About 86' The Final Art Exhibition

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On “The 86’ Final Art Exhibition No. 1”

The “85’ New‑Wave Art Movement” roughly spanned 1985‑1986 and extended into 1989. It channeled pent‑up social tensions and conflicts building since China’s Reform‑and‑Opening‑Up era. Nearly one hundred spontaneously‑formed young‑artist collectives ignited an unprecedented surge of modern‑art experimentation across the nation. The “85’ New‑Wave Art Movement” has become the byword for China’s first nationwide wave of modern‑art revolution. The China Academy of Art in Hangzhou(formerly Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts) was a major cradle of this movement.

Among Hangzhou‑based events, two exhibitions were presented to the public by artist‑run groups. One was 85’ New Space in February 1985; the other was The 86’ Final Art Exhibition in January 1986. The former, realized through fruitful collaboration with official institutions, effectively disseminated new artistic concepts. The latter, by contrast, challenged official censorship and tackled far bolder themes, and was consequently shut down. Due to prevailing pressures and complex circumstances at the time, media outlets and art critics avoided covering the incident. Detailed accounts remained largely unpublicized until 2008, when Gao Minglu’s two‑volume monograph The 85’ Art Movement was published and brought this episode to light.

The eight participants of The 86’ Final Art Exhibition No. 1 were all faculty and students from Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts, representing five specialties across two departments, with an average age of around 24. The students included Yu Ping and Zhu Wei, graduating textile‑design majors of 1986; Zhang Yue and Zhao Haibo, graduating graphic‑design majors; and Hua Dong, an environmental‑design student. Faculty participants were Zhang Suojia from Graphic Design and Gu Wenda from Chinese Painting. I myself had just joined the faculty to teach in the Ceramics Department. The idea for the exhibition was first raised by Zhu Wei and Yu Ping in the spring of 1985. By late summer that year, Zhang Yue, Zhao Haibo, Hua Dong and I gradually worked out a preliminary plan. Zhang Suojia and Gu Wenda were later invited to join the show.

Our core position was two‑fold. First, we would not collaborate with official authorities. We wanted to pioneer artist‑initiated exhibitions to circumvent prevailing censorship and preserve creative freedom. Holding the show on‑campus would have required school‑level review that our works would certainly fail, forcing us into compromise. Through the help of Hua Dong’s mother, who worked at Zhejiang Exhibition Hall, we secured a large lobby on the second floor of the venue for our show. Second, we issued no unified manifesto and did not insist on shared artistic positions, so as to preserve each artist’s creative independence. In effect, this group show was an effort to claim artists’ right to exist and to be heard, rather than to form a fixed artistic school.

The full title was The 86’ Final Art Exhibition No. 1. Four considerations shaped this title during planning. Four participants would graduate in 1986, and the exhibition served as a commemorative final artistic act during their student years. We also believed the long‑standing suppression and control of art in China ought to end, and our self‑organized show would advance this process of emancipation. Third, the title signaled that old artistic methodologies were reaching their terminal phase, and that artists ought to re‑examine themselves to open new possibilities. Fourth, this “final” initiative would be part of a long‑term struggle; “No. 1” marked a historic first stage, with No. 2, No. 3 and No. 4 envisioned to follow. This was the first time faculty and students from Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts had organized a public exhibition outside campus since the founding of the People’s Republic of China. Given the bold artistic exploration and avant‑garde themes on view, academy leaders grew deeply alarmed. Senior administrators arrived at the venue early on opening day. The exhibition officially opened at 8 a.m. on January 11, 1986, presenting roughly forty works including installations, mixed‑media pieces, oil paintings and ink‑wash works. The opening was intensely energetic; around two hundred visitors attended, among them academy faculty and students, administrators, art‑world professionals and members of the public. The hall was packed. Michael Jackson’s Thriller blared over speakers. Visitors were animated, vigorously discussing the exhibition and individual works. Several officials and administrative staff watched in stern silence. After roughly an hour, several of us who had not eaten breakfast stepped out for food. When we returned, police officers summoned by academy authorities moved in to shut down the exhibition. Shock swept through the venue. We argued our case but to no avail. We later learned the official grounds for closure were that the exhibition had not undergone official review and that certain works addressed sexual themes. We could not accept these imposed justifications. Why should artists be denied the right to exhibit their own work? What was inherently wrong with representing sexual themes? Where would humanity be without sex? Faced with irresistible police pressure, we were forced to vacate the hall. Exhibitions are temporary, yet the spirit of artistic revolution is eternal.

