Click Dreams: Posing for Costume Photography in China

The bait was simply irresistible. Straight in my face; a collage of Tang Dynasty characters. I could be one of them too. I could be Tripitaka, long tails flowing down my ears. I could be General Zhang Liang, with spiky armored plates all over my body and a menacing sword. Or perhaps, I should become a Tang prince, taking a leisurely stroll along a lotus pond, caressing my beard and making sure my arm folds are just right. And surprise, surprise, I could even dress up like a court eunuch. As I stood mesmerized in front of this dream collage, the sales lady delivered the deal clincher, “Only 20 yuan here, at Yan’an, you pay 40.

The place is just outside the Big Goose Pagoda at Xi’an, China. The traps had been set up at several vantage points, collage of costume photographs pasted on cardboards. These are common in all tourist attractions in China. There are some local flavors too. In Yan’an, holy site #2 for communists, you could dress up like a soldier from the Long March, with a plastic pistol and a toy mule. Costume photography is one of those greatest tourist moments in China and demand is high in this society hungry for antiquity long after the cultural purges of the Cultural Revolution.

The bait

As soon as we nodded, the photographer arrived. She was in her forties, with a weather beaten skin, dressed in a well-worn but not well-washed t-shirt and track pants. A professional looking camera hung from her neck. Otherwise, she could be mistaken for an in-process Christmas tree, big bags dangling from all around her. We followed her inside a souvenir shop, walked up a few floors and then finally, after a good fifteen minutes of walking, we were at the studio; my first encounter in life with a time-machine.

This time-machine cum studio was dim and greasy. First, there was a huge plastic throne, all gilded. Then followed a wallpaper imitating a bamboo forest, then a wallpaper imitating a lotus pond, then a lot of trash and junk, broken imitation terracotta statue, and a crazy horse; heavily duct-taped. On the opposite wall, there was a backdrop of heaven, then another lotus pond scene, then again a lot of trash, headless terracotta soldier, air-cooler, and broken props. The carpet pretending to be verdant lawns was crumpled.  An umbrella, a hand-fan and a plastic sword lay on the floor without purpose. A fake guzheng and a fake pipa had the same fate; their strings were made of washing lines.

 

Lotus pond, bamboo forest and lush lawns

We walked past the studio to the dressing room. Four other customers were dressing up, three girls and one boy, all teenagers. These princesses were wearing sports shoes and big floral headgear with horns. The boy had chosen to be a warrior. Each customer had their own photographer, all women. The closet was overflowing with costumes and it was hard to choose any in this abundance. There was a big group of villagers who had just come in and waiting behind us. We just took whatever we could pick up. I would be Tripitaka, the fictionalized version of Huen Tsang. My wife would be the princess who tries to allure him; an obstacle in his holy journey to get Buddhist scriptures from India. The photographer quickly fit the costumes on us with Velcro. I, an Indian Huen Tsang, drew laughs from everyone around. By the way, Tang Dynasty costumes seemed perfectly designed for Hot Yoga, for as soon as we wore them, we began sweating profusely. 

Choosing the costume

 

Time-travel

Back at the studio, a queue had already formed for the backdrops. When our turn came, the photographer became a sudden bundle of energy, “Make a lotus with your hands, ok, look at camera, smile, ok, now make Orchid finger pose, ok, smile, click, now point your finger to the left, look at your finger, smile, click… now move to the bamboo garden, put the umbrella behind you, look, smile, click.. leave the umbrella, move to the throne, sit, spread out your hands, look up, smile, click, one leg forward, click.. you want the horse? No? ok, move over to the lake then, sit down, touch the strings of the guzheng, click, now look up, smile, Orchid finger pose, no, no, why orchid finger pose on guzheng, just look down, click.. wait, your headgear is falling…ok, now, look down, click…lotus pond now, want to do something funny, ok, never mind, click, want more? Ok then, come, choose what you want at that desk.”

She had taken fifty photographs in ten minutes, talking non-stop, juggling around all the bags she was carrying. We were sweating profusely but delighted that we were finally leaving our mark in human history.

The processing counter was a computer whose display had been somehow held up with used soda bottles and tape. At the processing counter, you have to follow Hamurabi’s code of law:

You will be shown the pictures on the computer screen one by one. Before moving on to the next picture, you have to decide whether you want a print of the picture or not. You can’t go back. Once you have shortlisted the pictures, you can’t select from among these. You have to buy all of these, 20 yuan for each. You can and you should laminate these, 2 yuan a piece.

