Qi Baishi: A Journey Through the Colors of Tradition

Today, we will continue to talk about how Qi Baishi rose to stardom amid such adversities as poverty and political turmoil. His distinctive style, blending traditional techniques with innovative approaches, captured the essence of nature with vibrant brushstrokes and intricate detail.

Transcript

Qi Baishi: A Journey Through the Colors of Tradition

Today, we will continue to talk about how Qi Baishi rose to stardom amid such adversities as poverty and political turmoil. His distinctive style, blending traditional techniques with innovative approaches, captured the essence of nature with vibrant brushstrokes and intricate detail.

In 1922, Qi Baishi’s friend, the famous artist Chen Shizeng, was invited to participate in an art exhibition in Japan. Chen used the occasion to take nine of Qi’s paintings along with him including one called Peach Blossom Spring. On May 6, 1922, the Tokyo newspaper Asahi Shimbun said in a report that: “The Peach Blossom Spring is rich in artistic conception, and the subtle changes in ink are indescribably exquisite... It is believed that it can be considered one of the masterpieces of this exhibition.”

Upon his return, Chen Shizeng emptied his bag of money in front of Qi, and to his astonishment, it was filled with silver coins. Qi Baishi couldn’t believe that his paintings had been completely sold out, each fetching an average of 100 silver coins.

Chen also informed him that the French had selected paintings by both of them in Tokyo to participate in the Paris Art Exhibition. Furthermore, the Japanese even planned to turn their works into a film and screen it at the Tokyo Art Institute. With his sudden rise to fame, many foreigners, including antique dealers, sought his paintings eagerly. Qi’s reputation grew rapidly, and with it came fame and fortune. In his sixties, Qi successfully ascended to the pinnacle of the Beijing art circle, with many of his works being imitated as soon as they were released.

Once, Qi Baishi heard that a friend of Mei Lanfang had paid a hefty sum for a fake painting of his, so he personally bought the fake and replaced it with an authentic piece, remarking, “I’ll take this one. It seems my paintings are only authentic when they come from my own home.” However, tragically, a year later, the one who had propelled him to fame, Chen Shizeng, succumbed to malaria and died soon after. Qi Baishi wept bitterly, saying, “I’ve lost a true friend.”

Life’s uncertainties continued as Qi’s parents passed away three years later. Due to the war and turmoil in his hometown, Qi, who was in Beijing, couldn’t return to pay his respects. Overwhelmed with grief, he didn’t pick up a brush for 10 days. Yet, despite the loss of loved ones, Qi’s life remained prosperous. That same winter, after years of drifting in Beijing, he finally bought his own house.

After establishing himself in Beijing, Qi lived without worries, feeling as if he had divine assistance. Whether it was fruits and vegetables or pests like rats and flies, he could paint them with freshness and elegance. A day without painting made him restless, and five days without engraving left his hands itching. By selling his paintings and engravings, he supported two large families – one in Beijing and the other in Xiangtan.

Several years later, at the insistence of his good friend, painter Xu Beihong, Qi, who himself had attended school for only less than a year, joined the faculty of the Beiping Academy of Art. With many grandchildren and a flourishing career, Qi instinctively knew that a “great calamity” must certainly be looming.

In his youth, Qi had his fortune told in Changsha, capital of Hunan Province, and the fortune teller warned him of a calamity at the age of 75. To avoid this fate, the 75-year-old Qi cleverly added two years to his age, publicly declaring himself 77 years old. However, soon after, the full-scale invasion of China by Japan occurred, and Beijing fell under occupation. To avoid disaster, Qi secluded himself, rarely interacting with others.

Despite his reclusive lifestyle, Qi’s fame attracted numerous visitors, including some who collaborated with the enemy and others seeking to profit from his art. However, Qi politely refused them all. When Japanese invaders asked him for paintings in the 1930s, he repeatedly declined, eventually posting a notice that read, “Qi Baishi died three days ago.” 

On another occasion, he painted four crabs directly for the Japanese invaders, with a message that said, “See how long you can oppress us.” In Chinese culture, the crab symbolizes dominance and assertiveness, embodying the concept of “横行霸道” (héng xíng bà dào), meaning “rampant and overbearing behavior.” This association arises from the crab’s aggressive nature and sideways movement, often used metaphorically to represent tyranny.

But always being ridiculed openly and covertly, the Japanese naturally wouldn’t be happy about it. After scolding them, Qi worried about potential retaliation and even prepared himself for a situation where he might have to choose death over surrender. Fortunately, due to his reputation in the Japanese art world, although they were displeased with Qi, they dared not act rashly.

Despite the uncertain future, Qi remained remarkably optimistic, given his impoverished circumstances. One day, as the story goes, he heard a vendor selling large cabbages outside his door, which reminded him of historical anecdotes where great artists exchanged their works for daily necessities. So, he swiftly painted a picture titled Cabbage and Grasshopper, intending to exchange it for a cartful of cabbages. But the vendor, upon seeing the painting, became furious and refused the offer, accusing Qi of trying to swindle him with a fake cabbage in exchange for real ones. Disappointed but undeterred, Qi left, muttering to himself, “Alas! Truly a disgrace to culture!”

