Our friends at Beijing Today swing by now and then to introduce art and culture in the city.

Life is a complex, blending the normal and the absurd in often disorienting combinations. That mystery and confusion inspires Liu Yichao, a 25-year old artist whose paintings meld weird creatures and narratives to invite the viewer into an illogical but familiar place.

“Artists born in earlier generations often name ancient paintings as their favorites because these survived China’s cultural and social upheavals,” Liu says. “But speaking for myself, my art is inspired by childhood memories, personal experience and the way I see the world.”

Born in Huizhou, a humid costal city of Guangdong province, Liu spent most of his childhood catching fish and playing in the subtropical forests. Although he never studied art until middle school, his childhood experiences significantly shaped his artistic language.

In Drama, his ongoing series, Liu depicts a clown swimming in a lush broad-leaved forest. Created using different shades of green, the image gives a strong sense of freshness and freedom.

“I’m a nostalgic person, and many of my works are related to my experiences. My childhood environment lets me appreciate sea life. The freedom of marine fish is what I long for the most,” Liu says.

That nostalgia can also be found in Big Cat and His Toy, a 2013 painting. In the picture, Liu presents himself as a boy with a cat face who sits in front of a fish-shaped boat. Although the imagery appears surreal at first glance, closer examination conveys as sense of loneliness and isolation.

It’s nothing new for young artists to feel confused and anxious while groping for truth in society, but Liu does an impeccable job of translating this collective uncertainty into his own artistic language. His personal emotions shine through in each work.

In Sorrows (above), Liu depicts a love triangle between a skeleton, a mannequin and a clown. The clown’s face is so vivid that viewers can feel his disappointment and the pain of losing his lover. By contrast, Happiness shows a sweet mood in which a girl dances to the rhythm of a drum-headed musician. Although there are many weird elements in these works, Liu’s warm tones make the pictures unexpectedly reasonable.

That atmosphere has continued in Liu’s work since graduation. Since finishing his studies at the Central Academy of Fine Arts in 2013, his paintings have grown ever more anxious.

In Playing with Fires in 2014, Liu captures a scene of five cigarettes surrounding a burning bonfire in a quiet park. The anthropomorphized cigarettes have a curving appearance that leaves the viewer space to imagine.

“When I painted that picture, I had just graduated from school and was confused about the future. Then I started to smoke and thought the nicotine would help kill the pain. I was like a boy playing with fire to escape from the adult world,” he says.

As with many young artists, the pain Liu expresses through his work is a necessary step for growing up. But as an artist who regards art as an ideal, the only thing he can do is hang on and wait for change in a seemingly static state, just like the plants in his pictures.

“I appreciate the growing process of plants. They develop in a static state, which seems a bit like my personality,” Liu says.

“It’s hard to make a living as a young and unknown artist. But I still find satisfaction and pleasure every time I finish a new work. Staying optimistic and sticking to our dreams is essential.”

This post originally appeared in Beijing Today. It’s republished here with permission.

Our friends at Beijing Today swing by now and then to introduce art and culture in the city.

It’s hard to imagine that the Tibetan inspired art of Wang Yiguang is the work of a man who grew up on the North China Plain. But Tibet’s vigorous yaks, winding railways and cheerful girls have been the subject of Wang’s creations since he first set foot on the magical plateau in 2002.

Unlike his Tibet-obsessed peers who focus on the scenery of the Tanggula Mountains and highland prairies, Wang expresses his love for the plateau through super-realist images of flying animals and Tibetans living in a dreamy and harmonious environment.

“I believe in animism and have always tried to find an appropriate way to express it through the interaction between humans and nature,” Wang says. “But the way escaped me until I came to Tibet.”

Born in 1962 in Linyi, Shandong province, Wang grew up with two artistic brothers and started to paint in middle school. When the Cultural Revolution ended and education resumed in 1977, Wang sat China’s first college entrance exam and was admitted to a local art school. He was assigned to work as an art teacher in Shandong province in 1980.

“To be honest, the reason I chose art as my major was because I just wanted to stay in the city. But the more I painted, the more I became fascinated with the art,” Wang says. After graduating from the Central Academy of Fine Arts with a master’s degree in oil painting in 1988, Wang became a graphic designer at the China Railway Construction Corporation.

