Mrs Liang, my former best friend at the tape factory,
was probably deported for showing support to a visual artist from the
Netherlands. Either that or she is on a long vacation. I saw myself obliged however
to visit Fuzhou road and gather my materials myself. The commercial store for
arts is literally stacked with floors of small art suppliers. And there is
always someone around who does speak English. I show the swatches of tape and
cardboard I brought and follow a small lady through the forest of canvases, easels,
paper rolls and Chinese vendors. My guide yells something in Chinese and out
comes a small man with something that is indeed cardboard, but not suitable for
my work. Being here is good for one’s improvisation, for I question myself the
entire day about my artistic process: why not try other materials; what shall I
use if I don’t find my usual stuff; will this tape survive in such humidity? I
show the friendly man my swatch of cardboard and he shakes his head. Maybe in
the next corridor. Then I find a little shop by Polar Bear, the next best thing
in tape. Stacks and stacks of tape in more colours than I have ever seen. I am
in paradise! My Austrian travel companion urges to take a picture of me in my
oasis. The Polar Bear lady seems a bit embarrassed – so much upheaval for her
tape supply. I give her my business card, pointing at the website and the image
on the back, showing a detail of my work. She shakes her head and reddens. I
feel a bit sorry for her and wonder what stories she will tell over dinner
tonight. Then by some miracle I find the cardboard I am looking for. We call a
cab: the 14RMB (1 Euro) is not worth the suicide attempt, which partaking in
Chinese traffic truly is. Green light gives you no guarantees whatsoever. On
zebra crossings, chances are you might get run over by a lorry or a Volkswagen
(old habits die hard). Arriving in my
studio I have the feeling I can finally begin.
On my first day in the studio I am suddenly
interrupted by a lady with a broom and a basket. She and her colleagues are
appointed by the owner and landlord of M50 to keep things safe and clean. At
first I am a bit annoyed, when she stands within eyesight between me and my
work on the wall. Then she bends over and starts to collect the strands of
paper and bits of tape that I dropped there in the process. Before I know it
she has cleaned the floor around me and hurries out the door again. This
scenario repeats itself three more times, despite my pointing at myself and the
floor, telling her not to worry, I am a Dutch artist, I can clean up after
myself. The lady turns out not only to be a very disciplined cleaner, but also
very curious. During a Skype meeting I have later on, I suddenly see my
conversation partner looking at the new face that has just appeared in his
screen. As I turn around I stare into the big smile of the cleaning lady
leaning over my shoulder, looking at the computer screen. We tell her to join the conversation, but to no
avail.
Of course, being a foreign artist in China is an
exceptional situation. Most artists here don’t even have the luxury to express
themselves properly. One other artist compound like M50 closed down recently,
for one of the artists, a photographer, created politically critical work. The
freedom I have to express my point of view and my ideas is something I would
want my Chinese colleagues to have as well. During several talks with some
Chinese artists, I find they are reluctant to talk about their more personal
beliefs and viewpoints. Understandable, yet very frustrating and unbelievable.
I hope in time I will learn and understand a bit more as to how a visual artist
in China deals with his own personal expression, for it is a true luxury not
having to care about it.
