Fox Spirit 64 – Alien Christmas

Before Richie came, Storm and Sara had paid no attention to the small playground which was part of her university neighborhood. Now its swings and slide were the preferred destination of every after-school walk, with Uncle Cheng as Richie’s preferred playmate. Storm never seemed to tire of pushing Richie on the swing, catching him at the end of the slide, or making roads in the sandbox for Richie’s truck. On their first visit Sara was half indulgent, half impatient as she watched the dark gloss of Storm’s hair tumble from its usual tidy sweep, Richie’s dark-blonde mop flying, the cries of glee from the toddler, the unreserved grin spreading across Storm’s face. But then she threw off her dignity and joined them, demanding her turn at the swings. Soon they were all three chasing each other through the sand box and up and down the slide, Richie leading the way. When they were all panting with laughter Sara stopped the chase at the foot of the slide, tempting Richie with dinner and a special dessert to pull him away from the playground.

            After Richie was tucked into bed, Sara and Storm sprawled across her small sofa, still feeling the unaccustomed workout. “How exhausting to be almost three years old!” Sara sighed, still smiling.

            “But also how liberating!” Storm answered. “It’s delightful to be almost three years old; we should remember in our hearts how to be so free!”

            His face grew serious. “I think I never was like that – maybe I never before was really a child. I was either too young or too old in spirit. Two Ox Village had no playground; there was no playing as we did today. Almost- three must be the perfect age to experience joy. I’m lucky  to find almost- three again.”

            “You’re right,” said Sara, matching his seriousness. “We laughed so much today. For so long I didn’t laugh. I can’t remember laughing when John was sick. It would have been too loud, too wild….”

            “No?” He remembered that morning when he had first really seen her, by the copy machine with her children’s poem. Her face had been lit with laughter, her eyes glowing, hair in copper coils. “When I think of you I think of you laughing –…Yet you say you never laughed?  How could this be?”

            “My husband, even when he was healthy he was already severe. Too much laughter showed a loss of control. When he was sick his life became small and dark. My laughter, my singing disturbed him.”

            Sara turned to Storm, seeming to study him for a moment. “The darkness, the smallness, that’s what I wanted to escape from. When he died I was still in a box. I ran away from my home, my son, my friends, to break out of that box. Do you understand?”

            “Yes. I think so. We share this, the feeling of being in the box. We’re both fighting to escape. I see this now in you.” He bent forward and kissed her.

December 1999

Sara

            Richie was too young to miss an American – style Christmas. He didn’t know that he was supposed to have a giant tree in his house, put out cookies and hang stockings by a chimney, or count the presents under the tree that had his name on them. On Christmas morning he was excited to receive the few books and toys which Sara had managed to snatch up before their flight to Beijing, which she set out Christmas morning underneath the advent calendar she had hung on the wall.

                        On Christmas afternoon Jerry Wang and Silver Wing invited Sara and Richie over for roast duck and baked squash. “I know you’d be having turkey and bread stuffing at home, but this is the best we can manage,” Jerry Wang made the usual polite excuses for the fare, but his hospitable face belied his words. Silver Wing bustled out of the kitchen to greet Sara and Richie, an anxious look on her face. “I forgot to ask you what Riqi would like to eat – will he eat squash? Rice?  I can make some rice…”

            “Richie loves squash,” Sara assured her. “And he’ll like the duck if it is cut up for him. And I brought a spoon. He can’t use chopsticks yet.”

            Silver Wing’s face broke into a smile. “I have a small gift for Riqi that will maybe help him at the table.”  She produced a pair of children’s chopsticks, joined at the end so that a child could practice the pincer action without having to control the long ends. By the end of dinner all three adults were covered in squash bits as Richie practiced with the chopsticks and all four were laughing. The restraint that had come between Sara and Jerry Wang in the past months was gone.

