The Purple Robe
The Purple Robe
The Chinese did not choose their jobs in the 1980's. All jobs were assigned by local government officials. These assignments were more often than not doled out as punishments or rewards. Depending in large part upon the ethics of local authorities, a reward job could be assigned on the basis of merit, hard work, by towing the party line, by having the right political connections, by extortion or bribery. Similarly, punishing jobs were meted out to those who for some reason ran afowl of the powers that be. They could be given to people who had wronged others, who had been wronged themselves, did not tow the party line or simply had not the requisite political connections for a good job.
In communist China, nude modeling was a punishment job. Something had gone wrong in these people’s lives. One of the male models at the academy, for instance, was a star athlete at his secondary school and had good college prospects. His life dreams came to an end when he stole a watermelon for his girlfriend. Like sentencing of expulsion to Australia for petty criminals in 18th century England, small crimes in China were punishable with life-altering job assignments. So star athlete turned watermelon thief became nude model.
To add to the misery of the poor job assignment was its inflexibility with little chance of redemption or change. A country with a colossal population awaiting a first chance could afford second chances to noone. Such were the pressures of a controlled pipeline on a massive sea of humanity.
Many, however, had an uncanny ability to adapt to their assignments. There were even those models at the academy who literally pranced around gleefully in naked defiance. One such woman was Xiao Zhang. Xiao Zhang was particularly fond of flaunting her voluptuous body. Her skin was a flawless covering of creamy whiteness. Her eyes gleamed like black obsidian and her long black hair glistened like finely spun silk. She knew that she was beautiful and reveled in the effect her physical presence had on others - any other.
During breaks from modeling, it was customary for the models to put on a robe and sit down quietly and unobtrusively. Not so for Xiao Zhang. She would not waste that body for one minute. Instead of retiring into the backround, she instead found all kinds of bodily games to play. First came the taunts to the brick layers outside the classroom. Xiao Zhang would stand by the curtained window and pull the curtain aside by degrees, offering tantalizing views of an arm or a leg. She would then just as quickly draw the curtains shut again, giggling out the words, "Don’t peek now!"
After embarrassing the men outdoors, Xiao Zhang would then turn her attentions to those indoors. A sensual mistress of indulgences, she gave gratuitous massages to students who seemed a bit too tense. She seemed to melt like a pat of butter over everything she touched. When asked how she felt about her assigned profession, Xiao Zhang was known to retort, "I would walk down Wang Fu Jing Street butt naked if I were paid enough."
Ironically, about this time, the American press got wind of China using nude models in their art academies. Although to the best of my knowledge it was a practice introduced by the Russians at least two decades ago, in the American news magazines it was touted as a new phenomenon and yet another example of China’s tentative opening to western ideas. The practice of nude modeling in Chinese art academies was seen in the American press as very stilted, over regulated and as prudish as possible. Now, I never actually saw any representatives of the American news media at the Academy. It would be safe to assume that such writers had also never seen the likes of Xiao Zhang. A story more in keeping with the American morbid fascination with totalitarian oppression outside the continental United States would be that of Xiao Wang.
One could sense the palpable aura of shame and embarrassment that Xiao Wang felt about her job. She was quiet and sad when she disrobed. When she struck a pose, she was rigid and still, unlike the feline Xiao Zhang who seemed to have a symbiotic relationship with body, object and environment. Xiao Wang projected more of a sense of rigid duty than aesthetic presence.
One day, when it came time for a studio break, I noticed Xiao Wang putting on a robe that was stained and full of gaping holes. After seeing this repeatedly over time, I decided that I would have to find out something about it. I carefully sided over to her one day when everyone else was out of the room and we were alone.
Broaching a delicate topic, I avoided eye contact, not wanting to see her pain or for her to see my rude inquisitiveness. "I can’t help but notice that there are holes in your robe." I said to the back wall of the studio. Also speaking to the wall, Xiao Wang replied, " This is the robe that the academy gave me. They would never condescend to give me anything other than broken useless clothing," she said with bitter rancor.
That did not surprise me. Although I didn’t ask what the motivation was for such an act it would be in keeping with a truly vindictive motive to add insult to injury by offering a robe with holes in it to someone already uncomfortable with the job of nude modeling. That way she could feel naked and exposed without respite.