Processing desk- note the back of the display

 

Most of the pictures were blurred. Backdrops had encroached into each other’s territory. The red carpet at the center of the studio had encroached onto the fake lawn carpet in most photographs. The photographers here are not photographers in the first place. They are just migrants from the interiors, most probably farmers given their weather-beaten skins, trying to eke out a living. The idea is to take a lot of pictures in a short time and hope that some of them turn out to the customer’s liking. The photographers are encouraged to do better through commissions for each photo selected.

And how did it feel to be Tripitaka? Of course, it is suffocating hot to be a Tang Dynasty personality. When I was dressed and waiting in the queue for the backdrops, I felt anxious; move on others, give me my turn. And while I was against the backdrops, I transformed into a tea-party radical; worried from all the clicks; what will the total bill come to? 

And yes, it is tempting to drool over the uniqueness of the man who managed to form a tenuous link between two neighboring civilizations; neighbors who couldn’t be any further apart.

Dressing up for the Long March at Yan'an

Duck-taped Terracotta horses

Final touches

The bait

The bait

Harvesting Happiness: The Huxian farmer paintings of Shaanxi, China

Fattened chickens delicately balanced in a bicycle, joyous grandmothers cleaning the ears of laughing grandfathers, fish competing with each other to fall on the fisherman’s boat, and stacks of bountiful corn harvests dwarfing mountains: all our good deeds had finally landed us in paradise. We were at the Huxian Farmer's Painting Exhibition Hall in Huxian, Shaanxi province. To add to our delight, we were not even charged the 5 yuan for the tickets.

Our interest in these Huxian paintings was sparked when we saw a certain poster in every restaurant in Xi’an. It was a bright red and yellow peasant painting of men harvesting grain in synchronized motion; accompanied by poems and captions asking customers to be civilized and avoid wasting any food. 

Don't waste food; Be civilized

We braved strong rains to reach Huxian; a journey that took us a remarkable 3 hours to cover the 25 kms from Xi’an. The streets at Huxian were steaming with freshly cooked dumplings. The town was craving to know more about the outside word. So we got an excess of stares and one restaurant owner grabbed my shoulders, pushed me to a spot, and then foisted a victory sign. China-made smartphones then unleashed a volley of camera clicks. “Any foreign visitor who comes here,” she said, “if they come at all, come by tour bus, go straight to the Exhibition hall and then to the village of Donghan to see the painters.”

Bright contrasting colors, thick lines, repeating patterns, compositions occupying the whole frame; these are some of the characteristics of these peasant paintings. The farmers paint scenes from the communist rural idyll. Recurrent themes are bountiful harvests, medication of farm animals, villagers collaborating for small community projects, weddings and content families. What is absent is any reference to China’s ancient history. This was a remarkable respite for me; bored and irritated by Modern China’s obsession with anything smelling of antiquity (read the viral spread of Royal style cuisine, antique hunting reality TV, period movies and costume photography). Also absent are any scenes of pre-marital romance, any sign of depravity, and any religious imagery.

 

The Exhibition Hall was closed for a three hour lunch break when we had arrived. A lonely dog at its premises kept us occupied for a while. We spotted the apartment of Liu Fengtao, one of the most renowned Huxian painters. Fengtao and his wife, Yan Qingfen, gave us an enthusiastic welcome. Hot Chinese tea followed soon. It was all white walls and shiny white tiles inside, like many Chinese apartments. Large framed paintings adorned the walls of the hall. “This one got a national award,” Fengtao was showing us around, “This one was painted by my father. This one went for an exhibition overseas.” He pointed towards one, “This one is special because it shows all my family members painting together; mama, papa, me, my wife, my sons.”  

 

Huxian farmer paintings are among the few distinct schools of peasant paintings that began in China during the communist period; the others being Jinshan, Liuhe and Pizhou. At Huxian, the origins are traced to 1951 when a few farmers had begun painting and were subsequently trained by artists from Xi’an.  The painters were also influenced by other Shaanxi traditions of paper-cutting and embroidery. The farmers began with watercolors. Subsequently, a few skilled hands began trying acrylic and oil. Some even began experimenting with Western concepts such as Cubism. Some Huxian paintings have been featured on China’s postage stamps. Some have even been featured on stamps of tiny Andorra. Few notable painters such as Liu Fengtao, Fan Zhihua, Liu Zhide, Liu Zhigui, and Wang Wenji gained national and international recognition.