            It would have been even better if Storm had been invited, Sara thought. Maybe another time there could be a pleasant adult foursome laughing at Richie’s attempts. “I wonder if anyone in our office celebrates Christmas?” Sara ventured. “I suppose most of the single young men still live and eat with their families and I don’t think there are any Christians on the staff. Manager Cheng was asking me about Western Christmas celebrations…”  She saw the mask of reserve return over Jerry Wang’s face, Silver Wing’s averted glance. Suddenly she felt awkward.

            “….I think he is maybe a Buddhist?  I suppose there are other Buddhists in the office…” Sara’s sentence trailed off in confusion.

            “If one is a party member there is no place for any religion,” Jerry responded. His voice was almost stern.

            “It’s no matter,” Silver Wing’s gentle voice broke in. “The duck can be enjoyed by a Buddhist as well as by a Christian, or by a good party member. Or even by Richie, who is none of these. You see, he is very satisfied.” All three turned to look at the child, who during the few moments of their inattention had fallen asleep, his head resting on the table.

            The sternness disappeared from Jerry Wang’s face in a moment. He lifted the sleeping toddler and moved him to the sofa, Silver Wing hovering nearby with plumped pillows and anxious suggestions.  

            Sara saw it all with a new understanding. Her boss knew about and disapproved of her affair with Storm, but he and his wife did approve of Richie.  Jerry Wang would be tolerant of Richie’s guardian. But she and Storm must be more discreet. No one else at the office had given any sign about the office romance, but maybe their tolerance had limits. If she lost her job – that would be too complicated to think about. She would have to be more careful. She would talk to Storm. If he lost his job, with no iron rice bowl… she would not think about that. They would both have to be more careful.

Fox Spirit 21 – Beware the Banquet

           The restaurant was a newly-built replica of one of the old courtyard homes, except that everything was larger, brighter, and more elaborate. The long entry loggia was painted with red, carved with golden dragons, and hung with red lanterns. The waiters and waitresses wore red silk brocade tunics trimmed with gold braid. Sara looked curiously into each room as they were escorted to their table. It seemed there were almost no other women. This restaurant was designed for business entertainment and expense accounts. She was reminded again that in China even more than in the US, business was mostly for men.

Rosewood paneling lined the walls of the private dining room, with yellow satin covering the walls above. The chopsticks at each place rested on a golden holder in the shape of a dragon, with a matching ladle for sauces. Gilt dragons, bats, peaches and other lucky symbols decorated the plates. The dark business suits of Jerry Wang, Trueheart Zhang, Chief Engineer Shi and Storm Cheng contrasted severely with the ornate décor. Sara’s green dress was the only color.

            The prospective investors arrived, five more dark-suited men led by CEO Miao.  Miao’s eyes slid over the curves outlined by Sara’s knit dress. “Ah, Mei Le Jing Li,” he said. “We see a new side of you now! Please, you must sit by me.”  He patted the seat next to him at the round table.

            “Oh, no, that would not be correct,” Sara protested. She knew that her place should be on the opposite side and well away from the most important guest. Miao should be facing Jerry Wang, with their aides arranged in descending order to right and left around the circle.

            “But I insist!  I must practice my English, to prepare for our international success, right? Please come.”  He patted the chair again.  Sara tried to catch Wang’s eye – what should she do?  Trueheart instead caught her glance, shrugged and moved his head sideways. He seemed to be directing her around the table – a non-verbal “Give him what he wants”. She moved reluctantly to the other side of the table.

            Too late, Sara saw that Jerry Wang’s lips were pressed together in a straight line. He hesitated a fraction of a second and then beckoned to the hovering waiter. “Bai jiu.”  The waiter vanished, then reappeared with a frosted bottle on a tray with ten small cups. The cups were distributed around the table and then filled with a clear liquid. Jerry Wang lifted his cup. “Toast to our good business relationship – ganbei!”  He drained his cup. “Ganbei!” replied Miao, draining his cup in return, as did his four aides and the four men from Rainbow Software. Sara sat frozen. What was in the cup?  It could not be too strong, for the men to toss it down so easily. She hoped no one had noticed her failure to drink.

            Miao looked down at her cup. “You don’t drink? You don’t toast? This won’t be good luck. You must drink with me.”

