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In a culture with as
much depth and complexity as that of the Chinese, especially evident during the
revolutionary period succeeding the fall of the Qing Dynasty at the turn of the
20th century, it can be difficult to ascertain the origins of an
artistic movement- and even more so to identify the subtle effects of aesthetic
education that would lead to one’s development.
The modern state of
Chinese art owes itself largely to a focus, largely paralleling that of the
political domain, on the popular. After thousands of years of aristocracy by
the elite class, a return to the plight of the common man has, in the 20th
century, been explored artistically, banned as dangerous, supported as
revolutionary, and then skewed to fit the purposes of a brand new political
regime.
While the aesthetics
that supported the artistic origin of this populist sentiment might have been
subtle, the artistic temperament was as far from subtle as it could possibly
be, and owes this artistic value largely to the “incomparably expedient and
politically relevant” medium of woodcut art, exemplified in the powerful
message of Li Hua’s Roar, China!
(Tang 218)
To understand the
subtle beginnings that gave rise to this now-flourishing aesthetic principle,
it is necessary to begin where the Qing Dynasty left off. In the 1910’s, then
Minister of Education Cai Yuanpei advocated a controversial meiyu (rule of aesthetic education)
which attempted to place the liberal-humanism of the European Renaissance at
the forefront of artistic understanding for the urban bourgeoisie of China.
This agenda set two
major precedents for the artistic works and movements that were to come: An,
“inseparable link to the nation’s political agenda” and an “unceasing struggle
between western influences and Chinese traditions” (Zheng 11)
The actual political
agenda of Cai Yuanpei as well as his artistic taste is quickly reversed by the
fall of the regime to which he owed his living, but the effect his
administration had on the young artists of the time would be duly explored in
the ensuing revolutionary period. For the next 20 years, future artists would
be influenced by the radical political thought of China’s Creation Society,
which laid the foundation for an art movement defined by the values of the
proletariat from which it was given birth.
It was at this time
that the key term biaoxian began to
change meaning as it was understood by the young artists of the day, moving
from, “Subjective consciousness to be expressed” towards “external reality to
be represented” (Tang 67). This subtle shift in meaning allowed artists of the
time to create the very unsubtle works of art that would influence the populace
towards increasingly leftist revolutionary political agendas, including the
seminal opera Taking Tiger Mountain by
Strategy and the preceding woodcut, Roar,
China!
Woodcut art was, at
this time, no new medium for Chinese artists, who were well-aware of the 1,500
years of history that it carries within the Chinese tradition. It was, however,
at this time that traditional themes, such as devotional Buddhist art and
sweeping landscape scenes began to be replaced, in no small part due to the
changing meaning of biaoxian as it relates
to the artists in question.
Before Roar, China! was created, most of the
unambiguously political creative works at the time were done solely in writing -
this was the case that the famous leftist writer Lu Xun managed to change
through a period of personal support for political artistic expression
beginning in the late 1920’s.
Lu Xun’s essays and
literary works were widely read and highly subversive to the widely
disseminated political thought of the time, but it is his role in the creation
and support of the Creative Print Movement within China that merits further
examination at the moment. It is through this movement that Roar, China! came into being as the
“face of modern Chinese art” and gave other artists the “imperative to describe
their political motivations in images” (Smedley 12).
Lu Xun may have been
the first (and was certainly the most successful) publisher and disseminator of
foreign artwork that China had yet seen - In parallel with (but opposing) the
old agenda of Minister Cai Yuanpei, American, German and Russian artists found
their works being distributed and shown to budding Chinese artists who were
waiting for a medium through which they could effectively express the public
miasma of daily life at the time[1].
At this time in the
early 1930’s, in no small part due to the increasing popularity and influence
of these foreign artists, woodcut art was deemed dangerous by the ruling
government in China at the time. Exhibitions were cancelled, prints confiscated
and young artists put in prison. Some of these artists were even put to death
and their works were sadly destroyed, giving modern scholars no means by which
to study them. From this point onwards, Lu Xun’s public support of subversive
woodcut artistry was cut short, and the workshop he arranged from a Japanese
woodcut master was interrupted by the increasing tension leading to war between
the two nations.
This period of
government-led censorship only lasted until the onset of Japanese aggression in
the area, allowing an explosive re-emergence of the art form and medium which
culminated, for the purposes of this examination, in the Second National
Traveling Woodcut Exhibition of 1936. It was during this Exhibition that Roar, China! was presented for public
consumption. This woodcut dominated the exhibition and inspired a resulting
collection of woodcut works designed in response - a kind of collective
reverberation of the initial roar - each easily identified by subject matter,
material and name[2].
The woodcut itself
presents a male figure, oppressively and obviously painfully bound to a dark
pole with thick ropes, blindfolded and screaming as he (perhaps unknowingly[3])
gropes for a nearby knife. The figure’s left shoulder is popping out of the
restraints in such a way as to represent upward movement, culminating in the
wide open mouth which is imagined by the viewer to be letting out a curdling
roar which gives the artwork its name.
Of considerable
importance to understanding the impact of this woodcut compared to the others
it was presented alongside is its starkness, contrast, and tension. The man’s
upturned shoulder is broadly restrained by the lower arm’s bondage, forming a
triangular motif between the top of the pole, the tip of his shoulder, and the
base of the pole. By placing his screaming head on the shortest side of the
ensuing triangle, the effect that the man is urgently leaping upwards (or
preparing to) is achieved and given broad definition within the context of the
piece. This primary triangle achieves starkness by uniting two of the darkest
elements of the woodcut alongside the most painfully out-of-place: his upturned
shoulder struggling against the restraints.
