He Yunchang's Studio and Artist Villages in Beijing
1st December, 2019
In August of 2018 one of Ai Wei Wei’s Beijing based studios, ‘Zuo You’ was demolished by Chinese authorities without warning. The Bauhaus style factory which served as a car parts factory in a past life had loyally served the controversial artist since 2006. Ai’s artist assistants struggled to get all of the works outside, stating ‘they came and started knocking down the windows today without telling us beforehand’ (Rea, 2018). This threatening of unprovoked demolition is one of the countless challenges practicing contemporary Chinese artists are facing before the will of the authorities, resulting in an incredibly tense relationship between the arts and political sphere in contemporary China. This tension has existed ever since the rise of the socio-politically voiced avant-garde movement, a fundamental example being the site-specific work of the Star Group in the late 1970s, arising out of the sweeping economic and social reforms at the hand of the Deng Xiaoping administration during the late 1970s and early 1980s, and paving the way for the contemporary art scene to grow in China, with Beijing at its focus.
One of the major aspects of the community that was born of this era is the conception of artist communities known as art villages. These villages are largely urban areas, constructed from reappropriated industrial and factory districts established during the Cultural Revolution period under Mao Zedong, designed by East German architects. These villages serve quite an egalitarian purpose,providing artists both young and established a place to practice and live with relatively cheap rent, and a local culture of like-minded residents to immerse themselves in. These communities became a focus of attack by the Chinese authorities in the early 2000s as it began to tighten its grip on the arts community as a potentially subversive voice. Using the Beijing Urban Plan as a guise, these communities were threatened with demolition in favour of mass housing. These threats were adamantly protested in massive outcries from the contemporary arts community in Beijing, resulting in a deal of cooperation proposed by the government – artists may live and work within these communities without fear of relocation and demolition providing that they sufficiently contribute to Chinese economy and that their work is not critical of the Chinese Communist Party. In other words, an alternative form of bureaucratic censorship against the arts. This puts Chinese artists residing in these villages in a very unique and difficult position, as they are tasked with creating work that is ambiguous and nebulous if they wish be subversive. Some contemporary artists believe that art has no responsibility to be socially engaged or that art as a movement lacks the power for social reform or effect against social realities. ‘The idea of the Chinese art district is increasingly coming under the patronage of the Chinese government’, Christen Cornell writes her 2011 article, ‘Chinese Characteristics: Beijing’s Contemporary Art Districts’, referring to the government’s attempted control of their potentially troublesome inhabitants. Government built districts, like the Shisanling district, are an attempt to imitate globally renowned districts like 798, Caochangdi and Song Zhuang – which are largely associated with authoritatively oppositional art – however, in Shisanling to exchange the culturally nurturing environment for budding artists, and cheap studio rent, for heavily monitored and controlled output at the will of the government. This kind of gentrification can be seen too in the present day 798 district, the famed cultural hot spot filled with Mao-era Bauhaus style factories and industrial warehouses. 798 is now, after coming under government protection as an official cultural precinct, under attack. The protection deal states that artists can stay and practice within these district, providing that their work toes the CCP’s party line and contribute to economic success. This has resulted in a quick and immense reformation of the 798 into a teeming tourist spot, and a Westernisation of the galleries and businesses that inhabited it. This is designed to provide a cosmopolitan image for Beijing, aiding the government’s obsession with their global image. These collusions present a difficult situation for these communities as the alternative could mean, and usually does mean, the threat of demolition at the hand of the authorities. There have been recent mass evictions and relocations in the Luomahu district (on July 10th, 2019), and on in the Huantie district (on the July 14th, 2019) (Rea, 2019). Authorities claimed to be cracking down on underground crime rings and social instability.
The Caochangdi district, a famed art district alongside 798, also fell victim to partial demolition in June 2018 with the forced relocation and demolition of the Beijing branch of the French Gallery De Sarthe, along with other galleries and businesses in the immediate surrounding area (Movius, 2018). Built in the late 1990s and partially developed by Ai Wei Wei, Caochangdi offered an alternative to the gentrification and commercialism of the 798 District. In 2010 it was announced by Chinese authorities that the district would suffer the fate of demolition which resulted in a year long campaign from residents, artists and galleries.This period of protest coincided with the detaining of Ai Wei Wei in 2011. A few weeks after his release the government announced its cultural protection of the district, however only high profile artists were allowed to continue practicing there, providing that their work remain within the guidelines of the cultural protection deal as mentioned previously.
He Yunchang’s studio pictured by Jessica Cottam in 2019.