            “But… I have no head for liquor. I am not accustomed…”

            “Nonsense. This is only rice wine… not strong at all. You must toast with me!  To our good relationship – drink with me!”  Miao was obviously not used to opposition.

            “I can’t be rude,” Sara thought. “Maybe just one cup. I can go along that far.”  She tossed her hair back and raised the cup. “Ganbei!”  She sipped from the cup.

            “No, no!  Ganbei! It means ‘dry cup’!  You must empty the cup. It’s Chinese tradition! Come, do it again!”  Miao filled his cup again, raised it, and waited for Sara to raise hers. “Now, together!  Ganbei!”  He waited. Sara repeated “Ganbei!” and drained her cup. Miao applauded, followed by his aides, and then, more slowly, by the group from Rainbow Software.

            Course followed course, each with its round of toasts. Miao and Jerry Wang took turns calling the waiter aside to order some special delicacy. The room was growing warm. The men took off their suit jackets and carefully arranged them on the backs of their chairs and the conversation somehow grew louder. Sara took care not to catch Miao’s eye, as he was openly eyeing her scooped neckline. A waiter brought a dish and set it before Miao with a flourish.

            “Ah, this is a special dish from my region. I hope you will like it.”  He spooned a small heap of crispy fried lumps of meat mixed with vegetables onto her plate. “Try!  Try!”

            Sara obediently took a small experimental mouthful. The meat had a grainy texture, something like a chicken gizzard. The strong flavor was nearly hidden by the ginger and peppers in the sauce; she swallowed; it wasn’t bad.

            Miao was watching her eagerly. “Do you like it?  You like?  This is very good for your system.”

            “Yes, it is very good. What is it?”

            “Ah, it’s hard to translate.”  Miao conferred with his aide, then with Trueheart. There was some sort of joke. The men were laughing, glancing at her sideways.

            “Trueheart Zhang.” Sara spoke as firmly as she could, given the bai jiu. “What is this dish? What is the joke?”

            Trueheart shifted uneasily in his seat. “Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

            Miao interrupted. “I will explain.” His face was getting red from the rounds of bai jiu, his smile was broad.  “These are… I do not know the word. From Mr. Chicken – the part that makes him a mister – little round balls. You know? Very good for men; women like them too, I think.”

            Rooster testicles. Sara had heard that in Chinese tradition, eating the sexual organs of male animals would enhance virility. They hoped she would be embarrassed.

            She narrowed her eyes, turned, and smiled sweetly up at Miao. “I would not have thought you would need this help.” His eyes widened; then he burst into a guffaw of laughter. The rest of the table joined him, relieved that he had taken the turning of the joke well. Sara took advantage of the moment to beckon to the waiter. “Qing lai yi bei suda shui. Please bring me a bottle of sparkling water.”  She had had enough bai jiu toasts; Miao’s eyes were still sliding up and down her body and who knew how many courses remained?

            Finally the traditional fish was presented to Miao, a whole rock cod, head, tail and fins intact, swimming glassy-eyed in a red sauce dotted with bits of green peppers. “Please, let me serve you;” Miao reached for the large spoon which accompanied the platter and carefully scooped out one staring eyeball. He waved the spoon dripping with sauce in front of Sara.  Is best bite – special for you.”

            “No, no, that’s not right,” Sara protested. “You are our guest, please, for you…”  But Miao insisted, spooning the gelatinous morsel onto her plate. The disembodied eye glared up at her reproachfully.  

Fox Spirit 17 – Picnic Beijing-style

/October 1997

Sara

            The bicycle gave Sara freedom to explore beyond the campus of Bei Hua University, sheltered in the prestigious northeastern part of the city. As she grew more confident of her ability to find her way back to Bei Hua, she went north toward Yuan Ming Guan, the park enclosing the ruins of the Summer Palace, and south past the Fourth Ring Road to the Zhong Guan Cun hi-tech center. At first she was daunted by the wide bike avenues which paralleled the main streets radiating from the Forbidden City, center of Beijing – they were so crowded, so disorganized. Then gradually she grew accustomed to merging with the flow of thousands of bicyclists, all laden with food, building materials, household supplies, or an extended family. She grew accustomed also to the stares and comments as she pedaled along. She learned to refer to all men who called out to her as “uncle”, all women as “little sister”. This brought grins to surrounding faces and allowed her to pedal onward amid smiles when the lights changed. She might not look Chinese, but soon she could slip through the crowds almost as smoothly as a native.