"Perhaps I can do something about it," I offered. "You can’t do anything about it." she opined. "Yes, " I said, "I can do one small thing."
Later that evening, when I returned home, I took out the purple robe that my mother had shipped to me as a Christmas present and bundled it up into my knapsack along with my brushes for the next day. All that next day at the academy I was careful to keep it hidden from view. I didn’t want to get Xiao Wang into any kind of trouble for fraternizing with foreigners. Later, when I was in a studio nearly empty except for Xiao Wang and I myself, I made my offer. Knowing that gift giving must be accomplished with face-saving alacrity and efficiency when there is to be no reciprocity I carefully chose my words. I went over to Xiao Wang, sitting somewhat morously and started to talk to her about my mother.
"My mother is aged now and very forgetful," I began. "Every holiday she sends me a robe. She even keeps sending me the same color - purple. So many purple robes! What is one to do with them all!" I took out the purple robe and asked Xiao Wang if she wouldn’t mind taking it off my hands. She hesitated at first and I told her again that I really had more than I could use but would be embarrassed to tell my mother to stop sending them as she is very sensitive and would be insulted by what would seem to be a lack of appreciation on my part.
"Are you sure?" Xiao Wang asked, her curiosity piqued. "Here," I said and took out the robe. "Really?" Xiao Wang asked again with some hesitancy before accepting the object. "Really." I assured her.
Xiao Wang took the robe, put it on and then broke out into an infectious bout of laughter.
It was the happiest I had ever seen her. Emboldened by the dignity of her purple boundary, Xiao Wang began to ask me questions about what I was doing in a Chinese Art Academy. I told her that at the present I was working on figurative painting and archaic Chinese scripts. I mentioned to her my new found interest in ancient Chinese poetry - in particular the Book of Songs. It amazed me that writing from nearly three thousand years ago could touch upon dilemmas of the human condition that people struggle with even today - foolish and hopeless love, social inequities, the sorrows of war, and the celebrations of a festive peace. The primitive meter of the poetry was captivating as well. Unlike the more popular poetry of the Tang, Yan and Ming with its lilting expressiveness, the ancient verse of the Songs was panted out like a drum beat. I began to chant one for Xiao Wang:
"Shuo Shu Shuo Shu Wu Shi Wo Shu
("Big Rat, Big Rat, Don’t Eat My Grain)
Xiao Wang Replied:
"San Sui Guan Nu Mo Wo Ken Gu"
For a Lifetime I’ve Served You, You Give Nothing Back to Me)
We both chanted:
"Shi Jiang Chu Nu
Shi Bi Le Tu
Le Tu Le Tu
Yuan De Wo Shu"
"I Swear I Will Leave You
I Swear I Will Go To
A Land Of Joy
Land Of Joy! Land Of Joy!
Some Day I Will Have It!
Xiao Wang grew quiet again and then grew visibly a little shaken. With her eyes wet and her voice trembling, she told me in a hushed voice, "It has been so long since I’ve recited verse. I had almost forgotten." She was apparantly an educated young woman, hurt by circumstances I was reluctant to ask about. But instead I painted her as she thought of poetry. I painted her as she sat wrapped in her purple robe, her head to one side, a sandal casually dangling at an angle from one foot, her heart beating to the drum of ancient songs.
The Chinese did not choose their jobs in the 1980's. All jobs were assigned by local government officials. These assignments were more often than not doled out as punishments or rewards. Depending in large part upon the ethics of local authorities, a reward job could be assigned on the basis of merit, hard work, by towing the party line, by having the right political connections, by extortion or bribery. Similarly, punishing jobs were meted out to those who for some reason ran afowl of the powers that be. They could be given to people who had wronged others, who had been wronged themselves, did not tow the party line or simply had not the requisite political connections for a good job.
In communist China, nude modeling was a punishment job. Something had gone wrong in these people’s lives. One of the male models at the academy, for instance, was a star athlete at his secondary school and had good college prospects. His life dreams came to an end when he stole a watermelon for his girlfriend. Like sentencing of expulsion to Australia for petty criminals in 18th century England, small crimes in China were punishable with life-altering job assignments. So star athlete turned watermelon thief became nude model.
