Taiwan Today

Ruminations of a Zen master or a Taoist recluse? It could well be either, but is in fact a poem written and chanted by artist Yu Peng as part of a mime drama at the opening of his most recent exhibition of paintings in Taipei.

More than just philosophical reverie, Yu's poem can be understood as a personal statement of his approach to art. Unwilling to be fettered by orthodox principles, he lets his art, like his mind, go where it will.

Whether it be in painting, pottery, sculpture, or his other diverse artistic pursuits, Yu Peng rejects being identified with the conventions of any particular school or chronological period. He instead prefers a primordial technique of his own, which he calls "letting things flow naturally," to express his unique artistic experience.

This approach has led some more traditional Chinese artists to criticize his work as being immature and weak in basic technique. But others appreciate his freshness as well as his bold challenge to centuries of artistic tradition.

Yu was born in the Taipei suburb of Waishuanghsi in 1955. There was nothing in his early childhood that augured well for a future in art, although the clear streams and lush mountain scenery of his hometown no doubt influenced his rove of nature. His first serious encounter with art occurred in junior high school. "We had an art teacher who taught us how to carve and print traditional Chinese woodblock prints," he recalls. "I was captivated by the technique, the use of colors, and the wide variety of expression possible with the prints." Yu's later use of color in his paintings is in fact reminiscent of Chinese woodblock prints, and in 1985 he even established a woodblock print workshop, confirming the influence of this early experience.

By far the most important early chapter in Yu's art education came a few years later. "In high school I had an art teacher named Chen Yi-keng who really inspired me," he says. "She changed my whole life. In the early mornings before class or after school she gave painting classes, and she refused to take any tuition. It was a labor of love."

Yu had found a truly accomplished teacher, for Chen was a gifted student herself. She had the unusual distinction of being admitted into the art department at National Taiwan Normal University after completing only one year of high school. While a student, she had the good fortune to study with the well-known local painters Huang Chun-pi and Pu Hsin-yu, the latter being the cousin of China's last emperor Pu Yi.

But Yu's good fortune went beyond the benefits of having a studio teacher with first-class ability and training. In time-honored Chinese tradition, he became her disciple. After his first year of high school, Chen invited him to move in with her family, formally establishing the master-disciple relationship that for a Chinese is almost equivalent to a blood relationship.

"Under my teacher's watchful eye, I stayed out of trouble. And she was also able to keep tabs on my progress in art and other academic studies. There was really no personal gain for her in doing this, although I did help with some chores around the house and occasionally looked after her young children. It was like being a part of the family, and in this way my study with her was very natural."

During Yu's four years in his teacher's home, Chen trained him in the basics—drawing, still life sketching, traditional watercolor painting, and even Western oil painting, a subject not taught in high school. "Besides studying painting itself, I learned how my teacher approached the creative process herself, and how she put her work in perspective with daily life."

Of even broader significance, Chen's artistic talent extended to several mediums. By high school she was already writing novels, and in the university she turned to acting as well. Even though she majored in art, after graduation she initially taught music. "She first came to our high school to teach arts and crafts," Yu says. "Only later did she start to teach painting. Her versatility greatly influenced my own thinking and encouraged me to broaden my own artistic orientations."

Despite a seemingly ideal learning situation, Yu was not altogether satisfied. He was reluctant to study the conventional methods of basic technique, and was bored with learning the skills necessary for mastering established painting styles. Despite the desires of his teacher and parents that he enter the university as an art student, Yu failed the national university entrance exam twice.

"Actually, I was totally uninterested in entering a university," Yu says. "I didn't want a formal art education because I was convinced that it would stifle natural artistic creativity. But I couldn't refuse to take the exams. Why did I fail? Quite honestly, my academic abilities were rather poor, since I spent all of my time painting and reading books about art. "

Although Yu insists he did not want to rebel against his teacher's emphasis on learning basic artistic techniques, he admits that he simply "didn't want to get bogged down" by copying the works of others. "I thought it was more important to let my own creativity flow naturally and develop my own style," he says.