            Since he had helped her obtain the bicycle Sara had seen nothing of Storm Cheng. Then one morning as she wheeled her bicycle onto the sidewalk in front of the office, he was there, talking animatedly to Jerry Wang. They paused and moved aside as she reached for the door.

            “You see, I am making great use of your kindness,” she said to Cheng. He nodded, his eyes moving from the bungee cord attaching her coat and satchel to the back of the bike, to her helmet and the smiling face beneath it. He held the door open for her and allowed her to pass with the bicycle. By the time she had parked it in the space behind the reception desk Cheng was already at his cubicle. Jerry Wang had followed him and stopped Sara before she reached her chair.

            “You have found a bicycle? A very good idea. I wish I had thought to have one ready for you.”  He paused, then started again, more loudly, as if he had realized that others would be listening. “So, you have explored the city while I have been away, yes? You’ve seen the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace, Bei Hai Park?  Soon you will be able to lead tours?”

            Sara answered with no attempt to match his humor.  “Yes, I’ve ridden as far as the Summer Palace, and even the Forbidden City. I haven’t been to Bei Hai Park – I don’t know what that is. Is it far?”

            Wang hesitated a moment, then turned to speak over the cubicle wall where Trueheart Zhang was conferring with Scarlet Li – “Zhang!  Li! Manager Miller has not seen Bei Hai!  We should show her!”

            In a flash Scarlet Li took over the idea. “Of course!   Next week is National Day. We will have a company picnic, American style, hao ma?” She stood and beat her pencil against the cubicle walls to get the attention of the engineers

            Sara was embarrassed – “No, no – too inconvenient”, but Scarlet Li overrode her protestations. “It’s good to celebrate together and Bei Hai is very lovely in autumn. It’s good also for husbands, wives and children to know our colleagues. You give us a good reason to do a good thing – all good!  Each family will bring one dish, how do you say this in English? In Chinese “chi bianfan” – eat informally.”

            “Potluck”, we would say”, replied Sara.

            Scarlet Li laughed. “Guan yunqi? That is funny. Don’t be afraid – all the food will be good, I think, all good luck.”  She bustled about to each cubicle, arranging transportation, who would bring what food, where and what time to meet. Sara watched in awe. In retirement, Scarlet Li would probably become an excellent neighborhood watchman.

Storm

In the commotion Trueheart edged over to Storm’s side. “So, Boss Wang wants to entertain Manager Miller at a picnic. I suppose this is a friendly thing.” His lifted eyebrows implied a meaning beyond his words.

            Storm answered in an undertone. “An entertainment where he includes his wife and all the office? I can’t see much harm…”

            “It shows a partiality,” answered Trueheart. “Boss Wang has offered no picnic for you or me!”

            Now it was Cheng’s turn to lift his eyebrows in question. Jerry Wang’s joking words from the first meeting came to his mouth. “Bu bi xiaoqi gui! Mustn’t be jealous.” Only when he saw Trueheart’s lips tighten in anger did Storm remember the sting in those words. He hurried to mollify his friend. “Only a joke, Trueheart. Only a joke!”

            “And a poor one,” Trueheart snapped back.

            “Yes, a poor one. You have no reason to be jealous of this American Face. She is new and exotic, but you are the brains of the company, we all know.”                Trueheart waved away the compliment with the ritual “Nali, nali? Who are you talking about?” Storm  clapped him on the shoulder and took his chance to escape. If Trueheart were going to be touchy about the American Face, the office would become a prickly place. Another reason to be on the road as much as possible.

Sara

            Jerry Wang and Silver Wing picked up Sara on Saturday as arranged. “You sit in front, Silver Wing in back,” Wang directed. “It’s better for your long legs in front.”

