Let the world know about Jilin-City

A Travel Report

The first email arrived at the beginning of May: Congratulations. You have been selected to participate in the second art fair in Jilin, China. Please send a list of the works you wish to exhibit to Ms. Shu-Shu You and get in touch with her. Phone: 0091… Great, now they’re trying to scam artists by making them call some 0190 numbers! What do I even have to do with China? Delete!

Two weeks later, the same thing again. How did they even get my contact? And my gallerist certainly doesn’t plan to go to a fair in China… delete again.

By mid-June, I receive an email from the BBK (Federal Association of Visual Artists), informing me that I have been chosen to represent the Federal Republic of Germany at an exhibition of wooden sculptures in China at the end of August. All costs are covered by the People’s Republic… I can’t believe it! So, it’s not just internet spam after all. Who would have thought I’d ever go to China? I only know long-distance travel from well-off friends with the right careers.

Time is short, however. There’s no detailed information about the exhibition, except that I am expected to “complete” my newest work during the opening ceremony. Ah! I am supposed to take the works as “extra luggage” on the trip. Ten wooden sculptures in a suitcase. Great idea! In the following weeks, preparing for the trip becomes a veritable nightmare. By early August, it’s still unclear which works I will send to China and, above all, how they will get there. A professional art transport would cost 600 euros per shipment, exceeding the budget of the Chinese organizers. Sometimes I receive a vague confirmation for the outbound transport; other times, everything is uncertain again… In any case, I am told to buy my plane ticket… odd for a trip to which I am invited. Around me, warning voices increase: Are you sure you’ll get the money back? Are you sure the works will actually be returned? No! I’m not sure. All I’ve heard about China is that people there always say “yes,” even when they mean “no.”

All of August, I am in Hamburg completing several art-in-architecture projects in a hotel. My office is reduced to a computer at a friend’s place and my mobile phone, which I use from the construction site or on the street to try to organize transport, customs formalities, flights, accommodation, and simultaneously to get in touch with the Foreign Office – just in case. When even the travel date suddenly becomes unclear, I throw in the towel. Let someone else go to China! I certainly will not!

Finally, my mother intervenes in the organization. Within four days, she racks up a phone bill of 180 euros, but a week before departure, everything is actually settled. Almost everything. I only need to provide one tiny certificate (with an official stamp, of course) proving that the wooden crates in which I have packed my works are free of pests and have not been treated with pesticides… Whether the transport costs are covered is still unclear. So my parents pay that for the time being.

On August 31, I finally arrive in Beijing—and am amazed at the perfect organization there. Since I am unexpectedly on time, my connecting flight to Jilin City is simply pre-booked. This becomes a recurring experience throughout the trip: everything is decided at the last minute. And it works—thanks to the “connections” one must naturally have in China. The idea that something is impossible because it’s too late, certain formalities must be observed, or one can only reach someone four and a half days a week is entirely foreign to the Chinese. And, to anticipate: even the transport of the works is ultimately taken care of by the Chinese side—informally, of course; one learns to trust.

My destination, Jilin, is in the far north of China, in the province of the same name, roughly at the latitude of Vladivostok. The city has about three million inhabitants, so it’s rather a small city…

When the reception committee finally escorts me to my hotel, I begin to realize who I am here and what I am supposed to do. As a representative of the Federal Republic of Germany, I am, of course, accommodated in the city’s finest hotel. The marble entrance hall, the gilded ceiling, the suite—all the ostentatious luxury initially makes me uneasy, as I haven’t even packed a suit—well, as an artist…

That same evening, we head to the exhibition hall. On 10,000 square meters, 7,000 works from China are displayed—7,000 similar works. This is the fair: these works are for sale. In another hall, there is art from the rest of the world and from different periods: old carvings from Benin and Niger, South American masks, Russian lacquer bowls… Among this miscellany, my brightly painted works appear as UFOs from another world, yet their artistic character cannot fully emerge, as I also work with many craft references. Other personally invited artists come from Croatia, Russia, Peru, and Ecuador, although the last two live in China.