Yu lived and studied with his teacher for two more years after graduating from high school, then entered the military to fulfill his service obligation. Meanwhile, his teacher emigrated to the United States.

In 1977, after leaving military duty, Yu enrolled in a Chinese watercolor painting class at the Chinese Armed Forces Cultural Center. Li Chi-mao, the instructor, was then the director of the National Taiwan Academy of Arts. "Professor Li would demonstrate to us various formulas for painting people—different angles, proportions, and so on—then have us practice. When he walked around the room to check our progress, he would nod or make a comment here and there. But when he got to me he would look at the work on my desk and yell 'what's this trash you're scribbling on the paper?' I guess I was more interested in doing my own thing than practicing his techniques. I got a verbal thrashing every class, and it proved to be an exercise in futility. Before long, I left the class."

Yu still had no job, and was not interested in further academic studies. "In Taiwan, once a male finishes his military service, the next step is to get a job," Yu explains. "But I didn't start a regular career at the time. I focused on my painting. Of course, the very realistic problem of survival arose, so by the end of 1977 I started selling my art."

The market response to the latest artist on the scene was not overwhelming. "There was some interest, but 12 years ago art appreciation in Taiwan was still at a rather undeveloped stage," he says. "When my works were included in gallery exhibitions in those days, it was mostly fellow artists and other intellectuals who came to look at my art. In fact, quite a few of the paintings I sold were to other artists." Yu made enough to survive and had time to begin experimenting with other art forms as well, including Chinese shadow puppet drama and pottery.

The next major step in Yu's artistic development came in 1981, when he took his first trip abroad. Leaving in late summer, he visited Europe for a few weeks, staying longest in Greece, and then spent three months in mainland China (a trip technically illegal at the time). "The Chinese have a saying that to be knowledgeable a person should read 10,000 books and travel 10,000 miles," Yu says. His trip in fact broadened his experience and helped him put his own "particular orientation" to things in perspective.

While in Greece, Yu held a one-man exhibition of charcoal sketches at the Diogenes International Gallery in Athens. In China, he traveled to many historic and scenic spots, such as the Yellow Mountains in Anhwei Province and West Lake in Hangchow. He also visited modern and ancient pottery kiln sites and spoke with local painters and artists.

"That trip was a real milestone—I gained so much practically and spiritually," Yu says. "In Greece I really felt that I was face to face with the roots of Western culture. Even though my experiences there stimulated my thinking, there wasn't much of an emotional attachment to what I saw. But when I traveled through mainland China, I had an emotional experience of such magnitude that I can hardly begin to describe it. I sensed very clearly that my roots were Chinese, and that was what I was expressing in my art."

His memories of mainland China had a lasting emotional impact. "For four years after I returned, I often had insomnia. I would sit up nights turning over and over in my mind what I had experienced. I was so moved by the landscapes I had seen that they were always in front of my eyes, whether I was awake or dreaming, just like a silent movie which kept repeating itself."

Yu was particularly impressed with the influence of China's scenery on traditional painting, a reality he could only imagine previously. "Now the Yellow Mountains flashing before my eyes were the real Yellow Mountains, not those of my imagination," he says. "When I saw the masterpieces of Chinese landscape painting in the National Palace Museum in Taipei after returning, I felt attuned to what they were expressing. I realized that the scenes were real, not just figments of somebody's imagination. It took me almost four years to digest what I had experienced and incorporate it into my work. Only then did the insomnia stop."

At this time Yu also began serious work in the areas of stone sculpture and pottery. His desire to work in stone had its roots in Greece. "Looking at the numerous stone sculptures, first in Greece and later the very different ones in mainland China, I sensed something primordial and natural about stone that appealed to me. After all, stone was the earliest artistic medium of mankind. There is a strength in stone not found in two-dimensional art. Painting is fragile in comparison, like a cake of bean curd. You need strength and stamina to carve stone. It stimulates not only the mind, but the body as well."

