Our love for rhythmic or wavy lines or broken lines and our hatred of straight, dead
lines become obvious when it is remembered that we have never perpetrated anything
quite as ugly as the Cleopatra's Needle. Some modern Chinese architect has
perpetrated a Western-styled lighthouse-shaped thing called the West Lake Exhibition
Memorial, and it stands there amidst the beauties of West Lake like a sore on a
beauty's face, causing all sorts of eye troubles when one looks at it too long.
It would be easy to give examples of our devices to break straight, dead lines. The
best classic example is perhaps the balustraded round bridge. The round bridge
harmonizes with nature, because it is in a curve and because it is balustraded. Its
spans are not as long and its balustrades not as useful as the steel trusses of the
Brooklyn Bridge, but no one can deny that it suggests less human cleverness and
more beauty. Consider also the pagoda, and how its entire beauty derives from the fact
that its outline is broken by a succession of projecting roofs, especially those end- lines
that curl upward like the slanting strokes of Chinese writing. Consider also the
peculiar pair of stone pillars outside the Tienanmen at Peiping. Nothing is more
striking than the wavy- lined symbol of clouds placed horizontally across the top on
each pillar, resulting in a form unparalleled in audacity even in Chinese art. The
pillars themselves have a wavy surface, whatever the pretext may be, It happens that
the waves represent clouds, but this is an artistic pretext to introduce rhythm into the
surface. The stone pillars of the Temple of Confucius bear, too, the wavy lines of the
entwining dragons. Because the wavy lines of the dragon's body help to break the
straight lines, we find the dragon constantly used as a useful decorative motive, apart from its symbolic value.
Everywhere we try to catch and incorporate the natural rhythm of nature and imitate
its irregularity. The spirit underlying it all is still the spirit of animism in calligraphy.
We break the lines of window bars by using green-glazed t3es of the bamboo pattern.
We dare to use round and oblong and vase-shaped doors to break the monotony of the
straight walls. Our windows are of as many shapes as the small cakes of Western
pastry, imitating a banana leaf, or a peach, or a double-curved melon or a fan. Li
Liweng, poet, dramatist and epicure, was responsible for introducing the branch- inlaid
windows and partitions. The outline of the window is usually straight. Along this
outline, however, he introduced a branchshaped carving, to give the effect of a living
branch stretched across the window. The device is applied to partitions, bedposts and
other types of lattice-work. And lastly, the use of rockery is probably the clearest
example of our efforts to introduce into human architecture the natural irregtdar lines
of nature.
In other words, we see everywhere in Chinese architecture an effort to seek relief
from straight lines through some form of irregularity suggestive of animal and plant
forms. This leads to a consideration of the use of symbolism. The bat, for instance, is
very much used as a decorative motive, because its curved wings are capable of so
many variations in design, but also because it is a homonym for "good luck," The
symbol is the language of the primitive and the child-mind. It is something that every
Chinese woman and child can understand.
But symbolism has, further, the virtue of containing within a few conventional lines
the thought of the ages and the dreams of the race. It kindles our imagination and
leads us into a realm of wordless thought, like the Christian cross or the Soviet
hammer and sickle. For such racial thoughts are so big and so enormous that we
cannot convey them in words. A Chinese pillar goes up in perfect simplicity and then
when it reaches the top and loses itself in a riot of brackets and cornices and bars, we
like to see there, as we look up, a pair of mandarin ducks or a grasshopper or an
ink-slab and a brush. As we look up at the mandarin ducks which always go in pairs in
wedded bliss, our thoughts are turned to woman's love, and as we look at the ink-slab
and the brush, we think of the quiet scholar in Ms study. There, painted in green and
blue and gold are the grasshoppers and the crickets and the mandarin ducks, and it is
as much happiness as we dare to dream of in this earthly life.
Sometimes we paint landscapes, and sometimes we paint the pleasures of home life,
for these are the two eternal themes of Chinese painting.
The dragon is the most honoured animal in China, being a symbol of the Emperor,
who always had the best of ever}-thing. It is most used in art as a decorative motive,
partly because the twining body of the dragon contains in itself such a perfect rhythm,
combining grace with power. I daresay we would have used the snake also, had it not been for the fact that the dragon, as a decorative motive, had a profounder meaning,
besides having those beautiful claws and horns and beards which are always so useful
in breaking monotony. The dragon represents other-worldliness, the "fugitive" or yi
principle we have mentioned before, and it represents great Taoist wisdom, for it often
hides itself among clouds and seldom reveals its whole self. For so is the great
Chinaman. Perfect in wisdom and in power, he yet often chooses to conceal himself.
He could descend to the depths of mountain ponds as he could rise to the clouds.
Beneath the dark waters of the deep pond we cannot see any trace of his existence, but
when he rises, like Chuko Liang, he convulses the whole world. For floods in China
are always caused by the movements of the dragon, and sometimes we can see him
swooping up to heaven in a column of clouds, amidst thunder and lightning, tearing
up houseroofs and uprooting old banyan trees. Why, then, should we not worship the
dragon, the embodiment of power and wisdom?
But, then, the dragon is not a purely mythological or antediluvian entity. To the
Chinese, the mountains and rivers are alive, and in many of the winding ridges of
mountains we see the dragon's back, and wrhere the mountains gradually descend and
merge into the plain or the sea we see the dragon's tail. That is Chinese pantheism, the
basis of Chinese geomancy. Thus, although geomancy is undeniably a superstition, it
has a great spiritual and architectural value. Its superstition consists in the belief that
by placing one's ancestors' tombs in a beautiful scenery, overlooking those dragon
mountains and lion hills, one can bring good luck and prosperity to the dead man's
descendants. If the location and the landscape scenery are truly unique, if, for instance,
five dragons and five tigers unite in making homage to the tomb, it is almost
inevitable that one descendant of the line should found an imperial dynasty, or at least
become a premier.