To add to the misery of the poor job assignment was its inflexibility with little chance of redemption or change. A country with a colossal population awaiting a first chance could afford second chances to noone. Such were the pressures of a controlled pipeline on a massive sea of humanity.
Many, however, had an uncanny ability to adapt to their assignments. There were even those models at the academy who literally pranced around gleefully in naked defiance. One such woman was Xiao Zhang. Xiao Zhang was particularly fond of flaunting her voluptuous body. Her skin was a flawless covering of creamy whiteness. Her eyes gleamed like black obsidian and her long black hair glistened like finely spun silk. She knew that she was beautiful and reveled in the effect her physical presence had on others - any other.
During breaks from modeling, it was customary for the models to put on a robe and sit down quietly and unobtrusively. Not so for Xiao Zhang. She would not waste that body for one minute. Instead of retiring into the backround, she instead found all kinds of bodily games to play. First came the taunts to the brick layers outside the classroom. Xiao Zhang would stand by the curtained window and pull the curtain aside by degrees, offering tantalizing views of an arm or a leg. She would then just as quickly draw the curtains shut again, giggling out the words, "Don’t peek now!"
After embarrassing the men outdoors, Xiao Zhang would then turn her attentions to those indoors. A sensual mistress of indulgences, she gave gratuitous massages to students who seemed a bit too tense. She seemed to melt like a pat of butter over everything she touched. When asked how she felt about her assigned profession, Xiao Zhang was known to retort, "I would walk down Wang Fu Jing Street butt naked if I were paid enough."
Ironically, about this time, the American press got wind of China using nude models in their art academies. Although to the best of my knowledge it was a practice introduced by the Russians at least two decades ago, in the American news magazines it was touted as a new phenomenon and yet another example of China’s tentative opening to western ideas. The practice of nude modeling in Chinese art academies was seen in the American press as very stilted, over regulated and as prudish as possible. Now, I never actually saw any representatives of the American news media at the Academy. It would be safe to assume that such writers had also never seen the likes of Xiao Zhang. A story more in keeping with the American morbid fascination with totalitarian oppression outside the continental United States would be that of Xiao Wang.
One could sense the palpable aura of shame and embarrassment that Xiao Wang felt about her job. She was quiet and sad when she disrobed. When she struck a pose, she was rigid and still, unlike the feline Xiao Zhang who seemed to have a symbiotic relationship with body, object and environment. Xiao Wang projected more of a sense of rigid duty than aesthetic presence.
One day, when it came time for a studio break, I noticed Xiao Wang putting on a robe that was stained and full of gaping holes. After seeing this repeatedly over time, I decided that I would have to find out something about it. I carefully sided over to her one day when everyone else was out of the room and we were alone.
Broaching a delicate topic, I avoided eye contact, not wanting to see her pain or for her to see my rude inquisitiveness. "I can’t help but notice that there are holes in your robe." I said to the back wall of the studio. Also speaking to the wall, Xiao Wang replied, " This is the robe that the academy gave me. They would never condescend to give me anything other than broken useless clothing," she said with bitter rancor.
That did not surprise me. Although I didn’t ask what the motivation was for such an act it would be in keeping with a truly vindictive motive to add insult to injury by offering a robe with holes in it to someone already uncomfortable with the job of nude modeling. That way she could feel naked and exposed without respite.
"Perhaps I can do something about it," I offered. "You can’t do anything about it." she opined. "Yes, " I said, "I can do one small thing."
Later that evening, when I returned home, I took out the purple robe that my mother had shipped to me as a Christmas present and bundled it up into my knapsack along with my brushes for the next day. All that next day at the academy I was careful to keep it hidden from view. I didn’t want to get Xiao Wang into any kind of trouble for fraternizing with foreigners. Later, when I was in a studio nearly empty except for Xiao Wang and I myself, I made my offer. Knowing that gift giving must be accomplished with face-saving alacrity and efficiency when there is to be no reciprocity I carefully chose my words. I went over to Xiao Wang, sitting somewhat morously and started to talk to her about my mother.
"My mother is aged now and very forgetful," I began. "Every holiday she sends me a robe. She even keeps sending me the same color - purple. So many purple robes! What is one to do with them all!" I took out the purple robe and asked Xiao Wang if she wouldn’t mind taking it off my hands. She hesitated at first and I told her again that I really had more than I could use but would be embarrassed to tell my mother to stop sending them as she is very sensitive and would be insulted by what would seem to be a lack of appreciation on my part.
