The following texts were originally published in the 2007-08 Insider’s Guide to Beijing. They have been expanded below, and include content that is “not permitted” to be published within China.    

With such a noticeably short history, the question of from where the Chinese avant-garde emerged is gaining more interest, especially with new developments and tourist-ready accessibility of Beijing’s art zones such as 798, Caochangdi and the Liquor Factory. In a steamy arts climate, social change, economic reform and policy are intertwined with art history, and are  equally intertwined to the development of the avant-garde.  
The long, potholed road to “success” seems to have paid off for some members of the avant garde, the incredible sums they now collect at auction seem almost like compensation for previous eating of the proverbial “bitterness” and years of marginalization and exclusion from both city limits and institutional art systems. An art world that was once “underground” has been exhumed and now features newly paved roads cappuccinos to go, and a firm position in the popular media. The shape of the new artistic vanguard––like everything in modern China––is changing, and at a racecar pace. Keeping the recent 20 years in mind as a foundation, where it will lead to, we can only guess, reminding ourselves that the “art districts” of today were simply unthinkable 15 years ago.

1979-1984 Shaking the Reigns

Even after the bans on individualistic perspectives or themes had been lifted, the political themes of the Cultural Revolution had still not completely disappeared. Realism reigned on the canvas, though there was a tangible rejection and knee-jerk reaction to the practice of socialist-realist art from the extreme left. Emotionally charged, personal subjects were creeping back into the artistic and literary milieu with “Scar Art” (伤痕艺术 shanghen yishu), perhaps today best represented by the almost confrontational oil painting “Father” 父亲. Completed in 1979 by Luo Zhongli 罗中立, “Father” featured an intimate frontal view of this sweat-dripping, sun-withered peasant’s face executed in exceptional photo-realism. Abstract forms, nudity and personal themes, although not forbidden, were still taboo in the mainstream.
Representing the struggle that many Chinese artists still debate, artist Wu Guanzhong 吴关中emerged at the forefront of a continuing movement of traditionally trained painters who struggled to integrate Western expressionist aesthetics with Chinese mediums such as ink and wash. Amidst a politically relaxed, emotionally charged atmosphere the group of radicals know as the Stars 星星 (the notorious Ai Weiwei 艾未未 among them) was busy acting on their bottled-up experimental impulses that were uncorked in a backlash to years of a silenced avant garde. In the autumn of 1979, the Stars reveled in a renegade exhibition on the fence outside of the National Art Gallery before the police removed them merely hours later. They were just one of many young intellectual-artistic-creative collectives that were spontaneously forming around the nation. 1985-1989The inexorable force of youthAgitated young artists began becoming dissatisfied with over-simplified art channels, which they felt were not conducive to the multifaceted direction that art was progressing in. A proliferation of artists’ groups, the Stars, the No Name Group, the April Photographic Society, and Xiamen Dada, among others sprang up around the nation as an alternative to “official” channels, and an explosion of publications ensued. Painters rejected the status quo of realism and began experimenting, playing with and paying homage to Western masters. Some historians consider these to be baby steps towards developing a language that belonged to Chinese artists exclusively. They ached to reach a level of communication that was international while still struggling to make amends with the cultural turmoil they had recently emerged from.

“Alternative” art forms leapt directly into post-modernism; Xu Bing created his landmark installation work “Heaven Book” 《天书》. This profusion of invented characters were installed atatat the National Museum of Art in 1988, their shape and form hinted at some ancient secret or mystical prescription, but their irony was that they could never be explained ––all these “characters” were made-up, nonsensical. The Herculean effort the execution of the work required, and its subsequent meaninglessness sparked a heated debate in the arts community at the time, eventually this work moved overseas, and Xu Bing succeeded as becoming one of the most recognizable artists in the Chinese art world. Meanwhile, traditional ink artists experimented with abstract forms but seldom exhibited or received critical attention. Brush and ink seemed only to bring disappointment to those craving new expressions of the avantgarde. This challenge of translating the traditional medium into modernity continues to perplex artists.

