Li Xianting: In Conversation with the Hooligan
16th October, 2024
In June 2024, a group of students and academics from the University of Western Australia bursting with energy, stepped into the house of Li Xianting. His calm demeanour brought them some peace as his insights into the more esoteric nature of Chinese contemporary art which engrossed their minds. The following is a transcript of the conversation- part interview and part speech- conducted by Li Xianting (LX), Darren Jorgensen (DJ) and Kye Fisher (KF).
Li Xianting leading students around his memories in the art world. Photo by Tami Xiang, 2024.
LX- With the end of the Cultural Revolution came openness. China opened its doors to the Western world, and that became the starting point for all contemporary Chinese art. For our generation, who grew up during the Mao era, we were told things like, 'Two-thirds of the world is still living in suffering, and we are the happiest, and we need to work hard to save the others.' However when the Cultural Revolution ended in the late 1970s, in 1976, and Opening and Reform began around 1978 or 1979, we realized that we were actually the poorest and most backwards people. In truth, our souls were hurt, we were deceived, and our spirits were damaged. This feeling resonated across all the arts—visual art, film, theatre, literature—expressing the same sentiment: the trauma of our generation’s souls, the trauma of having been deceived.
So at that time, there were some artists who wanted to express the inner wounds they felt. However, the methods they used were still the ones imported from the Soviet Union. These methods were originally used to glorify socialist society [Soviet Socialist Realism], but instead they used that same artistic framework to reflect the poverty and the backwardness of the country, and to celebrate the ordinary people. They particularly emphasized two slogans: one was the emphasis on humanity, and the other was the emphasis on truth.
On the other hand, previously, many artists started to introduce information about Western modernism. For example, through art books, some foreign teachers brought back these books. Additionally, in the 1930s and 1940s, there were Chinese students who went to France, Japan, and the United States to study abroad. Besides Xu Beihong [徐悲鴻] who brought back classical techniques, there was also a group of artists who brought back modernism. This group of artists, around the late 1930s, during the outbreak of the War of Resistance against Japan, faced oppression from the Nationalist government, which adopted a repressive attitude toward modernist art. This effectively ended the modernist movement, but underground, many aspects continued to circulate. This dual influence—early modernist impact and its underground circulation—was like the Zen tradition of passing the lamp.
'passing the lamp' refers to how Zen Buddhism passed down its teachings in secrecy, from one generation to the next, symbolizing a light in the mind—like a guiding light of thoughts and classical ideas. This was one of the key threads—the spread of modernism during the early Republican period.
But after opening up in the early 1980s, there was exposure to the development of the West, and many foreign diplomats brought in some artworks. For example, at that time, there was the Beijing Art Exhibition, the Wuming Art Group (No Name Painting Society), and many young people came into contact with these diplomats. Through them, they were able to see many Western art traditions. This resulted in two tendencies of inspiration: one from the 1930s and the other from the 1980s. These two sources of information led young people to break away from the Soviet model and experiment with modernism, exploring aesthetics through modernist experiments.
But from the mid-1980s to the late 1980s [1985-1989], a completely different generation of artists emerged onto the scene. These were entirely different people. Unlike us, they weren’t as old and hadn’t experienced the same things we did, such as being sent to rural areas, the Cultural Revolution, or being Red Guards. They didn’t live through that period. However, during their time, there was a significant movement in China—a publishing boom. Many publishers were translating Western philosophy, literature, and psychology, and many of the books were even pirated. They hadn’t gone abroad like I did, but there were many pirated translations from Taiwan. This generation grew up reading a lot of Western modern philosophy and literature, and as a result, they became dissatisfied with the previous generation of artists. They hoped to express their own critique of Chinese culture through their art, wishing to use Western modernism and modern culture to save Chinese culture.
During the 1980s, everyone referred to it as the '85 New Wave,' and during this time, many artists emerged. If we look at the period from 1979 to 1989, within this decade, we can see a condensed evolution of 100 years of Western art history. You can trace back who influenced whom, and through their works, it's like revisiting 100 years of history in just 10 years. However, they also had their own creativity. For example, take Huang Yongping as an example. He took a very Dadaist approach: he put a book on Western art history and a book on Chinese art history into a washing machine and spun them for two minutes. The British art historian, Herbert Read, wrote a book called A Concise History of Modern Painting, which had an influence on China. It covers European modern art history. Huang Yongping (黄永砯) took this book and a book on Chinese art history, put them both in a washing machine, and spun them for two minutes.
