A week ago I went to 798, an industrial area located in the North-East of Beijing. The place used to be Joint Factory 718, a factory complex set up in the 1950s with the help of East German experts. An archetype work-unit (danwei) and the site for the development of electronics technology in China, this complex epitomized Mao Zedong’s vision of socialism.
These days are long gone. Today, 798 hosts numerous artists from China and abroad, who have set up business on site. It’s a fascinating setting. In Soviet-style factories and warehouses, defined by brick and concrete, one finds shops, galleries, and bars that have the air of Berlin-Mitte, not one of industrial production.
I have no clue about modern art. But the artwork at 798 (architecture, photography, performance art, music, painting…) is quite interesting. Rarely abstract to the point of being inaccessible, it rather deals in various engaging ways with the dominant trends of modernizing China: politics and consumption. There is a surprising amount of social and political criticism at 798 (see the picture of the tanks below). Or, perhaps, this is not so surprising after all. To be rebellious, to play with symbols of Communism and Capitalism is perhaps exactly what appeals to potential customers. Is the work of an artist who has to struggle against censorship and the temptations of money particularly valuable and appealing? It appears that way. Modern Chinese art is en vogue, and scores high prices. 798 is emblematic. In a short amount of time the area has become very prestigious. It is now expensive to set up shop here as an artist, and those residing in 798 probably don’t need to worry much about their finances.
There are three things striking about art in China:
First, several artist communities are located in and around Beijing. Within those communities artists live close to each other in dense networks of communication and exchange. Art in China seems organized in such a way, as if the concept of the work-unit was simply extended from its industrial origins to the aesthetic realm. This, of course, is not unlike art-communities in other countries, but it is interesting because in China one would not expect non-governmental ‘groups’ to be organized so tightly.
Second, artists often have links to local government officials, being able to participate in defining which artistic expressions are within the limits of proper political conduct. Here, the artist is not the victim of censorship, but participates actively in defining the territory of free expression. What defines this space is not the rebellious and public force of his or her creation, but rather the contact with political leaders and the resulting intuition for what is proper and what is not (for instance, artists and curators always need to consult officials before staging exhibitions). In sum, political symbolism in Communist China is possible, because it is negotiable. The negotiating power of the artist, however, varies according to his or her status. The criteria for judgement change once an artist becomes a famous and public figure, or is regarded as part of a certain artistic style and historic movement.
Third, art communities draw many visitors, foreign as well as Chinese. There is a lot of buying and selling going on, art in China is an capital-intensive market. This market emerges with the rise of consumer society and a new class of Chinese citizens, people who are increasingly able to afford goods not related to substantial needs (nourishment, basic clothing, housing etc.). Amidst the growing abundance of things that now can be exchanged and the growing numbers of people who can take part in the exchange—the commodification of every aspect of everyday life in China—the wish to distinguish oneself from others emerges, inspiring the search for value outside of the profane monetary realm. Art fulfils just that wish, because it derives its value from the abstract and insubstantial spheres of aesthetics and taste. Buying and owning art involves aesthetic knowledge and judgement, investment and (paradoxically) the denial of investment (for what is good art but priceless). This is how a series of photographs, or a bunch of chemicals arranged on canvass can score such high prices. Consequently, art, as a sphere where individuals think up and devise original expressions is a novelty in China. Creative artwork, the close connection between artist, idea and expression, becomes an economic force today, because there is a demand in society for this invaluable connection. This conception of art based on uniqueness stands in contrast to traditional Chinese handicraft, the landscapes, calligraphy, verse, sculptures, wooden carvings, catered to tourists and their vision of what Oriental art should look like. The traditional handicraft knows no author, just a certain style or symbol (the yin-yang, for example) that sells well and is infinitely duplicated by the anonymous craft-worker.
In sum, the 798 area is an example for the rise of art in China. Art as a creative and original form of expression, which, by the virtue of its originality, is valuable. In this context art in China raises some critical issues. Not so much about politics, which is a constraint to expression, no doubt, but not a substantial and unmanageable one. What is more critical is the relation between art and market. This is because there is no effective and reliable protection of intellectual property in China. For an art scene, based on creativity and located in small community, this poses an obvious problem: How can I assure that my idea, my technique, my creations do not get copied by my neighbour next door (Thus reducing its creative value and my credibility as an original artist)? And, Michael tells me, there is, in fact, a lot of straightforward copying going on in artist communities. People see that something works and they reproduce it. Take for example the tiger above, exhibited in the art village of SongZhang by an unknown artist (Michael took this picture). Its mouth is copied from artwork of the SongZhang resident Yue Mingjun, who caricatures his own mouth (Mingjun is rumored to himself to have actually copied the mouth-idea from another artist of the village). This grimace become so popular that people began copying and distributing it widely…
In general, the practise of copying hurts, of course, mostly upcoming artists who have no a public status yet, thus being able to connect their name and persona to a given style or work even in their absence (so people might recognize a copy on a market for what it is, a copy of an original work by a specific artist). But then, with all this copying going on, why do these communities still flourish, why do people still create create and produce?
We are accustomed to assume that copying is detrimental to creativity and productivity. This view is informed by an institutional entrenchment of the idea of intellectual property in a system of legal and administrative protection. Such system does not exist in China, at least, not yet. But people still create and produce, probably more than in countries with such protections. Why? Perhaps it is important to keep in mind that most creative environments have actually developed in settings that were not constrained by an exhaustive system of intellectual property protection. Just think of open-source software in the Internet today, or much of early Western philosophy. Artist communities in China may be so creative and productive because they allow for ideas, techniques, and symbols to circulate, to disattach themselves from their creators and roam freely—unlike in an environment saturated with laws and courts defining what an original idea is, and what is not. But how does the artist survive then? Well, it seems that in such communities there is a certain amount of solidarity and organized help in place—a safety net of personal relations and favours, providing access to forms of income other than the public art market. In art communities in China, the artist must not only a be skilled creator but also a resourceful manager of social relations.