On the afternoon of January 20, nine days after the shutdown, we were summoned to a meeting in the academy’s conference room. The session was chaired by President Xiao Feng, attended by the vice‑president, Party Deputy Secretary, administrative heads, department directors and senior faculty. Gu Wenda did not appear. The atmosphere was heavy; no one could foresee what would unfold. Though billed as an academic seminar, the meeting opened in a condescending, accusatory tone that precluded genuine scholarly exchange. Participants reacted in different ways. Zheng Shengtian, Chair of the Oil‑Painting Department, and several others remained silent from start to finish — perhaps the prudent choice under the circumstances. Silence can signify nothing, yet it can also signify everything: quiet dissent, or detached non‑involvement. Had everyone remained silent, it would have constituted a powerful act of protest and irony. That did not come to pass. Other participants levelled various criticisms and reproaches against the exhibition. Zhang Suojia kept arguing back, while the rest of us were overwhelmed and given no chance to defend ourselves. Mid‑meeting, denunciations grew harsher. Qin Dahu from the Oil‑Painting Department launched verbal attacks that grossly violated artists’ dignity and personal integrity. He declared: “Your 86’ Final Art Exhibition is utter nonsense — fascist, pornographic, hooligan, reactionary, demonic…” His string of vicious insults enraged us. What wrong had we committed by organizing an exhibition and pursuing modern art? Was that not an artist’s fundamental calling? I was about to erupt in defense of human dignity and artists’ basic rights, when Liu Guohui, the renowned ink‑painter who had kept silent up to that point, stood to speak. Qin’s remarks had outraged many present. Teacher Liu condemned Qin and the whole accusatory meeting, dramatically shifting its tone and trajectory. I clearly recall how the pale‑faced Liu Guohui spoke out with righteous indignation: “What has come over you today? Young teachers and students organize an exhibition, and you treat them like this. Look at them sitting here, denied even a chance to speak. President Xiao, have you forgotten how you yourself were persecuted during the Cultural Revolution? Have we not had enough of man‑hunting campaigns from those years? Where is Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts heading if this continues? We must not adopt the behaviour of the Cultural‑Revolution‑era ideologues…” His two‑minute speech carried the pain of eighteen years of the academy’s history. Those familiar with that history know Liu Guohui had endured years of unjust imprisonment for upholding truth and speaking his mind. President Xiao himself had barely escaped death at the hands of Cultural‑Revolution radicals. I believe Liu’s words struck deep within President Xiao, prompting him to reassess the situation. Faced with sharp division among faculty, the meeting could not proceed. President Xiao stepped in to defuse tensions, stating that “no labels or punitive judgements will be handed out today,” and brought the session to a close. In practice, Qin’s insults served as a warning to the entire Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts: anyone else who dared pursue this kind of art would face similar consequences. This inevitably evoked the case of Lin Lin, a 1977‑cohort student expelled a few years earlier for insisting on independent creative practice.

After the meeting, Zhang Suojia was summoned twice for critical administrative talks. Zhu Wei and Yu Ping were ordered to deliver self‑criticisms at two class‑level denunciation meetings. I heard rumours that some administrators threatened to send me to Xizang for frontier service. Hua Dong suffered particularly serious harm; reportedly his mother faced salary cuts and demotion at work. Zhao Haibo, an outstanding student‑cadre who might have taken positions at the Ministry of Culture or China Central Television, was deemed politically unreliable because of the exhibition and barred from those posts. He was ultimately assigned to the Beijing Second Light Industry Bureau. There he performed ill‑matched day‑time work and slept on the office floor at night. Zhu Wei received his graduation diploma one month later than his peers, only after his parents came to negotiate with academy authorities. A prospective teaching position at Quanzhou University fell through; he was instead sent to the Fujian Provincial Department of Education to await further assignment. This incident inflicted real harm on young artists, leaving long‑term marks on their life trajectories.

Beyond the academy, the episode cast a chilling effect over media circles and artists. Zhang Suojia, then head of the Zhejiang correspondent station for China Art News, sent materials about the exhibition to the publication hoping to garner media support. Chief editor Tao Yongbai refused to publish for fear of repercussions. Other art magazines reacted the same way. For many years afterwards, curators and theorists proceeded with great caution when selecting artists and works, writing articles or publishing books, to avoid provoking trouble. To evade conservative pushback, many artists no longer dared to hold public exhibitions. They turned to underground viewings for invited audiences, or set up works in empty spaces only to photograph them and send images to editors. Numerous artists steered away from experimental creation altogether, daunted by the risks attached to modern‑art practice. The 86’ Final Art Exhibition stands as an act of courageous sacrifice, a humanistic avant‑garde charge. It opened pathways to break exhibition‑censorship regimes and fight for artists’ autonomy and creative freedom. After this show, no further art exhibitions were shut down by authorities in Zhejiang. It may well be the shortest‑lived exhibition in Chinese art history.