This work, particularly, has a very personal touch. On one hand, it embraces a Dadaist approach; on the other hand, it reflects the collective psychological state of Chinese people over the last hundred years. From the late Qing dynasty's westernisation movement to the Republican era, there has been an ongoing introduction of Western ideas. During the Republic, it was called 'Western learning for practical use.' The idea was to use Western knowledge as a tool while retaining a Chinese mindset. This meant that while my heart remains Chinese, I use Western culture—such as foreign warships and cannons.
During the Republican era, some people began to question this mix of Chinese and Western ideas. Even into the 1990s, some scholars reintroduced the notion of 'Western knowledge for use.' But this time, it was reversed: using Western ideas but retaining Chinese culture at the core.
But for ordinary people, this cultural conflict manifests in everyday life, such as when one gets a cold. If I have a cold, I might go to the hospital for an IV drip (Western medicine), but at the same time, I'll still drink Banlangen (Chinese herbal medicine). There's always a tension, a conflict in the heart. The question of whether to use Chinese or Western medicine becomes a cultural dilemma that extends into daily life.
Huang Yongping’s approach, in a playful and satirical manner, has a Zen-like quality. It's reminiscent of the Zen master who, when asked, 'what is Zen?' responded by pointing to dung outside or delivering a blow to the questioner. It’s something that cannot be answered, only experienced. In a similar way, Huang’s work addresses the issue of Chinese people entangled in the question of East versus West. It’s a clever, witty piece, resolving this cultural conflict through Zen wisdom. His work draws on the influence of Western Dadaism, but it also deeply engages with the Chinese reality and the psychological state of its people.
The concept is 'Chinese essence, Western utility.' In this case, Western culture serves as the care foundation, while Chinese culture is applied externally. This is the reverse of the Self-Strengthening Movement's 'Chinese essence, Western utility' idea, where Chinese culture was the core and Western culture was used for practical purposes. Here, it is flipped—Western culture forms the inner core, and Chinese culture is employed for its practical application.
I've seen Huang Yongping write extensively about his insights into Zen Buddhism. His approach is, 'I can solve this issue in the easiest way possible, and that’s enough.' His solution is almost like a joke, addressing the long-standing knot and conflict that Chinese people have had over the East-West question. He is saying, humorously, that it can be solved by simply tossing it in the washing machine for a quick spin. Essentially, he's not really solving the problem, he's addressing it in a very playful, non-confrontational way.
1989 was a very significant turning point after the decade of the 1980s. In February of that year, an exhibition was held at the National Art Museum of China, featuring all the important artists from the 1980s. This exhibition included hundreds of people, but two hours after the exhibition opened, a shooting incident occurred — the Xiao Lu [肖鲁] and Tang Song [唐宋] shooting incident. Following this, the exhibition was shut down and never reopened. After that, there was a period of strict control. Then in June of 1989, the Tiananmen Incident occurred. These two events have a kind of symbolic meaning. The Modern Art Exhibition at the National Art Museum of China, which reflected the efforts of Chinese artists throughout the 1980s to use Western modernism to save Chinese culture, ended in the closure of the exhibition and a shooting incident. Then, in June 1989, the student movement was also seeking to replace China’s autocratic politics with Western democratic politics, but the outcome for them was even more tragic than for the artists.
Artists began to realise that such openness could not last. They understood earlier that this idealism — the hope of using Western modernism to save Chinese culture, or the hope that we could immediately embark on a path of modernization and follow the Western model — was met with resistance.
After 1989, the entire intellectual community fell into a state of silence. On one hand, this was due to the high-pressure policies, and on the other hand, it was because of an internal disillusionment. The idealism of the 1980s, the hope that Western modernism could save China, was completely shattered. People were uncertain about the future, and the intellectual sphere was in a state of profound confusion and disorientation.
