A booming economy is often accompanied by a powerful drive for artistic development. The rise of the Italian Renaissance (from Giotto to da Vinci), the Flemish masters (van Eyck) and later, Dutch art (Rembrandt) seem to support this. The period of emergence, strong growth and optimism fosters new élan in the arts. China’s unbridled economic growth and increasing self-awareness are being expressed in a variety of ways. The desire to build, the open display of wealth and the flashy hedonism of youth are recurrent topics in reports on the Chinese economic wonder. Over the last fifteen years, groups of visual artists have sprung up, inspiring and conquering the Western art world in the blink of an eye. The trend gathered pace in the wake of the international breakthrough of Chinese filmmakers like Chen Kaige (“Yellow Earth” 1984), fellow student Zhang Yimou (“Red Sorghum” and “Raise the Red Lantern” 1991), Tian Zhuangzhuang (“The Horse Thief “1986 and “The Blue Kite” 1993) and Xie Fei with “Women From the Lake of Scented Souls” 1993.

　　During the last few years, the new Chinese art, primarily from Shanghai, has been presented at Biennales and major international exhibitions, and it is now represented in renowned international collections. The new Chinese vanguard has borrowed from every recent school of art: from Dada, Deconstructivism, Pop Art, Fluxus, and from Modernism through to Post-Modernism. Chinese artists work across all media; particularly favouring multimedia, video and photography. Their work is absurdist, extreme, grotesque, lyrical, critical, radical and cynical; but, above all, vital. It exudes guts, power and confidence. It is sometimes unabashedly kitsch, sometimes breathtakingly touching and well executed. One could be forgiven for thinking that this is what the sleepy self-satisfied Western art world has been holding its breath for. The message and mysterious power of some Chinese art may be explained by the fact that, in totalitarian regimes, narratives rich in symbolic, abstruse references were the most immediate, and freest means of artistic expression.

　　One explanation for the radical, and apparently effortless, conjunction with the Western avant–garde, may also be found in the arrival of Mao Zedong, who promulgated a schism with ancient Chinese culture and traditional painting. So it seems quite a small step to transmute the propaganda-rich art of social realism (prevalent since the 1950s) into a new Chinese art form, leaning heavily on the irony and influences permitted by Pop Art along the way. Moreover, the message, not the age-old technique, is what matters in art.

　　Mao cleared the way for such art. The Cultural Revolution, which was to follow, attempted to bring the images and memories of Chinese traditions to a more radical end. Coupled with the intellectual freedom that was gathering speed, this freed the way for a rapid union with the latest developments in the international art world. The economic and cultural success of their neighbour Japan was also an inspiring example. In China, many cultural studies lecturers are Japanese. Although on the one hand, Japan is considered as a kind of arch-enemy, on the other, the successes of post-war Japan exhilarate the Chinese imagination. Furthermore, most Chinese feel a greater bond with the Japanese rather than with Western culture: despite the ordeals of the Second World War.

　　Visiting well-equipped art academies in Beijing, Chengdu and Chongqing in 2005 sometimes proved exhilarating, although the repression of the free mind was often most tangible there. As elsewhere, real talent is rare. Painting suffered from too little aversion to kitsch and commerce. In the various sculpture classes, all the pieces seemed to have been fashioned by the hand of one and the same artist and classrooms were bursting with plaster studies or life models. Something that struck a dissonant chord was that many classes were devoid of students, despite official records claiming full enrolment. Row upon row of wet clay human figures, shrouded in plastic, lined the tables. In one studio after another there was no sign of any budding artist openly attempting something different. Unconsciously, in the same way one scours a Dutch tulip field, constantly on the lookout for that single yellow flower amidst the endless fields of red, you want to ferret out the maverick, the individual with the courage to be recalcitrant, daring, original: the single, clear voice that will not conform.

　　After three weeks of studio visits from nine to seven and many disappointments, the very last studio we had to visit was the atelier of Li Zhanyang in the Sculpture Department of Sichuan Academy of Fine Arts in Chongqing. It was late in the evening and we were tired. Bad art is exhausting. Li Zhanyang was not there: he did not know we were coming, and we simply did not know about him. This last studio visit was pure coincidence. Some of his assistants had given us a hint. They were working hard in semi-darkness and almost naked because of the humid heat. They quickly got dressed. The studio was dirty, full of mud and dark. The finished sculptures were all covered. Then they started to remove some brown rags from a big sculpture in the middle of the room. What we saw in the semi-darkness was stunning and quite overwhelming… a shining sculpture: perfect and so impressive in this medieval looking workshop. A praying monk or prince was resisting the temptations of a beautiful girl. Everybody was quiet for a long time and nobody was tired anymore. The work had just been finished and we were one of the first to see it. Although, to our surprise, it had already been sold to a famous collector in Switzerland. This very last work we saw was the crowning glory of our trip and it became the centrepiece of the exhibition we were preparing of Contemporary Chinese art. Who was the man, who had created such an unexpected sculpture?