            Sara tucked herself into the front seat with a basket held on her lap. “You’ve brought an American specialty?” asked Wang. He sniffed, appreciatively. “Smells good. Smells sweet.”

            “Yes, it’s a traditional American dessert,” replied Sara. “You’ll recognize it, I think.”   She crossed her fingers underneath the basket. She had scoured the market for chocolate and butter and nuts, and though she had a lot of confidence in the universal appeal of chocolate chip cookies, she had less confidence in Chinese chocolate. And she had found that Chinese taste in desserts, whether the hearty bean-filled buns or the astringently dry almond cakes, was nothing like American .

            Bei Hai Park was crowded with tourists, families and other groups eager to enjoy the cool of the lake while celebrating the National Day. A host of vendors selling edible treats, picnic items and souvenirs for a variety of ages and interests lined the walkways. In one paved area young boys practiced stunts on their bicycles surrounded by young girls pretending not to notice. In another paved area elderly men dipped giant brushes in pails of water and painted Chinese characters on the paving stones in graceful calligraphy to be admired by on-lookers before they evaporated. On a grassy lawn ribbon dancers in flowing silk and trailing sleeves, acrobats in bright colors, mimes painted white or bronze, singers, fortune tellers and more, all vied for recognition and coin donations from the onlookers. The White Tower gleamed from its island in the middle of the lake.

           Sara stopped, fascinated, but Silver Wing tugged impatiently at her arm, pulling her toward the rendezvous point at the Nine-Dragon Screen. Scarlet Li had already gathered Jade Wang and the young unmarried engineers together with Scarlet’s husband and 2-year-old daughter.

Sara stopped, fascinated, but Silver Wing tugged impatiently at her arm, pulling her toward the rendezvous point at the Nine-Dragon Screen. Scarlet Li had already gathered Jade Wang and the young unmarried engineers together with Scarlet’s husband and 2-year-old daughter.

            “I don’t see Trueheart Zhang or Storm Cheng,” Boss Wang said.

            “Too bad, Trueheart won’t be here. He called me. His mother is ill. Storm Cheng was just here and I sent him to find a good location near the lake. He’ll wave at us so we can find him.”

            Sara was dubious – it seemed half the people in the throngs of holiday-goers were waving at friends. But somehow it worked; there was Storm Cheng spreading a large blanket on a grassy knoll. He had managed not only a place big enough for the group, but also a place high enough to take advantage of the slight breeze. His cheerful grin as Scarlet Li congratulated him on his good choice took Sara by surprise. She had not seen him really smile before. It made him look so young, maybe the same age as her son Mark.  How could she have been so intimidated by him?

Fox Spirit 8: American Face

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Sara carefully hung up her clothes, donned her nightgown, and washed her underwear in the kitchen sink. She must ask Silver Wing about laundry. She felt exhausted, but sleep would not come easily. She lay awake in her bare room, thinking about the day, turning over her thoughts about the people she had met

Silver Wing – She was so nice, yet she seemed almost afraid of Sara. What had Jerry Wang told her?

The receptionist, Jade Wang, had been pleasant – but then it is the job of a receptionist to be pleasant. She may have been angling for a promotion to junior accountant that got derailed because Jerry Wang had hired Sara.  

The programmers – just out of college, they probably saw her as an old woman, nothing to do with them. Sara set them aside. She could get to know them later if she needed to.

Scarlet Li, the office manager – she had been on her guard until Sara had asked her about the little girl, then she unbent a little. She was closer to Sara’s age than any of the others. She was curious, interested in Sara. She could really help Sara if she wanted.  Sara would have to learn not to resent the personal questions.

Trueheart Zhang – was he worried about Sara coming in to share his work?  If he was he hid it well.

Oh come on, Sara!  Take people at their face value!  You’re not in California! These people have nothing against you!  She turned restlessly. It was only two in the afternoon in California. Her son Mark would be at work. She wondered what he was doing, what Richie was doing, whether they missed her. Come on, Sara!  Go to sleep!