Nevertheless, a new group of young people emerged, those born in the 1960s. These young people started entering my classrooms, and their attitude towards life and their approach to art had a significant impact on me. They generally adopted a tone of mockery and self-deprecation to address the issues they faced, and I found myself influenced by their attitude. They confronted life directly, acknowledging that life was tedious, and they themselves were bored, constantly expressing this sense of monotony. They painted while mocking themselves. This group of people appeared, and through their approach of sarcasm and self-mockery, I was able to work through my own psychological shadows.
Later, in 1993, I became actively involved in several exhibitions: the 'China Avant-Garde Art' in Germany, 'Post-89' in Hong Kong, 'Mao Goes Pop' in Australia, and the Venice Biennale's 'Heading East' section. By then, I had already been dismissed from my official position. I participated in all four of these exhibitions, and I curated both the 'Post-89' exhibition in Hong Kong and 'Mao Goes Pop' in Australia.
The group from the pre-1960s generation used sarcasm and mockery of the world and themselves to express their feelings. I coined a term for this; ’Cynical Realism.' On the other hand, there was a movement called 'Political Pop,' where they used discarded materials and juxtaposed symbols of Chinese ideology, particularly extreme ideology, alongside highly commercial symbols, creating an interesting interplay.
A kind of strange humour emerged from this relationship. Later, I wrote an article about this for an Australian publication called Art News. I discussed 'political pop' and later realised that similar works appeared in countries like Eastern Europe, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and the former Soviet Union. All of these countries produced art reminiscent of 'Political Pop.'
In Hong Kong, I had also written an article that was seen by a scholar from Harvard University, who then came to China and invited me to give a lecture. In the article, I used many images of Mao Zedong. The scholar asked, 'Why are they still worshipping Mao?' I explained that it wasn’t about idolising Mao. Instead, they were portraying him in a different way.
Mao had moved from the altar to a different kind of representation—now his image could be hung on a car, like a commodity, or printed on a bottle. Mao’s image had been 'popified,' consumed by popular culture, and through this consumption, his divinity had been dissolved. This was the theme of the Australian exhibition, and the reason why I depicted Mao in this way.
DJ- What is the relationship between Cynical Realism, Political Pop and Humor?
LX- So what’s the connection, what type of relationship is there? He says, in the past, everything was very serious, with a realistic scene based on European models, including the Soviet model. There was a very conventional, classical approach with key figures and main characters. There were some basic rules rooted in classical realism. But when it comes to this group of artists, they paint themselves, they paint their friends, and they’re always with mischievous grins. Look at Fang Lijun [方力钧] over there, yawning on this side, painting trivial, meaningless moments from daily life, focusing on minor characters—figures that don’t take themselves seriously at all.
This is essentially a mockery of the past. Take Yue Minjun [岳敏君], for example, who paints himself always laughing exaggeratedly and generally depicting himself in a very odd way, but clearly portraying a sense of boredom. The entire mood could be described by a traditional word from the scholar-literati, ‘bo pi’ (peeling off skin). This term was used across different eras, such as in the Beijing court during the Southern and Northern Dynasties, in the Yuan Dynasty’s ‘xiao ling’ (a type of short poetry), and later by scholars in the Ming Dynasty who studied the Yuan's 'xiao ling.' The term 'bo pi' is also found in modern writers of the Republican period."
A whole group of writers from the Republic of China era particularly loved talking about this idea of ‘bo pi’ (peeling off the skin). It’s something that comes up under political oppression, when we don’t have the strength to resist directly, so we make jokes as a form of resistance. It’s similar to the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, one of whom, named Liu Ling [劉伶], who loved to drink. He didn’t respect proper etiquette and would spend his days drinking naked. When government officials confronted him, angry that he was not respecting etiquette, he responded saying, “I consider the whole universe my home and the heavens my clothing. Why are you coming into my house?” This was his way of rebelling against the rules of etiquette. He took the conceptual approach of 'bo pi’. In the end, I found contemporary art similar; it also leant towards an inner sarcasm.