But the basis of the superstition is a pantheistic enjoyment of Iandscape3 and
gcomancy sharpens our eyes to beauty. We then try to see in the lines of mountains
and general topography the same rhythm we see in animal forms. Everywhere we turn,
nature is alive. Its rhythmic lines sweep east and west and converge toward a certain
point. Again in the beauties of the mountains and rivers and general topography, we
see not a beauty of static proportions but a beauty of movement. A curve is
appreciated less because it is a curve than because it is a sweeping gesture, and a
hyperbola is more appreciated than a perfect circle.
The aesthetics of Chinese geomancy has therefore a very close bearing on Chinese
architecture in the broad sense of the word. It compels discrimination of the setting
and the landscape. By the side of an ancestral grave of one of my friends there was a
little pool. The pool was regarded as propitious because it was interpreted as a
dragon's eye. And when the pool was dried up, the family lost its fortune. As a matter
of fact, the pool, set at one side a distance below the grave, was aesthetically an
important element in the general setting of the grave, balancing a line on the other
side in a subtly beautiful manner, It was, indeed, like the last dot put on the picture of a dragon, representing its eye and making the whole picture alive. In spite of the
superstition and occasional bitter family feuds or clan wars caused by it, as when
someone builds a structure to obstruct the perfect sweep and rhythm of line enjoyed
from the point of the grave or the ancestral hall, or someone digs a ditch somewhere
and therefore breaks the neck of the dragon and dispels all hopes of the family's rise
to power 梚 n spite of all this, I wonder very much whether geomancy has not
contributed more to the richness of our aesthetic life than it has hindered our
knowledge of geology.
For the last and most important element of Chinese archi* tecture always remains its
essential harmony with nature. In a way, the setting is more important than the jewel.
Architecture that is perfect in itself but does not fit into the landscape can only jar us
by its disharmony and by its violent selfassertion, which we call bad taste. The best
architecture is that which loses itself in the natural landscape and becomes one with it,
belongs to it. This principle has guided all forms of Chinese architecture, from the
camel -back bridge to the pagoda, the temple and the little open pavilion on the edge
of a pond. Its lines should soothe but not obtrude. Its roofs should nestle : quietly
beneath the kind shade of trees and soft boughs should gently brush its brow. The
Chinese roof does not shout out loud and does not point its fingers at heaven. It only
shows peace and bows in modesty before the firmament. It is a sign of tne place
where we humans live, and it suggests a certain amount of decency by covering up
our human habitations.
A we 7^ Karate to put a roof on all our houses, and
QO not allow them to stare at heaven in their unashamed
nakedness like modern concrete buildings.
f J u archltecture is that in which we are not made to
W where nature ends and where art begins. For this, the use
01 colour is of supreme importance. The terra-cotta walls of
tte Uimese temple merge harmoniously into the purple of
fe mountain sides, and its glazed roof, laid in green, p4ian
to ff?us a hannomous whole. And
we stand and look at it from a distance and call it beautiful.
Chapter IV
THE ART OF LIVING
I. THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
WE do not know a nation until we know its pleasures of life, just as we do not know a
man until we know how he spends his leisure. It is when a man ceases to do the things
he has to do, and does the things he likes to do, that his character is revealed* It is
when the repressions of society and business are gone and when the goads of money
and fame and ambition are lifted, and man's spirit wanders where it listeth, that we see
the inner man, his real self, Life is harsh and politics is dirty and commerce is sordid,
so that it would often be unfair to judge a man by his public life. For this reason, I
find so many of our political scoundrels are such lovable human beings, and so many
of our futile bombastic college presidents extremely good fellows at home. In the
same way, I think the Chinese at play are much more lovable than the Chinese in
business. Whereas the Chinese in politics are ridiculous and in society are childish, at
leisure they are at their best. They have so much leisure and so much leisurely
joviality. This chapter of their life is an open book for anyone who cares to come near
them and live with them to read. There the Chinese are truly themselves and at their
best, because there they show their best characteristic, geniality.
Given extensive leisure, what do not the Chinese do? They eat crabs, drink tea, taste
spring water, sing operatic airs, fly kites, play shuttle-cock, match grass blades, make
paper boxes, solve complicated wire puzzles, play mzhjong; gamble and pawn
clothing, stew ginseng, watch cock-fights, romp with thenchildren, water flowers,
plant vegetables, graft fruits, play chess, take baths, hold conversations, keep
cage-birds, take afternoon naps, have three meals in one, guess fingers, play at
palmistry, gossip about fox spirits, go to operas, beat drums and gongs, play the flute,
practise on calligraphy, munch duck-gizzards, salt carrots, fondle walnuts, fly eagles,
feed carrier-pigeons, quarrel with their tailors, go on pilgrimages, visit temples, climb
mountains, watch boatraces, hold bullfights, take aphrodisiacs, srnoke opium, gather
at street corners, shout at aeroplanes, fulminate against the Japanese, winder at the
white people, criticize their politicians, read Buddhist classics, practise deep-breathing,
hold Buddhist seances, consult fortunetellers, catch crickets, eat melon seeds, gamble
for moon-cakes, hold lantern competitions, burn rare incense, eat noodles, solve
literary riddles, train pot- flowers, send one another birthday presents, kow-tow to one
another, produce children, and sleep.
For the Chinese have always had geniality, joviality, taste and finesse. The great majority still keep their geniality and their joviality, although the educated ones in
