Suzhou early spring 2019
I am certain I copied oil paintings by Yan Wen‑liang in my youth. Through faded reproductions in printed periodicals from the 1930s, I sensed the exotic atmosphere he experienced while studying in France. Ever since then, I have held enduring respect for that older generation of Chinese artists who pursued their studies in Europe.
I turned off Wuqiaqiao Road, stepped down from the roadbed, and followed the winding waterway. Waterways define Suzhou’s character. They remind me of the principles of traditional Chinese urban planning: water was the true master of the city. This held true for ancient Beijing, as well as for Bianliang of the Song Dynasty. Times have changed. Most watercourses were filled in as populations expanded. Today we retain only place‑names referencing water and bridges, no longer the sound of running water. Water is soft, tempering the rigidity of buildings and roadways. Bridges stand among humanity’s finest inventions, almost like devices for crossing time‑space — especially humped arch bridges. Imagine standing on an ancient vantage point, looking down upon meandering waterways and layered buildings spread beneath the horizon: an ideal visual space. Walking beside the water, I often deliberately tune out modern‑era constructions. It is not merely that they are unsightly; their scale clashes violently with the old city. Over‑tall and bulky, they oppress and disrespect the historic spatial fabric.
Rounding an S‑shaped bend, twelve giant Roman‑style columns rise in a straight line facing the water, bearing a long horizontal beam overhead. High upon the beam, distinctive calligraphy reads: Yan Wen‑liang Memorial Hall. My heart sank in disappointment. I sat down facing the water and decided to sketch this jarring sight for the record. Setting aside how stylistically incoherent this Roman‑column building is, picture how jarring such an out‑of‑scale structure would look beside the waters of the Surging Wave Pavilion, how gravely it would violate the spirit of a classical Chinese garden. Even its original architects sensed the dissonance. They planted a straight row of metasequoia trees as a natural screen. Metasequoia are rarely used in traditional Chinese gardens; their rigid upright form carries little aesthetic grace. This Roman‑column edifice reeks of grandstanding. Whenever and wherever it occurs, grandstanding serves one plain end: money and gain. History can be hard to read, yet reality lays itself bare. Many artists understand that art and ideals cannot be quantified, yet market prices constantly lure artists astray. I hold no regard for those who peddle ideals for profit, and still less for those whose sole pursuit is hawking ideals. Price tags and reputation‑chasing alike are sad symptoms of the human soul reduced to measurable value. When people starve, teetering on the edge of death, any means of survival become understandable. Survival is biological instinct; robbery and violence fall within that spectrum. Between life and death, civilisation may persist, yet on the brink of annihilation, everything loses weight — including hypocrisy.
Yet survival instincts harden into habit. Society builds a powerful collective inertia around unscrupulous conduct. Long after people escape mortal peril, fame‑seeking and profit‑chasing may become the highest diversion to fill empty lives, pursued at any cost. That is deeply tragic. Fortunately, Yan Wen‑liang’s own paintings embody rigorous artistic convictions and the mark of his era. I can bring myself to understand: that ostentatious building may once have persuaded wealthy patrons to fund the Suzhou Fine‑Arts School. Still, Yan’s artistic vision and mission to popularise art remained largely untainted by worldly materialism. Hence his canvases so faithfully convey his ideals and genuine artistic spirit. That older generation sets a telling example for today’s opportunists when it comes to art and commerce. Only upon leaving the main hall did I spot small, inconspicuous print: All exhibits in this venue are high‑fidelity reproductions, printed outputs from printers. I cannot help but feel indignant. Showing printed reproductions inside an art museum seems a peculiar phenomenon particular to China. Few would dispute that we too often fail to honour ancient culture and art, especially for people of my generation. We grew up hearing slogans of smashing the old world to build a new one. Further back, every new dynasty rose amid the charred ruins of the last. Do not tell me originals are kept away for cultural‑relic conservation. That supposed protection scarcely exists in cultural‑historical practice. Far more often, no one is willing to take responsibility for public aesthetic education. Artifacts may rot in storage vaults or vanish through theft, yet they cannot be displayed to enrich public cultural life — for no one wants to bear extra accountability. Another possibility lingers: China spans thousands of years, and countless cultural treasures have been lost or destroyed over time. I recall my exchange with a security guard. Me: “Everything on show is reproductions. Where are the originals? Why are they not displayed?” Guard: “Some are stored in basement vaults under constant temperature and humidity. Most have already been lost or damaged. Even if we brought them out, there would be no proper exhibition.” That speaks volumes about our historical attitude toward cultural heritage. My thoughts turned to Jean‑François Millet’s studio at the Barbizon site, open free to visitors. No original Millet paintings hang there. Instead, small black‑and‑white photocopies line the walls, annotated with dates and anecdotes, together with clear notes stating which museum across the world holds each original work. It radiates quiet cultural confidence. I glanced again at the ornate gilded frames enclosing high‑fidelity facsimiles. Technically the reproductions are impressively convincing. Had I not read that tiny wall notice, I would have believed I was standing before authentic works. Stepping outside past the Roman columns, I tapped one pillar with my palm. Across the river, Teacher Han appeared, shouting: “Fakes! All of them, so terribly fake!”
I waited in sunlight for him to finish his tour. A dozen minutes later he emerged still muttering: “Even the artworks are reproductions, all fake. And these Roman columns — utterly fake.” “Enough. Time presses. Let us go listen to Kunqu opera.”
A Suzhou night feels incomplete without rain, and as expected, rain fell this evening. Standing at the centre of the highest bridge in Shantang Street, the light drizzle soaked clothing within two minutes. Street‑lights shimmered across the water. Small boats drifted to and fro among bustling crowds. Though barely seven o’clock, night had fallen. Lamplight dyed overhead clouds crimson; raindrops poured down through cloud‑rifts. Granite bridge surfaces glistened, reflecting the glitter of nightlife. It was a classic vision of Jiangnan water‑town charm.
The sound of traditional instruments mingled with the aroma of fresh seafood. For a moment I pushed the memory of fake museum reproductions aside. Yan Wen‑liang once painted a night‑scene of Suzhou from the 1930s, and tonight that scene felt re‑enacted. Neon flickered rhythmically; stars and storm‑clouds glowed warm‑red. Wet pavements reflected boats and old‑style vehicles. One difference remained: Yan’s canvas shows almost no people, whereas Shantang Street throngs with visitors today. Kunqu opera soon transported me back to sparsely populated ancient times. The crisp san‑xian lute and reserved pipa accompany tales of smitten heroines and indifferent lovers. Beneath spring rain, night‑time Suzhou simply is.