The majority of Wang’s earlier works were realist paintings that displayed the daily life of villagers prior to the 1990s. But slowly, his work began to morph into neo-realism that combined the power of reality and the romance of imagination. The shift became obvious after he participated in the construction of Qinghai-Tibet Railway in 1992.

In the Fragrance of Kelsang Flowers, Wang depicts a local girl opening her arms and flying into the sky over a sea of highland flowers. The view of the yak’s back makes it seem the carefree girl is sharing her happiness with the creature.

The combination of Tibetan girls and yaks appear in many of Wang’s other works such as After Rian, painted in 2004, and Silent Communication, painted in 2014. Wang is obsessed with the poetic comparison between the Tibetan girls and the yaks, creatures with powerful energy and life force.

“The first time I went to the Tibetan Plateau I fainted due to altitude sickness and oxygen deficiency. The only thing I could do during my first couple days was lie on the grass and gasp for air,” Wang says. “But local kids and yaks could play so freely and happily around me. They were like the Flying Apsaras of the Duhuang Frescoes. That physical reaction let me admire the power of life on the Tibetan Plateau.”

Construction workers on the Qinghai-Tibet Railway are also an important theme in Wang’s work. In Full Moon Over Tanggula, painted in 2005, Wang captures the conditions of railway workers at the foot of snowcapped mountains. The glow of sunset and dancing locals offer a warm and cheerful sense.

“The Qinghai-Tibet Railway, construction workers and daily life on the plateau are the ore of my art. Strong artistic language can only come from the combination of the right artistic approach and the ability to capture life’s details,” Wang says.

Check out more paintings over at Wang Yiguang’s gallery.

This post originally appeared in Beijing Today.

Our friends at Beijing Today swing by now and then to introduce art and culture in the city.

The consumption power of Chinese travelers once again grabbed headlines during the Spring Festival holiday. But instead of luxury watches or baby formulas, it’s Japanese toilet seats that have tourists going wild.

The seats, which provide sterilization, warm rinse and massage features, have become the top products on shopping lists, and many tourists are buying two or more seats as gifts for friends and relatives. The toilet seats are typically priced 2,000 yuan before tax.

“They are always out of stock. If we replenish our stock in the morning, everything will be sold out by the afternoon. The Chinese tourists buy everything in only a few hours,” said Li Wei, a saleswoman at an appliance shop in Tokyo’s Akihabara district.

“Every shop on the street was sold out of toilet seats during Spring Festival,” she said.

Apart from toilet seats, tourists also targeted Japanese miniature appliances and household articles such as hair dryers, vacuum cups, electric cookers and ceramic knives.

The gadget obsession has been growing since 2010.

“I think they are built better, and they look delicate and have more user-orientated features,” said a tourist who would only be identified by her surname Zhao.

Ironically, it’s exactly such products that helped Chinese manufacturers build their reputation for rock bottom prices the past two decades. That Chinese are suddenly shopping for the same products in Japan betrays a staggering crisis of faith.

Panic Shopping

Growing affluence and a willingness to spend have led much of the world to brand Chinese tourists as walking wallets.

Statistics from the Tourism Department of the State of California show the per capita consumption of Chinese tourists reached $2,932. Chinese tourists beat out Brazilians, the No. 2 shoppers, by more than $500 in 2012.

In 2013, Chinese tourists overtook the Indonesians as the biggest spenders in Singapore with per capita consumption of SG $1,136.

China’s increasingly wealthy buy whatever they want while abroad to satisfy their suppressed desires for material goods. However, their adoration of foreign products has become a controversy at home.

“It’s a national humiliation that China refuses to consume its own products,” said Wu Huifang, a Hong Kong judge who ruled on a case of baby formula smuggling on February 6.

Wu said public distrust for domestic products has somehow resulted in the formation of international smuggling rings for a baffling assortment of benign goods.

But it’s not entirely hard to understand given the country has been rocked by scandals that involved child-killing baby formulas and cancer-causing cooking oils.

Business insiders say China’s foreign appliances worship fills a different need.