In terms of formal experimentation, new concepts and subject‑matter exploration, the artists’ bold attempts sent strong shockwaves through Hangzhou’s art community. The eight participants each pursued distinct directions and individual voices. Zhu Wei’s oil paintings placed everyday objects ‑‑ spoons, candles, drifting clouds ‑‑ within illogical backgrounds to narrate suggestive scenarios, conveying an absurd sense of gravity and cruelty. His work Sever Your Head, Weigh Your Debt draws on the Medusa myth from the Bible: a human head rests upon a plate, one eye open and one closed, facing a severed finger. A red tablecloth that ought to lie flat rises unnaturally upright, and harsh light falls upon this unblinking figure of “indebtedness.” The eerie atmosphere carries profound symbolism and a cry for the pain of existence, unforgettable to viewers. Are not disputes over who owes whom recurring throughout human history?

Zhang Yue re‑examined the familiar human‑figure motif from an unprecedented angle: large bones, indispensable organic components of human life. He magnified bones to become central subjects of his paintings, rendering them into seemingly speaking independent entities. Their solid structure and solemn symbolism embody the inner strength of Zhang Yue’s vision. He not only brought forth the distinct formal qualities of bones, but also pioneered the artistic exploration of internal human‑body anatomy as subject‑matter, exerting influence on later‑generation artists.

Using found objects for installation art remained a rare practice circa 1985. Zhao Haibo and Hua Dong were among its early pioneers. Zhao Haibo created installation works including Boxing Gloves, On the Wall to My Left, and Myself for an Unpleasant Incident. He rooted his subject‑matter in personal everyday life, focusing on individual human dignity and value. His re‑working of found materials narrowed the distance between art and life, transforming ephemeral everyday occurrences into visually poetic allegories rooted in human experience and opening new possibilities for artistic practice.

Yu Ping’s oil‑painting series represented another line of formal breakthrough. Works The Light‑Bulb Shattered and The Light‑Bulb Shattered Again present repeated acts of breakage that emphasize recurring themes. Shattered bulbs in the foreground, neutral‑looking human figures bound by ropes, and faint ghost‑like shapes looming in the background together construct a symbolic narrative.

Zhang Suojia was one of the early pioneers of modern Chinese ink‑wash painting. Works such as Moonlit Night and Death of the Dove retained traditional brushwork while integrating geometric composition into landscape imagery. Death of the Dove evokes monumental tragedy: human faces intermingle with rocky mountain formations, rivers and seas shift and recombine across the picture plane.

Gu Wenda experimented with Surrealist language borrowed from Western art to address eastern‑cultural subjects. His exhibited works included Portrait as Torso, Still Life, Tai‑Chi Diagram, and Zoo. Undoubtedly, Gu Wenda’s Zoo interwove sexual connotations and genital imagery with certain philosophical propositions.

My own oil paintings in the show were Bodhidharma’s Sleeping Kung‑Fu, Bodhidharma’s Light‑Body Kung‑Fu, Bodhidharma’s Wall‑Gazing Kung‑Fu, The Last Grand Landscape, and Speechless Encounter. I employed minimalist techniques to evoke metaphysical, surreal atmospheres, searching for a spiritually ultimate zen‑like void. My aim was to reveal conflicts and mutual threats among contradictory forces within human nature. The figures in these works stand as allegories for living souls, synthesizing traits of humans, animals and plants. They bear no marks of gender, ethnicity, cultural identity or ideological position ‑‑ neutral spokes‑beings for all living things. At that time, I sought to draw upon traditional Chinese cultural motifs to illuminate universal human dilemmas, building visual atmosphere through economical pictorial means.

The core historical significance of the ‘85’ New‑Wave Art Movement lies in its humanistic avant‑gardism. It constituted an enlightenment of modern humanist spirit realized through art in modern Chinese history, the first large‑scale battle for artists’ creative autonomy. The 86’ Final Art Exhibition No. 1 stands as a self‑sacrificial casualty of that struggle: a socially significant historical event, a testimony along China’s avant‑garde art‑revolution trajectory. Its place within modern Chinese art history cannot be judged by purely aesthetic criteria; it must be interpreted within the broader socio‑historical context of China. Decades have passed and society has transformed in the new century. Perhaps it is now appropriate to respond to that historic charge by restaging it as The 86’ Final Art Exhibition No. 2 ‑‑ to commemorate the wounds and missions bequeathed to our generation by time, and to re‑reflect upon the true meaning of that word “Final.”

Text by Sun Ren