Fengtao showed us his workroom while his wife went into another room to watch TV. He then got six thick stacks of paintings and began showing them to us, one by one. He explained to us the scenes in each of these paintings, “This one; the villagers are building a well. This one, they are singing in village opera. I have experienced all this myself.” We had seen exact copies of most of these in Xi’an shops. Once a Huxian painter paints a decent original, other painters, famous or amateur, rush to copy them in bundles. The quality of many of these paintings can make a viewer wonder whether they have been churned out by a factory staffed with primary grade students. “What makes a good Huxian painting?” we ask Fengtao. He evades our question.

We headed to the village of Donghan where most of the painters were living. The gates to the village had one of those typical English plaques in Chinese, “Peasant Painting Scenic Area.” It was hardly a village. It was arranged in a neat grid pattern with paved roads lined with smart bungalows whose courtyards looked uniform with trees loaded with peaches. Columns of bright orange corn hung from one or two of these trees, but at much lesser abundance than what was shown in the paintings. There was hardly anyone in the streets. The village could have fit in easily in any of the Silicon Valley neighborhoods. The fattened pigs, circling torrents of fish, and bare-chested flute players serenading cows had disappeared somewhere. Peasant paintings decorated the village walls and the playgrounds. Government buildings had big portraits of Hu Jintao and Xi Jinping in their courtyards. On their walls, there were several public information paintings advising villagers on different measures to protect their wealth: Don’t keep money under the bed, don’t put money in washing machine; don’t forget your money in the cupboard; a rather long list of possibilities.

 

So bewildered were we by the neat concrete assemblage of this village, that we thought that we had missed the real location of Donghan. We stepped out and saw that just outside this showpiece village, was the more typical rural China with unfinished brick houses, mud roads, and yellow gooey drains. Perhaps this was the real setting for the Huxian paintings. At its entrance, a raucous bunch of men were playing a game of Chinese chess, improvising soda bottle caps as chess pieces. When we asked them where the real Dongzhn was, they told us in the typical loud Shaanxi style, “There, there, it’s where you came from.”
 

Donghan village

Back at Donghan, we noticed the signposts indicating addresses of famous painters. But we were wary of entering them lest we be obliged to buy their work again.

Huxian saying: Huxian paintings become more and more expensive the further you go from the shops and the closer you get to the painters.

But from one such artist’s studio, a lot of noise was emanating. We peeked in and gosh, there were thirty American kids inside. They were all trying to paint Huxian style. They had been bussed in by a tour company. The mystery behind who all were the farmers churning out this enormous quantity of Huxian paintings was finally solved.  

There was a Farmer Painting Exhibition Hall in the centre of the village. A rather bored attendant was passing time there. We had seen all the paintings before; but these seemed of better quality. There were too many of these paintings so even in the exhibition hall, many had been stacked up on the floor and on tables. I pondered on a metaphysical question: In their quest to depict rural bounty; there had emerged a bounty of Huxian paintings themselves. An excess that was spilling over everywhere: at painter’s houses, in exhibition halls, in tacky tourist shops.
 

Farmer painting exhibition Hall at Donghan

With the growing reputation of modern Chinese painters such as Yue Minjun, Huxian painters have slowly fallen out of limelight and have been reduced to being sold in the tourist streets of Xian in dusty stacks, where harsh bargaining can yield four paintings for 100 yuan. However, Donghan village has done well by rebranding itself as an agricultural retreat destination. Every alternate house has fashioned itself as an agricultural homestay, going for 50 yuan a night, mostly catering to government officials. While we were there, a national level agricultural conference had just happened. We gate-crashed into one of these homes and after some searching around found a young man inside. “Is there any interesting thing in this place?” we asked. He gave us a confident reply, “No, there is nothing interesting over here.”

Out of the village gates, and back into the village belt, we were looking for a vehicle to go back. At the main road, a bunch of men and women ran towards us. They were looking at me excitedly as if I had just landed in from Mars. When I made a gesture towards them, they got ecstatic. They kept discussing me among themselves. One man dared to ask, “Are you from Xinjiang?” They arranged for an open top farm van to take us to Xi'an. Once the farmer dropped us back at Huxian, he rushed back, “We are not allowed to bring passengers here.” Many critics have evaluated Huxian farmer paintings as a distorted form of reality; trying to project in faux glorious splendor what must have been an otherwise tough life in the village. But in that last hour in Donghan, among all these strangers gawking at me, I formed my own theory about these farmer paintings. They were foremost about expressing this loud simplicity of these villagers. A big fat chicken, everyone in the family alive and together, a lush stream in this arid land, a life without conflicts, and denial of an uncertain future; it must have been impossible to restrain a farmer from painting more and more and more. Until, economic prosperity became a reality for China; perhaps at the cost of this loud simplicity.