Contrast is made
significant largely by those restraints, again defined by a series of triangles
in white which serve to embolden the man’s struggle against them. By carefully
plotting his outline to be nearly the same thickness as the binding rope where
crossed, the man’s desperate struggle is given form in the difference of hue
between the stark whiteness of the rest of his body and the tiny spots of
colorlessness that are present within the structure of the ropes. The details
given to the hands and feet of the man serve to further elucidate his pain and
struggle by showing his bare bones –or veins– and fingernails in finer detail
than in any other part of the woodcut.
Tension is achieved
through the horizontal aspects of the binding ropes compared to the triangular
raising body and pole element. It should be noted that all of the ropes
presented cut across the major triangular sections of the piece, serving to
hold back the illusion of movement towards the sharpest point- the traditional
“arrow” of movement is subverted by the horizontal crossing of these dark
lines.
The fact that his low
knee is the part of his body most heavily outlined creates yet another
triangular motif that is cast between his head and the mysterious knife which
he seems about to grasp. The succession of this triangle alongside the
previously mentioned one creates a push/pull duality as his figure is seen to
be both trying to move towards the knife (so as to grab it) and up away from
the pole (so as to escape) at the same time, highlighting his desperation,
fear, and anger.
It is exactly this raw
and unrestrained desperation, fear and anger which resounded so powerfully with
the Chinese populace of the time. Li Hua was presented as a master of the
woodcutting art not so much for his skill, choice of subject matter or
execution, but because of the fact that his pieces are so, “violent in their
wild passion and strength.” (Smedley 556)
With woodcutting
technology (sponsored largely by Li Xun) brought into China, stark, simple and
powerful images such as this one were now able to be manufactured, processed
and delivered to the public at large. Through the exhibition of which this
woodcut was a part, many hundreds of thousands of working-class and agragarian
Chinese were exposed to the idea that their suffering was not unique – that, in
fact, they were all complacently being bound by foreign powers and the ruling
aristocracy. Roar, China! asserts
that this binding is unnatural, and that, just as the roaring figure
represented, the time has come to break free of these restraints.
Of particular
importance is the effect of the name, Roar,
China! in the context of the presentation of a screaming, bound figure - it
can be surmised that, since the figure is already roaring, the name is in fact
an imperative directed at the viewing public. The artist Li Hua has shown his
audience where they stand, and “delivered a full sermon” about their options on
the matter while presenting what was, in his opinion, the best response.
(McCloskey 45)
That response would go
on to resoundingly affect the rest of Chinese modern art throughout its
history, in no small part due to the Communist adoption of the paradigm and
resulting “Blending…interpreted as a successful exercise in the Maoist policy
of sinification.” (Hung 56)
The way in which this
affect bifurcates through public sentiment, artistic works created in response
and the increasing democratic sentiment of the populace can be given an easy
parallel in the zealous beginnings of Maoism which it influenced. A work of
this nature and primal power, given over to a populace which began to define
its existence as a “generational experience of seemingly endless traumas”, led
to the acceptance of total social restructure as being the only acceptable
solution to China’s problems (Andrews 266). Long-standing institutions were
scrapped, important cultural monuments were destroyed to make way for the new
future that Communism offered, and a great re-defining smolder of the neo-Confucianist
regime was given reality by an unnerved proletariat who felt justified in their
loathing.
The fact is that so
much effort and energy was put into eliminating every last remnant of the
political culture which Maoism replaced that the new Maoist regime had to
counteract its own newly unbalanced velocity with even harsher restrictions
which later came to being. As if the bound man representing the roar of China
had leapt out of his restraints, grabbed the knife began desperately slashing,
cutting himself and anyone, friend or foe, unlucky enough to be standing by.
The Maoist authorities
later crackdowns on artistic and religious freedoms show a new method by which
they sought to palliate the subversive and bring once-roaring China’s voice
down to a complacent affirmation. If Li Hua’s Roar, China! was the beginning of this movement, it was certainly
one geared towards the massive upheaval which followed it, and its place as one
of the most important woodcuts of the modern era is richly deserved.
Without this
race-setting gunshot serving to move the newly emotionalized public to unrest,
there might have been a much quieter rise to new power, and even the possibility
of a more peaceful transfer thereof when the time arose - this line of thought,
however, serves only the purposes of meta-history, because the fact remains
that China was instigated to roar - and whether doing so quietly and
subversively, or on a global scale, through the new voice granted to it by the
freely flowing information network of the Internet, continues to roar.
[1] Of particular importance is the milieu of Käthe
Kollwitz, which parallels the strife of Chinese agragrians at the time with his
works representing the German Peasant’s War of the 16th century in
stark detail. Kollwitz allowed the works to be shown in China at no cost, and
instead donated the proceeds to the development of a vehicle for mass public
political art showings
[2] An accompanying
exhibition catalog lists some of the most important works in response as being
Hu Qizao’s Angry Roar, Lai Shaoqi’s Roaring China, and Tang Yingwi’s Outcry. As mentioned in the text, their
names along strike a common chord in “echoing” the roar in the work from which
they derive their significance.
[3] Xiaobing Tang argues
that the distance of the dagger from the hand imbues the woodcut with a
“tantalizing” narrative based on the distance between the hand and the knife,
and that it is possible, even likely, that this figure is not aware of how
close he is to breaking himself free.