His interest in pottery had deeper roots. "I had actually begun to experiment with pottery 10 years earlier, but it wasn't until I got back from the mainland that I really immersed myself in it," Yu says. "At that time I built a complete pottery workshop, including a gas-fired kiln, electric throwing wheel, and drying racks. I began by experimenting with different clays and glazes, studying examples of both traditional Chinese pottery and modern Western works."

Yu sought some instruction in the basics from well-known potters—hand shaping, wheel throwing, combining glazes, and other skills. These abilities reinforced the valuable information and insights he had gained by visiting numerous kiln sites in mainland China, such as Chingtechen in Kiangsi Province, which has been one of the most important centers for the production of pottery and porcelain in the mainland since the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644).

The output of Yu's kiln is varied indeed. In addition to more conventional wheel-thrown pieces, such as vases and bowls, he has a penchant for modeling rapidly executed clay figurines of people and animals. His hand-molded teapots turned out to be some of his best work. Yu has long been an aficionado of Chinese tea drinking, but his initial inspiration to try his own hand at making pots came after a firsthand look at a personal collection of fine antique specimens which had been produced at the historically acclaimed site of Yihsing in Kiangsu Province. After borrowing several reference works about Yihsing teapots, he began to produce—in a rare example of artistic imitation—teapots in the chu lun chu style prevalent towards the end of the Ming Dynasty.

Unlike potters who work with a variety of multicolored glazes, Yu either paints on the outside of the piece, leaving it unglazed, or applies his own celadon glazes, which often achieve an elegant beauty. Although critics frequently complain about an apparent lack of refined technique in his pottery, Yu says: "My pottery, like my painting, is free and unrestrained. Too much focus on the utilitarian side tends to stifle art. It is not my desire to produce a perfectly symmetrical plate or round vase. I am more intent on expressing, both in form and color, the spirit inherent in traditional Chinese pottery."

Over the past eight years Yu has held several pottery exhibitions and has received several commissions to produce stone sculptures, including one by the Taipei city government for three mammoth stone statues for a local park. Some artists might find that this assortment of pursuits would interfere with the focused attention necessary for creative success in one artistic field, but Yu holds quite a different view. "I think a stagnation of creativity would develop if I just spent all my time sitting in a studio painting. To keep the juices flowing you need to vary your routine. Taking an excursion out in the mountains does it for me. So does throwing pottery and carving in stone. When I come back to painting, it's fresh."

Despite the power of mainland China's towering mountains in Yu's memory, some critics say his work conveys the "Taiwan experience." For example, Jason Kuo, a professor of art history at Williams College in Massachusetts, says: "Yu Peng belongs to a generation of artists who grew up and were educated in Taiwan without extensive Western influence. I can sense elements of Taiwan folk art and culture in his paintings. Of course this doesn't preclude other influences in his painting, but I see a predominance of Taiwan in his work."

Yu agrees to a certain extent with this characterization. "Taiwan is where I was born and grew up," he says. "The air I breathe, the rice I eat, the joys and frustrations I experience, the scenes I observe on a daily basis—they all come from Taiwan. My link with local culture is undeniable. But I must say that when I am painting there is no conscious effort to communicate anyone particular thing or message. Instead it's a flow that comes naturally. If an artist is being honest, what goes onto the paper is an expression of himself in many ways. So those who see a Taiwan influence in my work are not off the mark, but I am not purposefully trying to express that."

Yu's approach to composition is one of the most unorthodox aspects of his paintings. He does not rely on a familiar perspective or time reference to hold the picture plane together, so viewers are jolted into a sort of tense excitement when looking at his landscapes. Perhaps the most unusual composition technique he uses is the combination in one painting of various scenes that are unrelated in time and space. "Different events in my life, my family, and friends, can all find their way into the same painting," Yu says. "In some ways it's like a diary."