In 1940, Qi’s first wife, Chen Chunjun, passed away in their hometown. Three years later, his second wife, Hu Baozhu, whom he had officially married, died during childbirth. Now burdened with numerous grandchildren, Qi struggled to make ends meet. It wasn’t until 1945 when the victory of the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression brought him relief. Qi was overjoyed, spending the entire night without sleep. However, the following year, when he was invited to hold an art exhibition in Nanjing of east China’s Jiangsu Province, he sold over 200 paintings, only to return to Beijing with bundles of French francs and find that he couldn’t even buy 10 bags of flour. With skyrocketing prices and severe inflation during the internal war, Qi, along with his large extended family, faced difficult times.

As a result, in his later years, Qi became very thrifty. He only painted one piece for each family member and never painted more. When hosting younger relatives for meals, he served only one bowl per person. Even when the peanuts and mooncakes intended for guests at home were infested with insects, he refused to buy new ones. He personally guarded the bamboo measuring cylinder used for rice in the house, measuring out exactly one scoop, shaking it three times, for every meal. He also kept a gold bar in a pocket, never parting with it.

Many artists believe that artworks should not be tainted by commercialism and should maintain their purity and sincerity. However, Qi Baishi did not share this view. In his home, the living room displayed his paintings with clearly marked prices, detailing the fees for painting, such as varying charges for different sizes or additional fees for adding birds or insects to floral paintings.

Some believed the old painter had become overly commercial, but others interpreted his actions to be quite practical and refreshingly transparent. With prices clearly displayed, everyone knew where they stood and wouldn’t be shortchanged. Qi also had a fair standard for selling his paintings: he didn’t show favoritism. Even with acquaintances and friends, transactions were face-to-face – money in one hand, painting in the other.

Still, some people, when buying paintings from Qi, couldn’t resist trying to get a bargain. After he had finished their paintings, they would ask him to add a few strokes. Upon hearing these requests, Qi didn’t rush or refuse; he had his own calculations in mind. If someone asked him to paint a fish, he would paint a flaccid-looking fish; if they asked for a bird, he would paint a bird that couldn’t fly. This painting technique still bore the mark of a master, but the customers could immediately sense that something was amiss.

The customers, looking at the strange little animals in the painting, could only muster the courage to ask again, “Mr. Qi, why does this fish in the painting look so listless?” Qi sat at the table, wearing his glasses and stroking his beard as he replied to the person, “The living are expensive, the dead are cheap.” Upon hearing this, the visitor immediately understood the meaning and didn’t pursue the matter further.

Despite his extremely frugal lifestyle, Qi continued to paint tirelessly. His depictions of flowers, birds, insects, and fish became even more vivid, especially his portrayal of shrimp, which was considered masterful. During this time, he had close interactions with Lao She, a renowned writer. One day, Lao She presented him with a line of poetry, “The sound of frogs travels 10 miles to the mountain spring,” hoping Qi would paint based on it. However, although Qi was usually quick to start painting, he pondered over this for several days before completing the task. Lao She was deeply impressed, commenting, “With just a few tadpoles, swaying along with the water, even without frogs, the sound of frogs can be imagined.” 

Fortunately, after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, Qi’s hardships quickly became a thing of the past. By this time, Qi had already gained international fame. Even the Spanish master Pablo Picasso, then living in France, had copied hundreds of Qi Baishi’s paintings at home. 

From May to July 1956, at the invitation of Georges Salles, a French art historian and archaeologist with a specialty in Asian art, the 57-year-old painter Zhang Daqian, accompanied by his wife, visited Paris. During Zhang’s solo exhibition in Paris, Picasso, who was residing in the city at the time, happened to be there. Through the embassy’s arrangement, Zhang Daqian had the opportunity to visit the 75-year-old Picasso.

Picasso said to Zhang Daqian: “Qi Baishi is truly an outstanding painter from your Eastern culture. The paintings by Qi Baishi don’t actually depict water on the surface, but the fish and insects underneath, giving the impression of water teeming with life on the entire page. How was this accomplished? Could you give me some guidance?”

The subjects depicted in Qi’s paintings are incredibly diverse, ranging from animals, landscapes, and figures to toys, vegetables, and beyond. Qi’s paintings, often featuring flora and fauna, not only celebrated the beauty of the natural world but also conveyed profound themes of harmony and vitality.

Qi Baishi has a famous quote that has been cited countless times: “The beauty of painting lies in the balance between resemblance and non-resemblance. Too much resemblance is vulgar flattery, while too little is deceitful to the world.”

In 1953, Qi was elected president of the China Artists Association. In 1956, he was awarded the International Peace Prize by the World Peace Council, becoming an internationally acclaimed top star in the art world. Qi served as the first honorary president of the Beijing Fine Art Academy when it was founded in 1957. In his later years, the pursuit of a tranquil life became the main theme of his works.

As his career reached new heights, Qi Baishi experienced a late bloom in his personal life as well, engaging in a passionate relationship with a 22-year-old nurse who took care of his daily needs. Despite his advanced age, when most would have comfortably settled into the role of a grandfather, Qi, who had been industrious throughout his life, was eager to continue his endeavors and even expressed a desire to marry the nurse.

However, fate had other plans. Before the marriage could materialize, Qi passed away on September 16, 1957, in Beijing, at the age of 93. Although the union with his young bride remained unrealized, he had already left behind numerous descendants. From a humble carpenter to a world-renowned master, Qi’s legacy endures through over twenty thousand paintings and calligraphic works.

Well, that’s the end of our podcast. Our theme music is by the famous film score composer Roc Chen. We want to thank our writer Lü Weitao, translator Du Guodong, and copy editor Pu Ren. And thank you for listening. We hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, please tell a friend so they, too, can understand The Context.