In countries without freedom of speech, you can't openly resist or protest. This kind of ‘bo pi’ approach, this sarcastic method, becomes a way of resistance, and it’s almost the only form of opposition. Of course, some may choose to do what Peng Zhenzhou did, openly displaying slogans, but that ends with imprisonment. If you don’t want to end up in jail, you might look at China’s internet. If you understand the nuance, you’ll see a lot of sarcasm and satire, where different forms of dissenting opinions emerge.
Li Xianting and Annie Huang. Photo by Tami Xiang, 2024.
DJ- Are you able to speak more about ‘passing down the light’ from the early 20th century into contemporary art?
LX- The Jǐngdé Chuándēnglù' (景德传灯录 The Jingde Record of the Transmission of the Lamp) is a concept from Zen Buddhism. Long ago, there were two famous books in China, one of which was called Wǔ dēnghuì yuán ( 五燈會元 The Compendium of the Five Lamps). These books played an important role in documenting the transmission of Zen teachings through generations.
The story I am referring to is from Zen Buddhism. It’s about the transmission of the teachings from the Fifth Patriarch to the Sixth Patriarch, who is considered the true founder of Zen. The two famous books you mentioned, one of them being Wǔ dēnghuì yuán, contain many stories like this.
In this particular story, the Fifth Patriarch, Daman Hongren (弘忍) was a great Zen master who was preparing to pass on his robe and bowl, symbols of the leadership, to his successor. His disciple, Yuquan Shenxiu (玉泉神秀), was widely considered the most likely candidate. Shenxiu wrote a poem expressing his understanding of Zen, which said something like: 'The mind is like a bright mirror stand. Take care to wipe it diligently, so that no dust settles on it.'
Authors note - the verse that Li is referring to is §6 of the Platform Sutra and is recorded as follows:“The Body is the Bodhi Tree,/ The mind is like a clear mirror./ At all times we must strive to polish it,/ and must not let the dust collect.”
However, later that night, a seemingly insignificant person, Dajian Huineng (大鑒惠能), a lowly cook or sweeper with no formal education, also wrote a poem that caught the attention of the master. He wrote something like: 'The Bodhi is not like a mirror stand, nor is the mind a bright mirror.’ He essentially said that there is no mirror at all, so there is no dust to settle. He expressed the idea that if the mind is not regarded as a mirror, then it does not exist, and thus there is no dust to worry about.
Author’s note - the verse that Li is referring to here is §8 of the Platform Sutra and is recorded as follows:“Bodhi originally has no tree,/ The mirror also has no stand./ Buddha nature is always clean and pure;/ Where is there room for dust?”
Because there were many internal struggles, the master secretly passed on the robe and bowl to Huineng during the night, urging him to flee. He escaped south and established a new Zen sect there.
In the past, teachings like this were not always openly respected in every generation. In the Tang Dynasty, for example, there were two major suppressions of Buddhism, and Buddhist teachings were passed down in secret, almost like an underground tradition. This was known as the transmission of the flame where thoughts and scriptures were passed down in secret.
To add a side note, recently there was an exhibition in Kyoto, Japan, at the Kyoto Museum, displaying the calligraphy of Kūkai (空海), who studied in China during the Tang Dynasty as part of a delegation. At that time, there was a sect of esoteric Buddhism known as Mizong (密宗), and the master in China entrusted all the esoteric scriptures to Kūkai, instructing him to flee China. Consequently, Mizong disappeared from mainland China and was brought to Japan by Kūkai. The exhibition currently at the Kyoto Museum showcases the scriptures passed to Kūkai and his influence on Japanese Buddhism. This transmission process was quite complex and often conducted in secrecy, partly due to political pressures.
The overall meaning here is to convey that from the 1930s through to the 1970s, China was a country isolated within the socialist bloc, cut off from the rest of the world. During this time, there was a strong demand that art serve politics and follow the principles of socialist realism. Art was meant to serve the state. However, even in such a tightly controlled environment, modernism was still being spread underground. There was still a demand for artistic freedom — art that didn’t serve politics but instead allowed for personal freedom. This was being passed around discreetly.
What I mean is, this wasn’t something that could be openly discussed. Even today, in art academies, we are still teaching that old Soviet system. But most young people now don’t follow it anymore. Many artists, once they graduate, move towards contemporary art, but this is something that isn’t taught in schools. In fact, much of it is self-taught or picked up from external resources and influences.