"Are you sure?" Xiao Wang asked, her curiosity piqued. "Here," I said and took out the robe. "Really?" Xiao Wang asked again with some hesitancy before accepting the object. "Really." I assured her.
Xiao Wang took the robe, put it on and then broke out into an infectious bout of laughter.
It was the happiest I had ever seen her. Emboldened by the dignity of her purple boundary, Xiao Wang began to ask me questions about what I was doing in a Chinese Art Academy. I told her that at the present I was working on figurative painting and archaic Chinese scripts. I mentioned to her my new found interest in ancient Chinese poetry - in particular the Book of Songs. It amazed me that writing from nearly three thousand years ago could touch upon dilemmas of the human condition that people struggle with even today - foolish and hopeless love, social inequities, the sorrows of war, and the celebrations of a festive peace. The primitive meter of the poetry was captivating as well. Unlike the more popular poetry of the Tang, Yan and Ming with its lilting expressiveness, the ancient verse of the Songs was panted out like a drum beat. I began to chant one for Xiao Wang:
"Shuo Shu Shuo Shu Wu Shi Wo Shu
("Big Rat, Big Rat, Don’t Eat My Grain)
Xiao Wang Replied:
"San Sui Guan Nu Mo Wo Ken Gu"
For a Lifetime I’ve Served You, You Give Nothing Back to Me)
We both chanted:
"Shi Jiang Chu Nu
Shi Bi Le Tu
Le Tu Le Tu
Yuan De Wo Shu"
"I Swear I Will Leave You
I Swear I Will Go To
A Land Of Joy
Land Of Joy! Land Of Joy!
Some Day I Will Have It!
Xiao Wang grew quiet again and then grew visibly a little shaken. With her eyes wet and her voice trembling, she told me in a hushed voice, "It has been so long since I’ve recited verse. I had almost forgotten." She was apparantly an educated young woman, hurt by circumstances I was reluctant to ask about. But instead I painted her as she thought of poetry. I painted her as she sat wrapped in her purple robe, her head to one side, a sandal casually dangling at an angle from one foot, her heart beating to the drum of ancient songs.
Excerpts from the Book Another Soul
The Three Lines
"Three men go walking by. One will be my teacher." Confucius
My first day of serious study at the Beijing Central Art Academy began with a seemingly simple task. Master Gao painted three black ink lines on a small piece of white mulberry paper. I watched him paint them as one watches a ballet. The first line flashed onto the paper bold and upright like a saber. The ink was as black as black can be, the stroke swelling in the middle then gradually tapering into a sharp point. In the second stroke, Master Gao made a thin stroke leaping into the air, arching and cutting across the first stroke. The second stroke was drier than the first, the white paper showing through the ink in parts. Fei Bai, the flying white, was what the Chinese masters called this rapid movement. The hollow space created between the two strokes was a lovely long ellipse. It was the eye of the Phoenix, a shape often seen in the blank areas in traditional Chinese painting.
Master Gao then gently dipped the brush into water, bleeding it of its blackness. I watched as the black swirls spiraled down into clear pool. There was something of magic in that. After a pause, Master Gao made his third and last stroke. It was the softest, wettest stroke, the ink becoming mysteriously transparent. It wobbled like something living, meandering like a river current across the page then piercing the place where the first two lines intersected. Master Gao asked me to copy the three lines with the brush and ink as many times as it took to get it right. He left the room without pausing to watch.
I picked up the brush and carefully loaded it with the black ink almost as one loads a weapon. Firing my first stroke onto the page I was careful to keep a strong but steady hand, cutting across the page with the piercing upward swing. It looked right to me. I cut across with the stroke to make the Phoenix eye. The third line was the hardest. It is easier to control quick strokes, than to hold steady while moving slowly. The mysterious meandering line was deceptive. I had to paint it again and again. Periodically, a Chinese painter would come into the studio to check my progress. They weren’t encouraging. "Not quite right yet," they would say and then leave abruptly. Slowly, patiently I keep working, pausing only to study the strokes of Master Gao more closely. Over and over again I made the three strokes, swinging, soaring, and insinuating the lines. First line - upright and bold. Second line - leaping up majestically to pierce it. Third line, curving around to pierce again at the juncture of the first two. The Chinese masters came by again. "No, not quite right yet." What was it? I thought I was getting close to the spirit of the three lines. I carefully moved the ink across the page the way I thought that Master Gao had, making these three intersecting lines. And yet I was told that I was missing something. So I kept working, not quite comprehending what could be wrong with my three lines moving ever so close to the master’s hand.