“The demands of Chinese consumers are diversifying. They are no longer satisfied with low-cost and reliable products. They want novelty and durability,” said Zhang Qin, a business reporter for Beijing Youth Daily.

The rush for Japanese toilet seats reflects how domestic products have failed to keep the pace with consumer demands, Zhang said.

In the meantime, e-commerce and Internet access have strengthened consumers’ search for individualized and diverse products, said Ding Yang, an analyst at Tencent.

The Made-in-China Model

In front of increasingly mature and picky consumers, Chinese manufacturers have to accept that their advantages are disappearing as costs rise and innovation remains stagnant.

Data from the US-China Chamber of Commerce show that 61 percent of enterprises in China regarded rising labor costs as their most urgent challenge in 2015. Boston Consulting Group shared the view and said Chinese manufacturers will entirely lose their advantage within five years.

“The Made-in-China miracle depends on an incredible advantage in raw material costs, taxes and labor,” said Wu Xiaobo, a financial writer in Hangzhou. “But the steady erosion of all three is leaving Chinese manufacturers in a bad situation, and the low prices are decreasingly attractive to domestic shoppers.”

While Chinese manufacturers have been attempting to swap technology to catch up, that shortcut ignores their fundamental shortcomings in innovation and brand development, Wu said.

This is especially true for domestic appliance vendors.

Chinese small appliance firms like Haier and Midea have attempted to cooperate with Sanyo and Panasonic since the 1990s. Known for their outstanding imitative ability and low-price marketing, the domestic vendors quickly grabbed market share.

But the Japanese companies, realizing it was impossible to compete on price, focused instead on cultivating high-end clients and loyal users. The firms have also slowed the export of their core technologies to Chinese rivals and have suspended many of their China operations.

“China’s manufacturers can hardly copy American-style innovation that is focused on breaking new ground,” said Zhu Haibing, chief economist for JP Morgan in Greater China. “The more realistic path is for them to enhance efficiency and improve the quality of China’s existing manufacturing industry. Only in this way will the industry find its confidence and regain the trust of native residents.”

This post originally appeared in Beijing Today.

Our friends at Beijing Today swing by now and then to introduce art and culture in the city.

Few things can poison an artist’s development quite like early fame. And when fame comes knocking, it takes a lot to cast it away and reboot one’s art career in an unfamiliar world. Illustrator Lisk Feng made that tough decision three years ago when she left her hometown behind to build her skills and begin a new career in the US.

Feng was born and grew up in Haining, Zhejiang province. Her mother, also an artist, encouraged Feng to study violin, clarinet and choir as a child.

“But I found illustration was my true love,” she says. “After passing the entrance exam for senior high, I started to play an online doodling game and found the fun of painting. I gave up my violin and online games to embrace art.”

A combination of natural talent and dedicated practice brought Feng to the attention of the art community, and she began to serialize her illustrations in teen magazines. She published Tong, her first album of paintings, while still a sophomore in 2011.

Known for her warm and sweet style and moving stories, Feng won loads of adolescent fans. In the following two years, she was busy with autographs sessions for her albums.

“People were already calling me an influential and successful illustrator, but that label really confused me,” Feng says. The approval and economic independence showed her what could succeed in China.

“But at the same time, I felt like a machine rather than an artist who poured her energy into creating better works,” she says.

For Feng, saying goodbye to her past “success” and starting an art journey in a new environment was the best way to grow. After graduating from China Academy of Fine Arts, Feng flew to Baltimore to pursue a master’s of fine art in Illustration of Practice at the Maryland Institute College of Art.

Compared to the dreamy and delicate style of her earlier works, Feng’s work since arriving in the US has become concise and ironic.

In her 2013 series Flowers and Girls, Feng invites viewers into the soft inner world of modern females. While flowers may be a source of happiness for a young girl, a mature woman cares more about whether or not she is more gorgeous than the flowers.

In one of her editorial cartoons published in the New York Times, Feng depicts the dilemma of digital technology and the Internet. In the picture, PCs, TVs, smartphones and tablets surround a tall man who kneels on ground while attempting to deal with life and work at the same time. The ludicrous scene is the norm in the digital age, and Feng’s concise representation makes viewers question whether digital technology can really simplify people’s lives.

