“Art in China in the 1960s and 1970s” at the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology

I must begin my review by confessing that I know next to nothing about art in China in the 1960s and 1970s, the country’s political situation during that time, or the cultural and political implications artwork produced during that period may have had. I would imagine that this aligns me with the majority of visitors to the Ashmolean Museum. Despite my limited knowledge, I’m an enormous fan of woodblock prints. I’ve seen mostly Japanese woodblock prints from the 19th century—Hiroshige and Hokusai come to mind—but the contemporary Chinese prints on display at the Ashmolean felt at once familiar and refreshing.

Yet in all these pieces there seems to be something ominous looming just outside the boundaries of the canvas. The works are all either rural, agrarian, or both, and all feature unrealistically happy, smiling people. Most startlingly, a print named “Dancing – Highland Barley series No. 2” depicts Tibetan peasants at harvest dancing alongside a carried portrait of Mao Zedong. Though I don’t know much about Tibetan/Chinese relations, I am certain most Tibetans wouldn’t spend their Saturday mornings chopping grain while parading around a painting of Zedong. Another print, “Golden Sea,” is similarly suspect in its depiction of authentic emotions. In the woodcut, young school graduates dash across a field with plows and hoes, their faces beaming. I’ve never been to the Great Northern Wilderness state farm, but it looks hot. Men are wearing tank tops and shorts, the golden wheat evokes a feeling of heat, and I imagine the wind tugging at one of the boy’s shirts to be warm and inhospitable. Luckily this time, unlike in the “Barley series” print, the discrepancy is acknowledged. “Schematic smiling is a typical symbol of that period,” the explanatory card reads. It further explains that the artist was an “intellectual youth” sent from the city to the state farm to create woodcuts, I could only assume, for the Chinese government’s propaganda machine.

The title card for the exhibit says that during the ‘60s and ‘70s traditional paintings began to celebrate national achievements. It also says that these paintings on display were different than state-controlled propaganda in their ability to “sometimes embody the artists’ own expressions.” I find this hard to believe, unless the artist’s own expressions somehow coincided exactly with what I would imagine to be the Chinese government’s agenda. I do, however, sense some genuine emotion and expression in the landscapes. The absence of people seems to allow the artists to depict exactly what they want to without the pretense of an agenda. In “Mount Qixia” the fanciful use of red to depict a forest encroaching on a small mountain town has a subtle and more genuine power than most of the other, seemingly more realistic works.

Don’t think, however, that the sometimes-propagandist nature of the works in any way detracts from their enjoyment. Instead, the tension between what the artist wants to express and what he is allowed to express is gratifying; I found myself wondering what the artist might have done given total freedom. Would the peasants be bent over holding the weight and heat of the day in the backs of their necks? Would the Tibetans, instead of dancing with Mao’s portrait, instead be enjoying a quiet moment in the fields? Regardless, the craftsmanship is undeniably exquisite. A few of the prints looked to me like pages taken from an exquisite graphic novel. The line-work is masterful, and the use of color lends the pieces a subtle beauty. This is an exhibit I would recommend to anyone, but woodprint enthusiasts will be especially impressed.