The three lines were like the three great teachings of China, I came to believe later. The first, bold and upright, was Confucianism. Stalwart, authoritarian, it came first to divide the page into two - like the great divide of Chinese society into the priviledged and their unsung subjects - drawing the line that noone dare cross. Then comes Buddhism to pierce that authority, swiftly and surely. Like a leap of faith, it soars unchallenged, creating a space of fertile ground for the development of art, philosophy, and the expansion of the human mind. The third line, Daoism, is mysterious, more felt than seen. It flows like the river that it is often compared to. It permeates and affects the first two lines, exerting its soft and subtle influence upon them.
The day drew to a close, and I was still painting my three intersecting lines, thinking that I was getting closer and closer to the model with the sure hand of practice. My day ended with a visit from the perpetually sardonic Master Zhao. He looked at all my efforts and could not suppress a smirk at them. "What is it?" I ask. "None of them are right." He told me. "But I’ve been so careful at reproducing the attitude of the three intersecting lines." I protested "The sharpness, the arch, the wetness, the dryness," I continued, "I think I’m getting close. "No, not really." He said, smirking some more. Master Zhao then picked up Master Gao’s original ink drawing and pointed to the area where the three lines crossed each other. "Look at this and then look at yours carefully." He said. "All of your paintings are of three intersecting lines," Master Zhao explained further. "Well yes," I said hesitating slightly, "That was my assignment." "No," said Master Zhao. "Don’t you know that the first principal of Chinese painting is that three lines never intersect?" He illustrated his observation by pointing to Master Gao’s three lines again and asked me to look very closely at the point where I had seen them cross each other. I looked and saw to my surprise a tiny white space, no bigger than the eye of a needle. So they hadn’t exactly crossed after all! "Two lines cross, and the third one misses," Master Zhao continued. "The third may come close but it always misses," Master Zhao explained, almost beside himself with joy for having fooled the foreigner. On a serious note, Master Zhao admonished, "Having knowledge of details, accomplishing skills are all very important, but the fundamental importance is to understand basic principals and know your direction."
Master Zhao then picked up a brush and a clean piece of xuan paper. He filled the page with sharp pointed lines that I recognized as grass. "What are they?" He asked. "Leaves of grass." I replied. "Look at the structure," He advised. I looked and saw what appeared to be a jumble of vegetation. Master Zhao asked me to look more closely. When I did I could begin to distinguish sets of lines, all with a distinct ordered arrangement. "No line, no dot is without meaning and structure. It is a system of codified brushsrokes reflecting the order of the universe." Master Zhao concluded his lecture.
Like most lessons of painting, my first at the academy was a lesson upon which to set my compass for continued learning, in life as well as in art. To this day, whenever I find myself distracted by details, I pause, observe, and refocus on basic ideas and central goals. It is always a good place to start, and a good place to begin again whenever necessary.
"Three men go walking by. One will be my teacher." Confucius
My first day of serious study at the Beijing Central Art Academy began with a seemingly simple task. Master Gao painted three black ink lines on a small piece of white mulberry paper. I watched him paint them as one watches a ballet. The first line flashed onto the paper bold and upright like a saber. The ink was as black as black can be, the stroke swelling in the middle then gradually tapering into a sharp point. In the second stroke, Master Gao made a thin stroke leaping into the air, arching and cutting across the first stroke. The second stroke was drier than the first, the white paper showing through the ink in parts. Fei Bai, the flying white, was what the Chinese masters called this rapid movement. The hollow space created between the two strokes was a lovely long ellipse. It was the eye of the Phoenix, a shape often seen in the blank areas in traditional Chinese painting.