The most representative example of this type of painting is one commissioned in 1985 by Ku Te-chang, the son of Wellington Ku, China's ambassador to the United States during the Truman era. The younger Ku wanted the painting for display during his father's 100th birthday celebration.

When finished, Yu's work was a collage-like composition of events in Wellington Ku's lengthy public career, as well as his family and private life. The painting even included the three times Ku was mugged in New York's Central Park. Besides his use of color and brushwork, Yu Peng relied on the size and positioning of different events in the painting to indicate their significance in Ku's life. The result was an unusual "biographical" painting.

Bright colors and "unrefined" brushwork have come to characterize Yu's artistic style. "From a classical Chinese point of view, his use of color may seem somewhat garish at first," Professor Kuo says, "but when you look at the Tunhuang Cave paintings of over a thousand years ago you can see that early Chinese artists were not afraid to be colorful. The subdued tones came later on. So in that sense Yu Peng's paintings are new, but also old. As for his brushwork, it's not attractive in the ordinary sense of the word. I think he is trying to achieve an intentional awkwardness which the Chinese call cho. This awkwardness is the antithesis of showing off technical dexterity, which can become a mechanical exercise rather than art."

But Kuo adds a note of criticism: "I think some paintings in fact lack quality brushwork. Brushwork is the most important and enduring quality of a painting; colors fade and subject matter becomes irrelevant to later viewers, but brushwork remains the final criterion for a good painting. One problem in Taiwan today is that many young artists are forced to sell paintings, so they have to produce large numbers of works. Of course, Yu Peng is still young, and his style may very well change, but I think he needs to be more careful and deliberate in developing his skills with the brush."

Despite criticisms of his giving insufficient attention to basic artistic skills and techniques, Yu's fortunes in the art marketplace took a decided turn for the better last year when he signed a contract with Chang Sung-jen of Hanart Gallery to act as his agent. Just a few months previously, he had held an exhibit at an independent gallery in Taipei at which he sold only five paintings. One was purchased by a fellow artist, and the gallery owner bought the others after his young daughter poked her finger through them.

Things have been considerably different since then. At the end of last year he sold every painting shown at a New York gallery, close to 50 in all. This success was followed by rewarding exhibits in Taiwan and Hong Kong. "In the 1980s it's obvious that you need a good agent in order to sell your paintings," Yu says.

A Taipei exhibition held this past summer, included some of Yu's stone and bronze sculptures as well as his paintings. At the opening, he also put on a mime drama called "Joy at a Friend's Visit" with an actor friend from Korea. "It gave me a chance to portray a side of my lifestyle which is perhaps not so obvious in my paintings," he says. But Yu's success in art gallery sales raises the question of whether he will seek to adapt his art to market demands.

Yu is both realistic and optimistic about the situation. "Once you have agreed to work with an agent, you can't refuse to sell your art, but you don't have to stop your progress," he says. "I don't intend to start painting to please set patterns. Art and society mutually influence each other, but I think it's more desirable for artists to create new horizons rather than continuing to work within a narrow framework of what people come to expect of you. Anyway, market success is not the true criterion for the quality of art. That will be left to art critics and historians later on."

Would interest in his work abroad make him consider leaving Taiwan? "I grew up at a time when people thought there was greater potential and opportunity for artistic expression abroad," Yu says. "I realize that Taiwan is where I belong because so much of my expression and inspiration is rooted here. Environment has a great influence on art, and to really express your culture you have to keep that environmental tie with the place where you were born and grew up. I can't see myself continuing to draw from the wellsprings of my own culture while living abroad."

In a society that has long stressed adherence to traditional standards, Yu dares to be different. He continues to express his deep-rooted feelings for his culture in ways that suit him best. And he is essentially unconcerned about the place of his art in the future. "I will deal with the problems of tomorrow when tomorrow comes," he says. "Today I just want to concern myself with creating art in whatever situation I find myself"—certainly an instance of homespun Taiwan Zen.