From the 1950s through to the 1970s, even though we were all under the influence of mainstream culture, which was dominant at the time, there was still a pursuit of personal freedom and artistic freedom, much like the way Zen Buddhism's teachings were passed down in secret. This wasn’t something spread through formal education or officially endorsed. Instead, it was more like the transmission of a flame in Zen—quietly and persistently passed down from one person to the next.
Over the past 20 years, things have improved somewhat; it's not as tightly controlled as it used to be. Now, some schools have even established departments for video art and experimental art. However, for works that are considered too problematic, there can still be controversy. Just a few days ago, a girl from the Central Academy of Fine Arts did a graduation project using broken cardboard boxes stacked together. She was heavily criticised, and the girl eventually came out to apologise. I saw the work, and I actually thought it was pretty good. These days, we receive deliveries every day, and there are cardboard boxes everywhere. Her work really reflected the blind consumption of our era, and the waste that comes with it. I thought her piece was quite meaningful, but she ended up facing so much backlash that she had to apologise.
DJ- Where do you think the differences lay between the Chinese and the Western avant-garde? In the west it was attempting to be more internationalist while in China, it seems to play on specifically Chinese characteristics.
LX - In the 1990s, many people, including journalists, often asked me this question: 'Why do we need to say Chinese contemporary art, while in other countries, they just say contemporary art, without specifying American, French, or Australian?' At the time, I explained that China had always been closed off, isolated from the Western world, and when the doors suddenly opened, it was as if a previously unnoticed place in the West suddenly erupted like a volcano. Suddenly, there was a burst of attention, and people began to see that while Chinese contemporary art was heavily influenced by Western art, there were many other factors at play as well. These factors were closely tied to the unique social and psychological conditions within Chinese society.
This is the key difference. European art follows a very clear trajectory, and even though there are influences from elsewhere, they are all within the logic of European culture. But during the 1990s, there were a few key exhibitions. One was in 1989, at the Centre Pompidou, where they held an exhibition called 'Magiciens de la Terre' [Magicians of the Earth]. Another significant event was the Venice Biennale, which hosted a section titled 'Aperto' that focused on Eastern perspectives. They invited Nam June Paik [백남준], Yoko Ono, and 14 Chinese artists. Europe, with its own cultural logic, realised it also needed to expand its horizons and open its doors.
Especially in this year's Venice Biennale [2024], which I attended after not having been to Venice for 31 years, the theme was 'Foreigners Everywhere.' It explored the idea that 'outsiders' or 'foreigners' are everywhere, and they are omnipresent. For example, they invited a Brazilian curator who is openly gay [Adriano Pedrosa]. The exhibition's focus was on subjects that were previously not included in the narrative of European or Western art history, such as homosexuality and foreign art.
There was also the element of nationalism. In this year’s Venice Biennale, two female artists won the Golden Lion Award — one is Turkish and lives in Paris [Nil Yalter], and the other is Italian but lives in Brazil [Anna Maria Maiolino]. Both of these artists have explored themes of identity, blending their cultural backgrounds and engaging in a dialogue between global and local cultures. This broadens the scope of the exhibition significantly.
I remember back in the 1980s, around 1986 or 1987, I gave a lecture in Taiwan where I said, “'We are making spring rolls for the Western buffet.”' At that time, exhibitions curated by Westerners who travelled to different countries to select artists followed their own logic and standards. I first travelled abroad to Australia, where I only stayed for a week, and then went on to Italy. In Italy, I noticed that all the Chinese restaurants were selling spring rolls. The locals associated Chinese food entirely with spring rolls, which was quite jarring for me. It made me reflect on how, to the Western eye, Chinese cuisine was reduced to something as simple as a spring roll. This raised the question: if we participate in the Venice Biennale, are we just offering spring rolls? Are we creating art that fits into this simplified, preconceived idea of Chinese culture? I brought this up during the exhibition, and the curators from Europe took note of it.
