The craft of shaping dough into lifelike figurines has early roots. For centuries, these have been made as offerings for display on altars either at home or in temples. The colorful figures also have had less serious purposes, offering children a special toy mounted on a stick.
Although sculpture in dough seemed destined to stagnate and disappear in recent decades, a revival of sorts is in progress. The result is greater aesthetic strength for an old and respected art form.
Popular belief holds that dough figures have their origin in the affluent period between the Tang (A.D. 618-960) and Sung (A.D. 960-1279) Dynasties. An oversupply of rice in China's southern provinces supposedly encouraged experimentation with flour made from wheat and pounded rice flour.
At first, these early attempts at a new form of handicraft focused on doll-like figures and other children's toys in human shape. These were called chiang mi jen, meaning "dough figures from the Yangtse River" (also called Chang Chiang) basin in southern China. While sculpted figures of dough have continued to delight generations of children, they apparently have a long history of other purposes as well.
Foremost among these is their use in the worship of ancestors and various Chinese divinities. For millennia, worship in both the home and nearby temples has been a part of the fabric of Chinese everyday existence. On special holidays, such as the birthdays of the gods, Chinese have traditionally paid close attention to their obligations by following strict conventions governing the methods of presenting offerings on temple altars. Because of the wide-spread use of dough figures at such ceremonies, some scholars think there may be an origin to this art other than an agricultural surplus.
Because dough has greater plasticity than clay, artists can produce more realist figures.
Whatever its roots, the use of dough figures in ritual offerings has long made economic and aesthetic sense. For centuries, the best possible offering, whether to gods or ancestors, was meat. But until recent decades in Taiwan (and up to today on the mainland), meat has been expensive and often unavailable. Moreover, it spoiled quickly, a major drawback when offerings were expected to remain on the altar for at least 15 days.
In an underdeveloped agrarian society such as China, devout worshippers had to be wealthy before they could consider slaughtering their pigs and chickens for a ceremony that kept food away from the table. Thus, it could well be that sculpted dough figures of "flesh and blood" soon came to be used as surrogates for offerings of pork, chicken, duck, or other meats. The figures not only added joyful color to the altar, they also did not deteriorate.
Even today, despite the comparative wealth of modern Taiwan society, tradition survives: dough sculptures can still be found in temple courtyards during sacred rites. But this same rise in wealth has had a less than favorable impact on this particular handicraft. Few dough sculptors can still earn a living at the art, and their numbers are dwindling.
The culturally rich city of Lukang in west-central Taiwan remains one of the few places where traditional Chinese conventions continue to hold ground against industrialization. Thanks to the large number of well-preserved and active temples throughout the city, dough sculptors still find a ready market for their unique product.
One of the best-known of these artists in dough is 78-year-old Hsu An-tien, who has been making figures for temples since he was 20. He laughs hoarsely when asked about his career choice, and confides that he began carving dough figures in order to prove he could be different from others. He had noticed that the most common models for dough sculptures were human, which he thought were unappealing in the medium. Since most of the non-temple figures were toys for children, and therefore soon broken or lost, he thought this was also a waste of time and talent.
Tradition on a stick—generations of artists have made toys from a mixture of rice and flour dough.
Hsu's answer was to master the traditional handicraft, but add to the variety of dough sculptures used in temples. His choice was to shape insects or sea creatures as his primary subjects. The choice was clearly in line with personal interests. Hsu is a nature-lover, and obviously likes animals. His huge single-story house is packed with bird cages, and the constant chirping of the occupants can be heard long before entering his front door. But his artistic motifs include a broader range of wildlife, including crickets, cicadas, shrimp, turtles, and goldfish.
Hsu explains that the making of dough figures for temples is subject to different conventions from the popular, more commercial sculptures. He uses plain dough, rather than pre-dyed, and adds that its preparation for sculpting is much more complicated than preparing it for eating. Because the dough must remain soft and moist while being shaped, it is blended with careful proportions of wheat Dour, sticky rice, salt, and alum. "It takes a lot of experience to know the right proportions," he says. "And the layman would be hard-pressed to figure out the exact formula for himself."
Apart from his deft hands, the main tool Hsu uses is a knife made of ox bone. The tool is utilized only for minute details, as he demonstrates while carving a dough peach. Depending on the season, the finished sculpture will take one or two days to dry, during which it shrinks to about 90 percent of its wet size. After the figure is thoroughly dried, Hsu can begin painting its surface, a skill for which he is locally renowned.
The emphasis is on realism. Hsu faithfully reproduces the hues of various insects and sea creatures. The colors are often more muted than those done by other sculptors. "Bold colors rarely convey authenticity," Hsu says. As a result, he concentrates on more subtle shading of his figures, a process that conveys greater naturalism.
The God of War, carrying four flags of command, peers at onlookers in defiance of evil.