Such fertile intellectual soil received its watershed moment in 1989: approval to hold a long-awaited exhibition of the nation’s emerging artists finally came with the exhibition “China Avantgarde.” This exhibition promised to reflect the current trends and explorations in art around the entire nation – artists were brimming with excitement at the prospect of official acknowledgement and a more legitimate platform for debate. Unfortunately, and some say predictably, the exhibition was closed twice in less than two weeks: first when  artist Xiao Lu fired two pistol shots into the piece “Dialogue” (a creation of both her and then partner Tang Song) The work featured life-sized photographs of a man and a woman talking on the phone within two phone booths placed one meter apart, with a glass mirror and a telephone on a pedestal in between. The artist had fired her pistol into the mirror, hoping for a long splitting crack, but the only results were two round holes and the arrival of the police, who promptly shut down the show. The second interruption occurred only a few days later when a bomb threat was phoned in. Artist hopes for public recognition were shattered along with the mirror. 

1990-1999 Avantgarde reflux
The “China Avantgarde” incident in 1989 was followed shortly by other unsettling political developments that sent ripples through the community, namely the Tian 2an 2men Incident. These events, although not directly linked to the avantgarde community triggering a decline of artistic progression. In the two years immediately following, artists paused to collect their thoughts, owing in part to fierce government criticism of capitalist classes as well as their own desire to iron out issues central to the emerging Chinese avant-garde. Perhaps fitting for such a confused and unpredictable atmosphere––where intellectual debate should have existed in public form, there was instead a deafening silence in exhibition halls, and the forum for debate shifted to the popular print media. A series of critical articles by critics, scholars, and artists alike fell just under the official radar.
In 1992, Deng Xiaoping solidified the course of economic reform during his “Southern Tour” in which he visited several “special economic zones.” After this, the pace of change quickened. Suddenly, it was apparent that there was to be no going back, and this rocked all levels of society; there was great debate over spiritual loss and art turned to sociological themes, an interest in reality and the “true” state of existence. The artists of this age were unmatched in their social concern and quest to make art more relevant to a mainstream audience. The most obvious difference was a change in focus from Western art to the essential problems of art. Art in China had acquired a new social-historical meaning, and its function as a societal mediator was stressed. Therefore, a return to realism was natural, not to the realism of the Cultural Revolution, but as a necessary tool to interpret the new modern age.
The early ‘90s were significant for opening the avant-garde’s dialogue with the world and entry into the international art circuit. 1992 saw Lü Shengzhong, Li Shan, Cai Guoqiang, and others at Kassel Documenta; in 1993 Yu Hong, Fang Lijun, and Geng Jianyi participated in the 45th Venice Biennale and again at the 1994 Sao Paolo Biennale. Many Chinese critics accused artists who worked in “Western” styles or utilizing Western symbols of pandering to foreigners. Indeed, foreign buyers and overseas encouragement had no small influence, but many critics overstate the importance to artists of foreign influence. While Western contemporary art was a visual and ideological resource for Chinese artists, the unprecedented speed of economic and social development and notion “catching up” with the West was prominent in all sectors of society.
Artist communities began to form across the nation, experimenting with performance, video and installation. In Beijing’s distant northwest corner, an artists’ commune born in the late ‘80s and known as “Yuanmingyuan Village” was in full throttle. “Vagrants” from across the nation migrated here to steep in the creative atmosphere and partake of the anti-establishment lifestyle that was Yuanmingyuan.  Many important names emerged, including graffiti-man Zhang Dali, Yang Shaobin and Zhang Xiaogang. By the mid-90s the group had caught the attention of various national and overseas media. Upon its demolition due to expanding city development, artists scattered to other areas including the East Village, Song Zhuang and Huajiadi.
Many practicing artists realized that Western contemporary art was not merely the product of Western culture and history, but had a monopoly on universal forms and aesthetics. Ironically, there was also a sense that Western art had reached a plateau – to copy it entirely would bring no triumph for Chinese artists. They searched for a way to participate in a globalized art world while maintaining a foothold in native cultural traditions and working in a realistic, contemporary context. Attempts were manifold. In 1994, under the direction of eminent curator Feng Boyi, the “Black Skin Book” (黑皮书 heipi shu) was published. It recording the most important avant-garde artists of the era and included significant artist that influenced this generation. The book is essential reading for understanding the art of this time.
Oil painting was more mature and had greater influence than other forms. Paintings now avoided experimental forms and modernist indicators but stressed the role of the individual within society, blended art with everyday experience, and began to borrow more from popular culture and reflect experiences of the masses. Personal narratives and individuality were key topics. Soviet-style Realism 苏联式写实主义, once fundamental to academic training, evolved into new forms through which artists expressed their personal experiences and began to criticize their perceived “reality.”
Artists mastered techniques and ideology to create works in homage to Western styles, such as Pop Art – the result was Political Pop 政治泼普, associated with Wang Guangyi. Cynical Realism 玩世写实主义 emerged with its dark, alternative reality, evidenced in the works of Fang Lijun and Yue Minjun. Liu Xiaodong led a similar group of artists dubbed New Generation Painting 新时代绘画, whose works were subtle reflections and representations of the changing social strata.

