In Memory of Zhu Xinjian

Author: Yiwen Xu

Originally written in Chinese; Translated into English by Xie Nian in 2015; Edited by Yiwen Xu

Beauty, Zhu Xinjian, 1996

1

The latest issue of People Weekly dedicated a great space to Zhu Xinjian. In memory, he was my dad’s close friend, my childhood friend Zhu Zhu’s old man, and an eccentric uncle who scribbles weird things, but to be honest, there were barely other intersections we came across in life.

But he rocked my world with his death. His image has been haunting me ever since. I guess maybe as a person, he is too unique to be obliterated from the memory of our time.

2

“To be crazy, or to die”.

It was quoted by the magazine in an attempt to recapitulate Zhu’s character.

But maybe I was too young to witness the craziness he was known for.

Back then, I had a group of little buddies, all about the same age, living closely in a housing community. For us, the best time of the day to hang out in the yard and play from door to door came after supper. My favorite place to go was Zhu Zhu’s, not only because of Zhu Zhu but also her mom, Aunt Lu Yi, who, in addition to being always very nice to me, was a talented cook. Her Western-influenced cooking had always attracted my appetite, and I wanted to go to their house for dinner.

Facing the open door of the studio sat the dining table, from where I could gain a glimpse of Uncle Zhu, who always bent over his table to doodle across rice paper with ink and color. He looked pensive all the time, though, with his eyes constantly clouded with thoughts, deep and intangible. He neither smiled nor joined us for dinner, no matter how Aunt Lu Yi urged him. After dinner, I took delight in snuggling on their sofa, staring at the TV for the amazing Calabash Bros.

I never made a move until my parents knocked on the door between eight to nine o’clock. Not until then would Uncle Zhu finally rise from his chair to have a quick snack of the leftovers.

He was so different from any other adults I knew, who all seemed to enjoy making me laugh and talking to each other. Uncle Zhu remained distant and indifferent, which made me slightly afraid of seeing him later.

3

“Zhu Zhu, what the heck does your dad paint all day long”?

“Naked little persons”, said Zhu Zhu unabashedly, even with a little pride.

Later, when I became old enough to go to elementary school, I started to develop an awareness of what these paintings were all about. Although I forgot exactly since when I came to realize Uncle Zhu was fond of drawing women, scantily clad and seductive ones, but I do remember when I learned they were considered vulgar in the eyes of the public, I wanted to goad a different answer from Zhu Zhu by asking the same question of what her dad was on to. To my surprise, she still didn’t care a thing at all, which made me both a little disappointed and a little ashamed.

So the serious-looking uncle Zhu was a perverted old man? I couldn’t help snickering at it, echoing those who smile knowingly when they see such provocative pictures.

Now, when I view Uncle Zhu’s works again, I don’t feel laughing anymore as I have started to understand.

However, the voice bashing Zhu’s works for being filthy and lacking techniques still lingers on. But really, how a person interprets a painting mirrors their true color, as I’ve always believed.

Chen Danqing once said: We were all sexually oppressed, all trying to hide our angst. But he (Zhu Xinjian) dared to show it off.

Presumably, when a genius begins to exhaust his insights into the euphoria rooted in the original desire, it might be the beginning of that person stepping into a great void and desolation.

4

The most indelible memory old Uncle Zhu left me was when he recovered from a serious illness.

I was 11 that year. Right after the illness took him down, he was hit by a severe stroke. Aunt Lu Yi became increasingly anxious as Uncle Zhu remained in a critical condition. We visited her. With tears rolling down her cheeks, eyes red and trembling, she confided to my mother. As she talked out her despair, she lit up a More Slim. And as she breathed the smoke in and out, she let the tears set and dry on her face. I never forgot that face.

After some time, I heard from my father that Uncle Zhu had made a recovery, although not as good as before. There was a slur to his words now, and his movement was less efficient. But the good news that he managed to paint with the left hand, more or less reassured me, only without giving me a clue how much he could have changed in the appearance.

Every day, I walked back home after school from the other end of the Caochangmen Bridge. My old Co-op at Stone City was small and a little dilapidated. On a messy corner of the yard, however, a Chinese parasol thrived to reach the sky. When school was out, rays of sunlight streamed through the branches, shading them to different tones, which always brought me extra delight. That afternoon, I was enjoying it as usual, humming the latest hits while taking a brisk walk towards home.

A vague figure approached from a near distance. With the right hand still against his chest and the left arm limping to the side, this grey-haired man used his left leg to drag his right leg along. The encounter with such a pathetic, weird guy extracted me out of the state of relaxation, and compelled me to measure him in alarm.

Then I saw his eyes, wet and blurred, looking so familiar. Could it be...? The thought sent a chill up my spine. It had been quite a while indeed since he was ill.

At the same time, he seemed to notice me and so stopped.

“Un…Uncle Zhu?” I sounded tentative.

“Mmm,” he muttered to himself.

And it seemed out of a sudden, my nickname hit him, “Mei…Mei? MeiMei!” He babbled it out.

Then he uninhibitedly smiled, reaching his already raised right arm out to shake my hand.

Never in a million years would I expect it to turn out to be this friendly guy was Uncle Zhu.

This was the first time I saw him smiling, innocent like a child, with his eyes becoming lucid. Perhaps, I won’t ever forget that clean smile.

Is it a sharp twist of fate or like a phoenix rising from the ashes? This once alienated and insolent genius artist just transformed into a different person like that.

Some people believe that Uncle Zhu has transcended himself with his left-handed works. No longer noisy, these new paintings forged a freewheeling, and even non-materialistic-non-mentalistic style, according to them.

5

The Chinese parasol changed it colors once again with the cycle of the seasons and its ever-changing atmosphere; Jade, to deep green, then to a browning yellow. And when the burning yellow spread from the tip of the leaves to the whole canopy, the leaves fell off into the wind, swirling, like little boats of light memories, which then turned into dust.

I bid farewell to my old house, and waved goodbye to friends I had for more than ten years.

The move estranged me from many things and people I used to be close to. Bit by bit, I no longer hung out and even talked to Zhu Zhu. And bit by bit, I could only hear from my father what was going on with the Zhus.

It was said that Zhu Zhu went to the U.S. for schooling, that Uncle Zhu and Aunt Lu separated, and that Zhu Zhu no longer remembers her sister Mei Mei from her childhood. Also, it was said that Uncle Zhu had his first wife back and moved to Beijing for his career. And on top of that, Uncle Zhu was said to only be able to move in a wheelchair, his health continuing to deteriorate...

As each road in our lives became longer and more distinct, the intersections that we shared became less and less until there were none left.

6

The afternoon of February 9 saw the first snow of this year. As the infinite snowflakes began their descent, they began to express the limitless freedom they represent.

When my father came home that evening, he reminded me of the urgency to see Uncle Zhu in Beijing, because it seemed that the days left for him were numbered.

“Famous Artist Zhu Xinjian Passed Away,” two in the morning of February 10, a headline hit the computer screen, freezing the air.

All of a sudden, my father missed out on his last chance to say goodbye to Uncle Zhu.

7

With eyes closed, I can always conjure up the picture of that afternoon; he struggled to drag the right leg while the left leg stamped on the ground, step by step, slowly and clumsily. However, in my mind, he turned his back on me, which somehow relieved me of the awkward feelings I had.

The wind rises abruptly.

It scattered the leaves fallen behind him.

Step by step, he was moving on, enveloped within the air captured in a memory.

On the small road in my old neighborhood, he walked farther and farther away.