Feng also hoists up herself as the star of her creations. In “Fat Ladies,” Feng records her free life in the US and how she learned to accept and appreciate her own beauty as an overweight woman.

“I was mocked by lots of mean men because of my weight. I often wore men’s clothes to hide my low self-esteem. Now I’m confident enough to face my weight and use my works to tell other fat ladies that they can be gorgeous,” Feng says.

Finding her confidence may be Feng’s biggest change since living abroad. After graduating from MICA in Baltimore last year, Feng moved to New York to work as a freelance illustrator.

The competitive environment has put her through bouts of depression, but Feng has become a regular contributor to mainstream media since getting her first editorial cartoon published in Fast Company Magazine last August.

“Unlike China, where illustration is a low position, it seems everyone in New York loves illustrations. You can see them in advertisements, subways and on the covers of many novels,” she said.

This post originally appeared in Beijing Today.

Our friends at Beijing Today swing by now and then to introduce art and culture in the city.

While most painters create their art using pen or brush, the avant-garde artist He Ling (@何玲Heling) uses medical syringes to bring his wild imaginings to life.

At his recent exhibition in Songzhuang Art District, the young artist displayed a series of mutant birds and beasts he created by injecting acrylic paints and dyes made from Chinese herbs into his canvas. The process resembles traditional embroidery in its delicacy.

Although He is a graduate of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, it’s not hard for the layperson to understand his unique artistic language. The combination of biological impossibilities with dreamy or nostalgic backgrounds creates an effect that is both terribly absurd and unusually familiar.

“Our ancestors and folk artisans expressed their understanding of the world – or their lack of understanding – using their imaginations,” He said. “Just look at the descriptions of some ‘species’ in the Shanhaijing,” a Qin Dynasty tome of myth.

“Modern people are rigid,” he said. “They think and behave according to their instructed rules and patterns. They have created a society that is spiritually divorced from natural inspiration.”

Through seemingly absurd images the young artist hopes to make viewers reflect on reality. In his work Yi Qin Tu, strange creatures such as bird-headed turtles, elephant-headed chickens and a combination of butterflies and bees call on viewers to consider pollution’s role in genetic mutation.

Another feature of He’s work is the comparison between human nature and animal instinct. Tong Wei Hu Sheng and Tong Wei Ma Qun depict the same theme – brutal cannibalism in the animal world – as well as more universal situations in human society.

“It is quite interesting to map human experiences onto the animals,” said Yang Wei, a local art critic. “Very often, when you compare a certain activity between human and animals, the former is much more absurd than the latter.”

He’s unique style comes more from experience than whimsy, said Duan Jun, vice president of White Box Gallery. Childhood images of mysterious and strange plants and animals stimulated He’s artistic impulse: the syringe enabled him to explore it.

He was born in 1981 in the remote mountains of Hunan province to three generations of village doctors. He spent most of his childhood in the family’s backyard clinic. Herbal medicine and old syringes were his toys.

“The pharmacy contained towering drawers full of exotic plants and other materials. Opening them was like being a little explorer. Some had dried leaves or colorful fruits. Some had roots or animal horns. Others were full of dead insects,” He said.

“It was a point of pride for me that I could find any medicine using its shape, color or smell when my mother assigned me to fetch something for a patient,” he said.

Apart from the playground of the pharmacy, various medical instruments were also He’s toys. Syringes were his favorite.

His sensitive blending of the natural and imaginary world has led China Culture Daily to term He’s avant-garde style “magical realism.”

But as a maverick and young artist, He tends to resist genre classification.

“Magical realism is a Latin American genre that had its heyday in the 1950s. Its historical context and expressive intent have no relationship with my work,” He said. “I am more concerned about whether my art can resonate with viewers than figuring out what I should label it.”

In addition to his needle paintings, He has also experimented with sculpture, performance and installation to express ideas and ask questions. He said he is looking for mediums that will allow him more chances for interaction rather than limiting himself to personal expression.

This post originally appeared in Beijing Today.

Our friends at Beijing Today swing by now and then to introduce art and culture in the city.

If you haven’t made any plans for your Halloween night, consider a trip to one of Beijing’s haunted houses.