Master Gao then gently dipped the brush into water, bleeding it of its blackness. I watched as the black swirls spiraled down into clear pool. There was something of magic in that. After a pause, Master Gao made his third and last stroke. It was the softest, wettest stroke, the ink becoming mysteriously transparent. It wobbled like something living, meandering like a river current across the page then piercing the place where the first two lines intersected. Master Gao asked me to copy the three lines with the brush and ink as many times as it took to get it right. He left the room without pausing to watch.
I picked up the brush and carefully loaded it with the black ink almost as one loads a weapon. Firing my first stroke onto the page I was careful to keep a strong but steady hand, cutting across the page with the piercing upward swing. It looked right to me. I cut across with the stroke to make the Phoenix eye. The third line was the hardest. It is easier to control quick strokes, than to hold steady while moving slowly. The mysterious meandering line was deceptive. I had to paint it again and again. Periodically, a Chinese painter would come into the studio to check my progress. They weren’t encouraging. "Not quite right yet," they would say and then leave abruptly. Slowly, patiently I keep working, pausing only to study the strokes of Master Gao more closely. Over and over again I made the three strokes, swinging, soaring, and insinuating the lines. First line - upright and bold. Second line - leaping up majestically to pierce it. Third line, curving around to pierce again at the juncture of the first two. The Chinese masters came by again. "No, not quite right yet." What was it? I thought I was getting close to the spirit of the three lines. I carefully moved the ink across the page the way I thought that Master Gao had, making these three intersecting lines. And yet I was told that I was missing something. So I kept working, not quite comprehending what could be wrong with my three lines moving ever so close to the master’s hand.
The three lines were like the three great teachings of China, I came to believe later. The first, bold and upright, was Confucianism. Stalwart, authoritarian, it came first to divide the page into two - like the great divide of Chinese society into the priviledged and their unsung subjects - drawing the line that noone dare cross. Then comes Buddhism to pierce that authority, swiftly and surely. Like a leap of faith, it soars unchallenged, creating a space of fertile ground for the development of art, philosophy, and the expansion of the human mind. The third line, Daoism, is mysterious, more felt than seen. It flows like the river that it is often compared to. It permeates and affects the first two lines, exerting its soft and subtle influence upon them.
The day drew to a close, and I was still painting my three intersecting lines, thinking that I was getting closer and closer to the model with the sure hand of practice. My day ended with a visit from the perpetually sardonic Master Zhao. He looked at all my efforts and could not suppress a smirk at them. "What is it?" I ask. "None of them are right." He told me. "But I’ve been so careful at reproducing the attitude of the three intersecting lines." I protested "The sharpness, the arch, the wetness, the dryness," I continued, "I think I’m getting close. "No, not really." He said, smirking some more. Master Zhao then picked up Master Gao’s original ink drawing and pointed to the area where the three lines crossed each other. "Look at this and then look at yours carefully." He said. "All of your paintings are of three intersecting lines," Master Zhao explained further. "Well yes," I said hesitating slightly, "That was my assignment." "No," said Master Zhao. "Don’t you know that the first principal of Chinese painting is that three lines never intersect?" He illustrated his observation by pointing to Master Gao’s three lines again and asked me to look very closely at the point where I had seen them cross each other. I looked and saw to my surprise a tiny white space, no bigger than the eye of a needle. So they hadn’t exactly crossed after all! "Two lines cross, and the third one misses," Master Zhao continued. "The third may come close but it always misses," Master Zhao explained, almost beside himself with joy for having fooled the foreigner. On a serious note, Master Zhao admonished, "Having knowledge of details, accomplishing skills are all very important, but the fundamental importance is to understand basic principals and know your direction."
Master Zhao then picked up a brush and a clean piece of xuan paper. He filled the page with sharp pointed lines that I recognized as grass. "What are they?" He asked. "Leaves of grass." I replied. "Look at the structure," He advised. I looked and saw what appeared to be a jumble of vegetation. Master Zhao asked me to look more closely. When I did I could begin to distinguish sets of lines, all with a distinct ordered arrangement. "No line, no dot is without meaning and structure. It is a system of codified brushsrokes reflecting the order of the universe." Master Zhao concluded his lecture.
Like most lessons of painting, my first at the academy was a lesson upon which to set my compass for continued learning, in life as well as in art. To this day, whenever I find myself distracted by details, I pause, observe, and refocus on basic ideas and central goals. It is always a good place to start, and a good place to begin again whenever necessary.