Dough figures normally last up to 10 years before disintegrating, provided they are properly treated with coats of oil to discourage attacks by rodents or insects. Their survival is also assisted if stored in mothballs. But Hsu rarely saves his works. Instead, he sells or gives away most of his figures. Many of these, of course, end up on family or temple altars, where their colorful variety both adds to the overall aesthetics of the offerings and adheres to religious conventions.
Concerning these conventions, it is common to find three tables laid before a large Chinese altar. One displays offerings of food; one is for flowers and women's make-up; and the third, called the "table of spectacles," is reserved for dough figures. As the appellation implies, the table is decorated to draw the attention and admiration of onlookers. Often six plates holding dough insects are laid in the front row of the table, and another six plates with dough sea creatures are in a second row.
Although most of Hsu's sculptures are made to order for his customers, he often donates them free to local temples for use in their rites. When the ceremony is over, the figures are generally given to children, or to adults who want to display them at home. One prominent family in Lukang has seen the enduring value of these sculptures and has turned its two-story mansion into a folk art museum. Not surprisingly, the museum features many of Hsu's works and is quickly becoming a tourist attraction.
Hsu has earned the acclaim of residents and the government alike for his creations, which have been used for folk festivals and even on state occasions. But the market for dough figures, despite the large number of temples in Lukang, remains fairly small. As a result, he long ago ceased depending upon the handicraft as his major source of income. For 30 years he has been a commercial artist as well, painting giant movie posters for the largest cinema house in town.
But Hsu's true artistic love lies with the small figures he shapes from dough. While complaining that he has been unable to interest his two sons in following his footsteps in the craft, he credits the art with providing him with "the most valuable reward" over the years: "joy and peace of mind."
Shih carefully follows time-honored rules governing the representation of legendary figures in dough.
Besides the rather somber function dough figures serve on home and temple altars, there are more amusing varieties especially designed for children. These may also be found in temple courtyards, where special stalls house master sculptors who shape dough before the eyes of admiring young crowds.
Such stalls are found in several Lukang temples, but one of the best artists now works at the city-supported Lukang Folk Art Museum where an assortment of artists gathers to practice and demonstrate their abilities. The museum creatively mixes masterpieces of folk art with actual artists in action.
Shih Chin-chiang, one of many artists at the museum, is also a master sculptor in dough. Sporting a five-inch-long white beard, the 70-year-old Shih moves and speaks with studied poise. Lean and agile for his age, he conveys an infectious enthusiasm about his work.
As a small crowd stands in front of his stall to watch, he reaches into a wooden cabinet for a handful of crimson-colored dough from one of five plastic bags. He then mounts the dough on a bamboo stick, and begins sculpting the God of War. Tradition dictates the head be red, since that color signifies leadership and the "just blood" in which the god is drenched.
Shih speedily transforms the amorphous mass into a head, on which he promptly shapes into a face. He then presses on two thin black strips of dough for eyebrows, and fills the eye-sockets with white and black dough. The God of War stares back. "There are definite, time-honored ways of representing legendary figures in dough," Shih says. He demonstrates this with the beard of his current project, which "must be formed using only six strokes."
The plastic bags in his stall contain dough of the five primary colors, which he can knead together to obtain any intermediary hue he desires. The bamboo stick used to support each figure internally is its "skeleton." The dough is first mounted from the top of this skeleton, and eventually takes up two-thirds of its length. Care must be taken that the end product is not too heavy, since the bamboo has limited strength and sheer weight might cause the figure to fall off the stick. Extreme body postures, such as widely-extended arms, are difficult to achieve for the same reason, no doubt a factor in the predominance of restrained gestures among dough figures.
Shih next attaches four commander's flags to the back of the God of War. "Normally, common sense would dictate that five flags be affixed to the god, signifying the five armies he commands," Shih explains. "But I was told by experts there should be only four in this case, since the general has already dispatched one army to keep his subjects under control."
Most of Shih's figures are characters taken from popular folk stories teaching the virtues of filial piety, patriotism, justice, and courage. But to the joy of Lukang's children, he also creates a variety of comic strip and cartoon characters. High school teachers from nearby Changhua and Yunlin counties regularly invite him to give demonstrations, and some of them are learning the art themselves.
An official apprenticeship in the craft, as Shih himself underwent on mainland China, takes at least three years. Shih therefore harbors no illusions about people today thoroughly mastering dough-sculpture. "Nevertheless, those high school teachers are serious about what they're doing," he says. "Perhaps this near-dying trade might eventually revive."
A traditional tale elegantly reproduced. A Ching Dynasty mother plays music while contemplating her husband's return.
Even though his small stall provides minimal profit, Shih thoroughly enjoys the company of other artists and the crowds that visit the museum. "For an old man like me, it's a blessing to find a useful nine-to-five occupation," he says with a light chuckle. "I'm fortunate because I don't have to suffer the rain and sun outdoors like I would if I worked someplace else."
Even though some of the old sculptors in dough are concerned about the craft dying out, there are hopeful signs not only of preservation, but of innovation as well. One of the best examples is Chen Hui-yen, who at 28 presents anything but the stereotypical image of the traditional dough sculptor. Nevertheless, six years ago she decided to enter this unique world of creativity to show that artistry in dough has as yet untapped dimensions.