He Yunchang is one of these high profile artists still living and working within the Caochangdi district today. He is largely a performance artist, having been trained in oil painting, who presents provocative performances with a focus on pushing of the physical limits of the body by subjecting himself to extremely long and painful exercises in self inflicted harm and physical resilience. He usually practices his performance work partially or completely nude in a relation to aspects of Daoist philosophy, particularly an account of an anonymous artist in the text Zhaungzi accredited to Zhaungzi (369 B.C – 286 B.C). The story describes an anonymous painter who ‘flouted social convention’ (Meiquin, 2014), and is popular among Chinese artists, as too are the fundamental ideas of free expression, individualism and nonconformity at the core of Daoism. When asked about the radical nature of his work in which He explains the benefits, nature of his work and the power of the practice and art as a force of reform:
You don’t need an audience, you don’t need a gallery, you don’t need an art critic, you can explain
your ideas in free expression. Performance can intervene with reality and give very strong critical ideas,
it bares the same power. Everyone is an artist, everyone can become an artist, and art can change life.
All Germans are philosophers. Truth can only be vindicated by facts. [Art is] Different from any other
way of changing human life, art can change people’s mind, however in our country its not as strong, it
takes time. (He, 2019)
His insistence on nudity in his performances also represents a regression to a natural state of being, a rejection of contemporary Chinese systems in the present. Allowing himself agency to express with his body, He creates a free individualism for himself and for his work, which could also be perceived as practicing a subversive dialogue. By working with a non-conventional medium, his body, He is subtly avoiding control, monitoring and censorship. Western assumptions about radical Chinese artists are that a contemporary and rather provocative Chinese artist must be in opposition to authority, but upon meeting He, inspecting his home and studio and engaging in a discussion with him, it seems more likely that He Yunchang is clever in his ambiguity, and cautious in his subversion. The only reference made to the political situation in the People’s Republic when talking about the piece One Metre Democracy (2010) arose when he said that ‘we have no democracy ourselves, the current situation is so bad’. ‘One Metre Democracy’ (2010) is one of He’s most notable works. Meticulously planned out, an audience conducted a democratic vote as to whether He , with the aid of a medical professional, be cut down the right side of his body from the clavicle to just below the knee. He revealed in an interview with University of Western Australia students that although the the majority ruled in favour of performing the piece, he would have vetoed otherwise.
Another notable work is Casting (2004), in which He cast his whole body inside block of setting cement, with just one hole for breathing. In the performance He stayed inside the cement for a total of twenty-four hours, describing the pain as excruciating as the cement set against his bare naked body. At the end of the twenty-four-hour period, participants from the audience were to chisel and hammer the cement away to break him free from his concrete prison. He’s work is also a testament to mental endurance and concentration, to withstand such long periods of time of most likely immense pain. He discusses attitudes and methods from Zen Buddhism as the catalyst for his cognitive strength during these periods of trying physical strain. The relation of two significant Chinese religious practices into He’s work could be perceived as another ambiguous critical tactic, although China’s recent crackdown on both these religions makes even these sources of He’s work political. Another common theme across He’s catalogue is the idea of ‘unproductiveness’ as Meiquin Wang writes. Presenting his body as the medium, against overwhelming or seemingly impenetrable or impossible forces such as cement, He makes work that is also a negation of work itself.
Photograph of He Yunchang’s studio by Jessica Cottam, 2019.
He’s studio, like his work, appears ambiguous but also humble. Located in Caochangdi, He’s space is massive but also ‘lived in’, with barely any wall left uncovered by art or sentimental items, including second-hand shop style furniture and countless trinkets and artefacts lining the many shelfs and cupboards. The documentation of his work spanned his career, not placed in with any particular order or purpose, and sat alongside old insignificant pieces and unfinished products. He shuffled around the room explaining each work briefly, in a humility that belies the assumption that art, and in particular his own art, can change the deeply integrated social, infrastructural and political issues in China.
Bibliography
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8. Excerpt from interview with He Yunchang, 2019.
9. The Guardian. (2019). Wife of detained Australian writer Yang Hengjun banned from leaving China. [online] Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2019/jul/08/wife-of-detained-australian-writer-yang-hengjun-banned-from-leaving-china [Accessed 28 Jul. 2019].
10. Kinsella, E. (2019). China Abruptly Evicts Galleries in a Beijing Arts District to Make Way for 'Immediate Demolition' | artnet News. [online] artnet News. Available at: https://news.artnet.com/art-world/galleries-china-caochangdi-evicted-1322069 [Accessed 25 Jul. 2019].
11. Shao, Y. (2015). Artist catalogue. Pg. 29. Accessed 27 July 2019.
Cover photograph of He Yunchang’s studio by Jessica Cottam, 2019.