　　Li Zhanyang (1969, Changchun) holds a degree in sculpture from the Lu Xun Academy of Fine Arts and he completed his studies at the Central Academy of Fine Art in Beijing. He lives and works in Chongqing, where he also teaches at the Sichuan Academy. He has exhibited widely, with shows in Beijing, Chengdu, Hangzhou and Paris. A number of small pieces by Li Zhanyang have been included in several international exhibitions, such as the “Xiangfeng! / Beeldhouwkunst van de Chinese avant-garde” in Museum Beelden aan Zee (Scheveningen, NL 2005).

　　Li Zhanyang is an observer. He studies people from all layers of society: officials in Chinese public life, and ordinary people in seedy bars. In a figurative, neo-realistic style, he takes a humorous, gentle look at everyday life in small reliefs and, more recently, large sculptural pieces. The artist creates his narrative, didactic scenes and small sculptural groups in such a way as to render a caricatural view of human nature. The reliefs with figures are reminiscent of medieval European predella, which ran along the frame or base of large altarpieces and illustrated the drama depicted in the principal scenes shown above.

　　A sharp chronicler, Li Zhanyang reveals a social reality in which Communist sobriety has made way for hedonism. Here, the decadent party leader is set off against the sweating, exploited labourer. Li’s figurative style of neo-realism takes a no-holds-barred look at the decadent side of present-day China: hungry for material and physical pleasure. At times, his work brings to mind Dutch artists of the past, such as Hieronymus Bosch and Pieter Breughel the Elder. Li Zhanyang follows their lead in wanting to amuse and criticize simultaneously, yet without taking a heavy, moral tone. His gentle self-mockery puts life into perspective, and he comments: “I observe and depict people like you and me”.

　　Pieter Breughel (c.1525 – 1569) is known for his realistic landscapes and peasant scenes. One of Breughel's most famous paintings: Dutch Proverbs, 1559, with peasant scenes illustrating more than 100 rediscovered proverbs. The work is a friendly, ironical depiction of human behaviour. It is both didactic and entertaining. None of the depicted people are heroic. They all make human mistakes: openly and secretly. Li’s approach seems very similar. We also see men and women drinking, singing and flirting in bars. He shares with Breughel his love for details, gestures and expressive faces that tell many stories in one work. Li’s portraits of people are sharp observations. During his stay in Holland to prepare his exhibition, I showed him around town. The next day, he made a series of portrait drawings, from memory, of people and funny situations we had seen. He could reproduce what he had experienced the night before like an imaginary movie, precisely and from memory. He is a photographer without a camera and that is why he can depict from such proximity and so intimately. People are not bothered by him, because there is no disturbing camera. They are not ashamed because he looks like one of them. He enjoys and accepts human nature with all its imperfections. He shows the real human drive in life. For a voyeur, overcrowded China is a paradise. Every street has hundreds of bizarre little scenes. Li Zhanyang remembers them and relates them sometimes to traditional folk stories. One of his favorites, is the novel about the thief and the butcher. The strong butcher, carrying a sharp knife, tries to catch the thief. From his hiding place, the thief throws a stone into the well. The butcher looks down… and quickly the thief pushes him into the well. His wife hears his screams and tries to lift him out. At that moment, the thief rapes her from behind. She can do nothing. If she beats the thief, she has to let her husband drop down the well and die. According to Li Zhanyang, every street is full of such scenes. You just have to see them, and add a little from our collective memory.

　　He depicts social and political situations directly related to recognisable individuals. He also comments on art in a similar way to the English Pop artist Allan Jones in the famous work on the erotic fetish table. Li Zhanyang’s version is even more bizarre and explicit. Glamour, eroticism and sex are important aspects in his work. He refers to a social situation where poor farm-girls are exploited by the new rich: during the daytime as a housemaid and in the evening as a prostitute. The meeting places are dance halls and karaoke bars and these appear often in his work. The themes of the Boss and the Prostitute are also a reference to the stories of nineteenth century China with the rich landowners exploiting the poor farmers. In small sculptures and, more recently, in large fiberglass works, he shows both the minor and the major daily problems in contemporary China: doctors abusing female patients, drunken taxi drivers causing fatal street accidents, corrupt politicians getting drunk in erotic bars. But Li Zhanyang’s work is never too provocative. There is always humor and some understanding for both the victim and the little criminal.

　　Li Zhanyang’s recent sculptures show a new development. Later pieces seem to synthesize the polychrome images of young buddhas, the protective demons that guard temple entrances and the sassy, shiny kitsch of Jeff Koons’ sculptures. The large, colourful, glamorous-looking piece in fiberglass, entitled Temptation (Tangseng and Yaojing), was inspired by a well-known Chinese tale of a monk with high morals who resists corruption and a gamut of (erotic) temptation. This recent masterpiece was the gem of the exhibition “Focus on China” in 2005. I believe it will be followed by many more striking three-dimensional comments by Li Zhanyang.

　　Paul Donker-Duyvis