Performance 表演艺术 or Behavior Art 行为艺术 in the ‘90s was rampant and distinguished itself as the most uniquely Chinese art form. While the avant garde was confined to underground, individuals’ homes became the exhibition space and friends became the audience in a void of commercial spaces or serious collectors. Fondly dubbed “apartment art,” 公寓艺术 the unexpected product of art academy graduates became the vibrant alternative to the official art channels. Not only was “Behavior Art” snubbed by institutional exhibition spaces, it was also never widely accepted by critics, and many viewed Performance and Behavior Art as a cheap road to fame or an excuse for nudity and violence. No matter how you looked at it, it was impossible to use traditional modes of appreciation to understand the Performance Art that emerged during the ‘90s. These artists were brave, markedly direct and proactive communicators. Behavior Art sparked endless debate and its fair share of police intervention. Examples include Ma Liuming and his transsexual persona, or Zhang Huan’s tenacious sit-in at the foulest public toilet of the East Village artist commune. These notorious acts of self-determination and stamina were perhaps the most effective in catching the eyes of the international world. In contrast to overwhelming local disinterest, word spread overseas like wildfire.
Photography and Video Art occupied an important place in art since the rise of experimental video and photography in the mid-90s. Zhao Bandi, a gifted member of the “New Generation” painters, transitioned to conceptual photography. His anecdotal posed photographs with his stuffed panda became the first appearance of “advertising language” in art. Although purist photography remained, altered digital photography established a major presence in the photographic canon, with the word “photoshop” becoming a verb in artists’ circles. Conceptual artists the Gao Brothers began to move away from installation art to photography in both unaltered and “photoshopped” form, preferring it for its direct visual communication and ease of interpretation when portraying the human state in modern China.

With the historical marginalization of women in the arts, it is no surprise that a majority of the most prominent female artists show feminist inclinations. Exploring the female experience and point of view, artists borrowed from their own bodies and used symbols of womanhood embedded in Chinese culture. Works range from the subtle – as in Yu Hong’s personal perspective in oil paintings – to the extreme, such as Chen Lingyang’s close-up photographs of her twelve-month cycle, juxtaposed with flowers, fans and chinoiserie in a series of menagerie-like photographs. Cui Xiuwen’s “Washroom” hid video cameras in a washroom and captured women at their most candid. She later went on to make shockingly uncomfortable digitally altered photographs of women and young girls. 

2000-2007The factory of the avant garde 
Around 2000, artist studios concentrated in the 798 factory space began to draw tourists, and a corresponding boom in the international art market led to the “bubble” in the prices of contemporary art from China. The entire world, finally including the locals, took positive notice of China’s avant garde. Limits and boundaries were tested, and it seemed that officials were ready to let the market bloom unfettered. A flurry of new gallery openings and commercial art fairs followed.
A new, younger generation of artists such as Song Kun, Qiu Xiaofei and Cao Fei began to show in galleries for the first time. Their life experiences were obviously radically different from those of their elders. Single-child upbringings and consumer pleasures, not politically charged memories, have launched them into a globalized mind-frame. First branded as the Post 70s generation in the market madness that followed, they were followed quickly by a so-called Post 80s generation. The art of these two nearly indistinguishable generations is unified by the “logo-ification” of the contemporary age – be it pandas or big-eyed, big-headed Japanese-style cartoon characters, their work has left behind idealism for the heady new promise of capitalism. Many among these young artists have been spoiled by the “instantly rich” success that has recently befallen their avant-garde predecessors. Meanwhile, the creative cycle continues, perhaps on an internationally more equal ground, and poor artists experimenting in the avant-unknown have now moved to the even further boundaries of the city to cheap rents in Huilongguan, for example. As the vanguard stumbles forward, the former leaders of the avant garde are looking further ahead, obeying the inner thirst for a shiny Hummer MV’s by slapping off a few new paintings for the auction block, and the world watches on as the Chinese step up to the international art forum.

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