Chen graduated from Fu-Hsin Trade and Arts School, a prestigious vocational high school in suburban Taipei, where she studied art design. She thus has a solid background in sketching, painting, and sculpture. Her interest in dough as a medium began just after marriage, when she occupied her free time by taking a class in dough sculpting sponsored by the China Youth Corps. The exposure inspired her to explore in greater depth this craft she had long admired.
"I was fascinated by dough," she recalls. "It was much cleaner to work with than clay, and had an unparalleled plasticity that made intricate detail possible." But Chen soon encountered frustrations. The art was confined to strict subject boundaries, and although her teachers were all masters, their fixed manners of expression left little room for originality.
Chen finally struck off on her own. Drawing on her training in other forms of art, she began producing more lifelike figures based on a greater diversity of themes. She also experimented with various dough preparations, which she deemed more suitable to her subject matter.
"Traditional dough figures don't last long," she says. "Despite a protective layer of oil given to the figures, their life span is no more than 10 years. Eventually cracks appear, and mold begins to grow on them. Moisture is their main enemy. I spent three years experimenting with wheat and sticky rice flour, adding special preservatives to prolong the life of my works. I can now produce figures that will probably last 40 years. But I'm still not satisfied. I hope someday to produce a mixture that lasts as long as pottery."
Dough has distinct advantages over clay pottery. The latter has a rougher texture than dough, which works against achieving minute detail. Rice-dough allows for such intricacies as eyelashes and eyebrows on figures, details ill-suited to pottery. Dough also enjoys rapid fixation, unlike clay which remains moist long after the molding is done. Clay has little viscosity, which forces an artist to resort to carving tools after the work dries to chip out small details. And a final disadvantage of clay is its plain color, which can only be modified by special baking and glazing techniques. Chen uses colored dough, as does Shih, to form her figures.
Chen's rendering of The God of Longevity, modeled on an ancient painting.
Chen's husband, who is also an art and design graduate, is equally impressed with the great potential of dough as an art medium. A year ago, the couple decided to open up their own workshop in one of Taipei's new residential districts. Both hope they might someday establish a museum for dough art works, but the idea is only a dream for the moment. "We are only two people, and to do what we want will take the sponsorship of many others," her husband sighs.
Chen is somewhat critical of the way dough sculpture is currently done. "The traditional figures are lifeless," she says. "Tradition dictates that human lips, for example, be as expressionless as possible. The old masters also tend to use unnatural, bright colors that convey little authenticity or sophistication. And the choice of subjects is too unimaginative, limited to characters from Chinese folk tales or cartoons."
Her answer to these criticisms is clear from her own works, which are destined for other uses than altars or toys. These are free-standing works of art. Chen has studied traditional paintings to determine the appropriate color and style for her figures. She pays close attention to realistic proportions, making them look more true to life. One original orientation she has tried with success is creating entire panoramas, with many figures acting out a scene, rather than the single-figure approach used by most masters.
She favors sculpting human forms, often fashioning children, women, and grotesques. The latter include figures of hunchbacks, folk devils, and monsters. Despite their shapes, they exhibit a sense of vigorous movement. Other subjects include persons signifying luck, such as the "five fairies" and the 18 Arhats of Buddhist theology.
When Chen molded the figures of the 18 Arhats, she exaggerated their physical gestures and musculature. This required a solution to the problem of the normally frail bamboo support, which was resolved by using two supports and a network of small branches as the skeleton. Such a break with tradition required "a basic knowledge of classical sculpture," she says. Her formal training is useful in other ways as well. She often sketches out scenes before deciding on a final layout for her more complicated works.
Her scenes of children feature realistic backgrounds, and in one series focusing on the seasons, the dough is in the form of earth, snow, water, plants, and leaves. Another scene portrays an event from the celebrated story of three hunchbacks who met at a crossroad and complained to one another that no more "straight" people could be found in the world.
Chen rejects the traditional practice of coating figures with oil, because she thinks this makes dough figures look like they are made of plastic. "The texture of dough is unique, and I hate to spoil it with oil," she says.
Her experimentations with the medium have recently gained greater recognition. Last March she held an exhibition at the Taipei Fine Arts Museum, and in May she received the National Cultural Award for outstanding achievement in art. Currently, she is preparing for a show in Hawaii, but like other artists in dough, she has found sideline art work useful for its financial returns. Her talents have attracted attention from McDonald's, 7-Eleven, and several local companies which have commissioned her to render their logos in dough.
Chen and her husband are more optimistic than some of the older dough artists about the survival of the craft. While they expect to teach a wider circle of artists, they believe the establishment of a museum and more government publicity would greatly assist the survival and expansion of dough sculpture. Thanks to the living combination of traditional expertise and modern experimentation with dough figures in Taiwan, there is every reason to be confident about the survival and growth of this unique art form.