Not to be confused with the spooky amusement destinations that pop up throughout the US and Canada at this time of the year, these haunted houses are the sites of ancient murders and suicides.

Tales of wandering spirits, unusual sounds and paranormal activity have persisted for more than a decade at some of these locations…

Chaonei No. 81 (also pictured above)

Located on a crowded street in the heart of the city, Chaonei No. 81 is Beijing’s best known haunted house. Its recent fame comes from being the inspiration for Jingcheng No. 81 (The House That Never Dies), a 3-D thriller directed by Raymond Yip.

Creepy stories associated with the house make it one of the most popular destinations for Chinese thrill seekers.

Constructed in the late Qing Dynasty, the Baroque mansion was the private residence of a French railroad manger. During the Republican period the building was sold to a Kuomintang official who lived there with his mistress.

When the Kuomintang government fell in 1949, the man fled to Taiwan and left the woman behind. She quickly lost her mind and hanged herself in the luxurious home rather than face life alone in New China.

Despite its shabby state, Chaonei No. 81 hasn’t been incorporated into demolition or reconstruction plans and is currently in a state of disuse.

Location: 81 Chaoyangmen Nei Dajie, Dongcheng
Transport: Take Subway Lines 2 or 6 to Chaoyangmen Station. Follow Exit H.

Huguang Guild Hall

Built during the reign of the Jiaqing Emperor of the Qing Dynasty, Huguang Guild Hall was intended to be a reunion hall for businessmen and ministers from the provinces of Hunan and Hubei.

There are two horrible stories associated with the hall.

According to one version, the hall was the former residence of Zhang Juzheng, a famous reformer during the Ming Dynasty. After Zhang’s death, political opponents murdered his entire family. The only survivor was his 80-year-old mother.

Another version of the story claims that Huguang Guild Hall was built on an abandoned graveyard, causing many ferocious and angry ghosts to torment its inhabitants. People who lived nearby said they often heard cries and cursing from outside their home, but when they opened their doors there would be no one present.

The Huguang Guild is a spacious imperial-style courtyard. It has exquisite doors with carved tiles, fabulous gardens and an old theatrical stage sure to attract both history buffs and ghost seekers.

Location: 3 Hufang Lu, Luomashi Dajie, Xicheng
Transport: Take Subway Line 2 to Hepingmen Station. Follow Exit B. Transfer to Bus 7, 14 or 70 and get off at Hufang Lukou Nan.

Prince Li Mansion

Covering about 30 hectares (74 acres), the Prince Li Mansion has the largest number of rooms among princes’ mansions in the Forbidden City. As a symbol of authority and power, a natural sense of mystery led citizens to make many lurid tales.

A sad love story associated with the mansion is one of the most famous. After studying abroad in France, Princess Lanxin, the daughter of Prince Li, fell in love with the no-name actor Feng Yuecong. But the romance fell apart when Feng’s friend snitched on their secret relationship. As a result, Feng was poisoned and sent to prison.

After being discharged, Feng learned danxian, a single-string fiddle, and played outside the mansion. Legend has it that his ghost became a strong wind that has haunted the Prince Li Mansion ever since.

Location: 9 Xichenggen Nan Jie, Xicheng
Transport: Take Subway Line 4 to Lingjing Hutong. Follow Exit D.

Xiaoshihu Hutong No. 33

Built in 1779, Xiaoshihu Hutong No. 33 was the property of Aisin-Gioro Miande, the grandson of the Qianlong Emperor.

Ji Xiaolan, a famous writer and administrator, wrote that the house has a long history and it is “quite normal” to encounter ghosts within.

The accounts of its neighbors seem to support Ji’s words. Many have reported hearing the voice of a woman reading poetry or playing the guzheng.

At one time, Xiaoshihu Hutong No. 33 was adapted into an academy where civil officials would gather to compile books and share their expertise. One of the occupants was Cao Xueqin, who lived for several years while completing the rough draft of his Dream of the Red Chamber.

Location: 9 Xihuangchenggen Nan Jie, Xicheng
Transport: Take the Subway Lines 1 or 4 to Xidan. Follow Exit B.

This post originally appeared in Beijing Today.