Western countries are also breaking away from this established pattern, extending their own artistic logic. For example, I recall a British art historian Herbert Read. In one of his books, A Concise History of Modern Painting, he discussed European art from the late 19th century all the way to the 1950s. He didn’t touch on movements like Abstract Expressionism, and his coverage stopped before those developments. In the concluding chapter, he mentioned something that struck me. He said that while he had written this book based on his own understanding of the trajectory of European and American art, he realised that this logic did not encompass everything. For instance, he couldn't adequately address movements like the Mexican Muralist movement. He acknowledged that the mural movement had significant modernist qualities, but it didn’t fit within the framework of his narrative. He found this to be a regret.
What this shows is that art history and criticism have their own rules and value systems, initially established by Western thinkers. However, over time, even Western scholars recognized the need to expand these frameworks. For example, the first time artists from China were invited to exhibit at the Pompidou Centre’s exhibition 'Magiciens de la Terre,' they also invited several African and Indian artists. This marked a shift in the traditional Western art world, expanding its horizons to include voices from other regions.
This exhibition was part of the effort to expand the horizon of what is included in art beyond the traditional Western art history and value system. They were really opening the doors to new perspectives. I’ve always had the view that the period of European art history, from the Renaissance through to the 18th century, was built on specific developments like perspective, anatomy, and colour theory. This allowed them to create the illusion of a three-dimensional space on a flat canvas, making it appear highly realistic. This particular approach has had a profound influence on the world, especially in the East, including China. But in the grand scope of art history, it is actually a very specific period. It shouldn’t be the standard by which all art is judged.
In fact, I believe that even the modernist movement—beyond its philosophical underpinnings, industrial and social revolutions, and the philosophical revolutions that laid the groundwork for modernism—was also about European people first opening their doors to the rest of the world. They realised that not all art around the world was made in the same way.
Li Xianting and the students and scholars who conducted this interview. Photo by Tami Xiang, 2024.
KF- How do you perceive your role in the art world as a critic? Is it as a guide, leader or otherwise. And how did you act in that capacity in the art world?
LX- At that time in China, there were very few publications, unlike in the free world where people could freely express their opinions. The magazine I worked for was affiliated with the highest government body in the art association, so what I recommended had an impact on the art world. Back then, I was very young. When new art began to emerge, I had a background in painting, but later I became an art critic and started writing articles. This was because all the senior editors were opposed to the new art, and I had to fight to defend it. That’s how I began writing articles. I started as an editor and later became a critic.
At that time, I had a very specific idea in mind: how could I use this magazine to break down the artistic concepts established by Mao Zedong? That was something I was gradually working towards, with every article I wrote for the magazine. It was a difficult process. Later, I compiled my writings into a collection, and in it, I wrote an essay titled 'The Importance Is Not the Art.' This was because when people were looking at the same piece of artwork, their opinions differed greatly, sometimes even to the point of direct opposition. At that moment, I realised that the important thing wasn’t the artwork itself, but rather the attitude and value standards by which one judged the art. China was then transitioning from old values to new ones, and it was necessary for us to create a new way of viewing art, with new standards. I worked on that, but by 1983, I was dismissed.
In the mid-1980s, I was transferred again, this time to work on China Art News as an editor for a period. Then, in the late 90s, I was dismissed once more. During this time, as an editor, I tried my best to commission articles, but my approach to editing the newspaper had a specific focus: I always aimed to find a topic that could spark debate, a focal point that would encourage discussion among the readers. Sometimes, when I couldn’t find the right article or writer, I would write the piece myself. However, all of my articles were written from a specific point of view, and I made sure that the perspective I presented was my own. My goal was to provoke debate around key issues that people cared about, to encourage open discussion. That was always my intention as an editor. However, in the 90s, I was dismissed again. After that, my career shifted, and I became a curator.
I established this art district, and then built the villa museum, along with several other spaces. After that, a group from the Rockefeller board of directors—some elderly men and women—came over to visit. They asked me, 'What is your role now? How do you define your role?' I responded, 'I am a social practitioner.'"
Translated by Tami Xiang, transcribed by Kye Fisher
Bibliography
Huineng. 1969. The Platform Sutra of The Sixth Patriarch. Translated by Philip B. Yampolsky. New York: Columbia University Press.