The next morning, 100 Chinese artists are already standing on a platform in front of the hall, with large flower arrangements in front and an empty chair in the middle. Photo op. Yes, the chair is indeed for the famous German artist. When I sit down, a thunderous applause rises behind me. What does this mean? Do they mean me? Later I learn that I should have stood and bowed… Applause is a usual form of greeting in China.
I am assured that all the artists want to “make friends” with me. That’s nice. Unfortunately, none of them speak English. So the friendship is limited to smiling into ever-changing cameras with ever-changing friends.

That evening, the other artists and especially the embassy delegations from Beijing arrive. As state guests, we drive through the city in a long convoy of black limousines, small flags on the cars, blue lights in front and back… other traffic naturally stops. It dawns on me: this exhibition is the cultural highlight of the year in Jilin. And: it’s actually about business contacts. I find it quite sympathetic to use culture as a hook… unfortunately, art becomes secondary, and no exchange with Chinese artists takes place or is even planned. Instead, we sit through long “conferences” where we are briefed on the modernity of the region, new semiconductor industries, and the latest growth figures. Then it’s off to another banquet with the mayor and more speeches. In between, there’s a quick sightseeing tour of the city’s main attractions: the largest wooden pavilion in China in the middle of a beautiful park (which can’t really be seen due to lack of time), the “Millennium Building”—the newest skyscraper, the Jilin meteorite… and someone is always standing behind you, clapping: “Hurry up…”

All of this is amusing if you look at it from the funny side. But really, I want to see the city and life – not always through tinted car windows! It makes me slightly aggressive. There isn’t even enough time to look at the exhibition in detail. The fair mainly shows works made from rootstocks and tree trunks that have been in water for a long time and eroded and smoothed by waves and sand. The Chinese have a great sense for bizarre natural forms, which are then reinterpreted figuratively. A curved branch becomes the body of a dragon, with added head, wings, and claws. The knobby roots of an azalea are combined with a gnarled tree trunk to form plum blossoms. This working method has a centuries-old tradition in China and continues to this day.

For a Westerner, the problem lies precisely in this continuation of tradition. Not only are you confronted with 7,000 very similar works – they are, at least in part, produced in workshops. Even though the artist can interpret a tree trunk as they wish, the individuality of the artist, which is so crucial for Western art, hardly matters. Notably, I am asked several times whether I designed my works myself. Traditionally, sculpture in China is considered craft. The Western idea of art is most closely paralleled in calligraphy.

I cannot determine what the Chinese side thinks of my works. Whether the difference in approach is even noticed is unclear. For the organizers, it seems more important that foreign works are present to ensure internationality. The endless interviews with radio and TV stations revolve around questions like: what do you think of the Chinese works (“do you think they are a gift of nature?”), how do you assess their place in world art, and how many wood sculptors are there in Germany… I answer that I find the exchange and stimulation among artists important, and I see that as the purpose of this event. My interviewers do not seem entirely satisfied – maybe they just don’t understand me. What matters to them is that I wave to the camera and greet the Chinese people.

Since no closer contact or exchange with Chinese artists—perhaps even a studio visit—is planned, I try to talk to them on my own during the opening. This is not difficult. Chinese people are generally very interested and open—honestly, they practically fight over you… if you’re lucky, you find someone who can speak rudimentary English and translate. But that only gets you so far: polite smiles and curiosity remain. When I finally start talking with the director of a workshop (?), an excited chauffeur suddenly appears and informs me that I have been sought the whole time and must urgently return to the hotel for the banquet. That’s how it is as a state guest.

Despite the best intentions, misunderstandings arise. Chinese cannot imagine that I find their city’s trash cans worth seeing—far more interesting than the latest skyscraper. They do not understand that their concept of art is completely different from mine, and that I would like more exchange… Even basic information about the history and production of the water-washed root sculptures is unavailable. This is not intentional—it’s just a different way of thinking: why would I want to know the process when I can see the finished works?

Thus, this invitation is marked by a discrepancy between the political-economic mission I’ve unexpectedly entered and the great opportunity represented by the high value placed on cultural exchange. For the Chinese side, the event’s success seems tied to fulfilling certain formal program points, aimed primarily at embassy representatives.

And this is just the beginning. Next year, the organizers plan to show 9,999 works—a lucky number in China! When I suggest showing fewer, but more focused works, the cultural department representative responds politely but without understanding. Finally, the emphatic closing message of all speeches: “Let the world know about Jilin City.” And more is indeed more in this world!

© Wolf v.Waldow, Oktober 2003