardless of the sequence of time. They represent all the endeavours of Liu within roughly two decades which marked his creative peak. Liu has devoted half of the best forty years of his life to experience and precipitation, and spent the other half on reflection and re-creation. It seems an arrangement that has been planned for a long time, but it also appears so natural, which is unbelievable.
Among Liu’s works, the approach to expression is distinctively “folk”. The essence of folk art lies in simplicity and few limitations, so artists who are well versed in this have more freedom, and all the rules pertaining to various “-isms” and “schools” make no sense here. The most “plain” and direct satisfaction and expression in folk art, on some occasions, deliver the most profound exposition.
I am especially drawn to four sculptures of Liu’s, including Ansai Waist Drummer (1986), Chinese Hwamei (1988), Head of A Child (1994), and Jigong Drinking (1997). The first one can be considered as a successor of Splitting the Mountains to Let the Water Flow, but in a language that is more concise. It is almost one geometric shape, with an emphasis on the dynamics and an exaggeration of the strength. Details are concealed in the structure. The practice obviously originates from ancient Chinese pottery. This pursuit of Liu must have something to do with the restoration he worked on in the museums. The second sculpture carries on the traditions of animal pottery in terms of posture and technique. But how Liu processes the order within disorder, and disorder within order, reminds me of the new school of literati painting. The third one is a kind of “academic” improvisation. After all, Liu is not purely a folk artist. The training of basic skills in his early years has led to the unconscious application and control, and we can more or less sense the minor anxiety and pride in his frank and silent personality. The last piece shows how handy he was with the creation. It is the result of both intended and inadvertent moves. This is probably what moves people the most in Liu’s sculptures.
Interpreting an artwork is to read the mind of the artist. In the same vein, understanding the artist’s true heart facilitates the understanding of the exact orientation and pursuit of his artworks. The unusual significance of Liu Shiming lies in the fact that amidst the clamour of avant-garde in Chinese contemporary art, when the whole art circle of China looks on the cultural globalisation in confusion, Liu provides us with a quiet and simple case and enables us to better ponder over the essence of Chinese contemporary art.