###

            The next afternoon Sara waited at the opening of Trueheart Zhang’s cubicle. She caught a look of alarm as though she had trapped him with no escape. He rose quickly and asked formally, “Can I help you, Mei le Jingli?”

            “I was hoping, can we talk now, Trueheart?”

            Trueheart frowned. “Excuse me, Manager Miller. In the Chinese office we use the family name and title, not first name.”

            Sara stepped back, feeling her hated blush rising. Whenever she felt embarrassed, her face suddenly splotched with red. Trueheart smiled slightly and waited for her to speak.

            Sara began again. “Of course. Pardon me, Manager Zhang. I wished to ask, Jerry Wang – I mean, Boss Wang  – he has told me that he wants me to put an American finish on the accounts of Rainbow Software, so that Western investors will trust us with their money. Do you agree with this?”

            Trueheart laughed nervously. “No problem. Boss Wang has told this to me also. Do you want to see the accounts so soon?  I haven’t prepared them for you yet.”

            “No, there is no hurry today,” Sara replied. “But I have seen your accounts in the Los Angeles office. Even though you were trained in Hong Kong, you easily adapted to American- style accounting. What does Jerry Wang expect of me?”

            Trueheart hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully. “Wang Jie Ri wants to build a company in China, where there is plenty of talent, and the cost is low. But money for investment is in America, Hong Kong, Taiwan. Investors there maybe aren’t very brave to invest in a Chinese company. They are afraid of competition from the  Red Army, afraid that Chinese government will interfere, afraid of the Chinese legal system, so different from America, afraid maybe they will lose their investment with no way to protest. All these elements are scary and strange.

            “So, we must make it less strange. If an American with investing money looks at our accounting, our finances, they must see everything is not scary at all. Maybe if everything looks familiar, and is explained by a familiar American face, investors will forget about the risk, and see the opportunity. You understand?”

            Sara nodded, her eyes narrowing. “Surely it would have been better to have a man as your ‘American face’, not so?” she suggested, her voice level.

            “This was discussed,” Trueheart replied with a shrug  “Wang Jie Ri thought it would be a sign to Americans that we are very modern, very up- to- date in our thinking, to have a woman speaking for our company. Others weren’t so sure, but Wang Jie Ri had been in America longer, and he is very persuasive.”

            Sara felt the red flush staining her skin again. She groped for words which would let her escape to her cubicle, where she could think. “I see. Trueheart – I mean, Manager Zhang – I’ll look at the accounting books when you are ready.” She bowed slightly and returned to her cubicle, only the unusually brisk clack-clack of her low heels betraying her anger.

            In her impersonal bedroom that night, Sara tossed and turned on her hard bed, too warm under the skimpy blanket, fighting jet lag and her thoughts. Yes indeed, Jerry Wang could be very persuasive. He had asked her to come to Beijing, told her that she would be needed, that she could help build a new company in a new place. And she had wanted to believe him, wanted to be needed.  How big a fool was she? He only wanted a mask, a paper doll!  What could she do? She pictured herself sitting day after day in her cubicle playing round after round of computer solitaire. She would go mad. She stared at the ceiling, turned over to bury her head into the pillow, before finally falling asleep just moments, it seemed, before her alarm blared.

            Sara barely had time to settle herself in her cubicle the next morning when Trueheart hurried up to her. “Already we have an opportunity to use your valued services,” he said formally. “I have a call from Boss Wang. This week he’ll be bringing visitors – Hong Kong people. Maybe they’ll invest in Rainbow Software, maybe they’ll help fund marketing in America. Today is Wednesday;  they’ll be here Friday. Can you prepare a presentation? We don’t have much time, but I’ll help with figures.”

            Sara felt panic rising as the thought of standing in front of strangers – those staring eyes, all on her. Suddenly her heart was pounding, stomach clenching. Unbidden, a memory of the inquest after John’s death rose in her mind. The County Medical Examiner constantly clearing his throat while he shuffled through his papers. Dr. Reiver refusing to meet her eyes,the unblinking stares of the reporters, avid for a slip, a scandal, a shocking headline.

            She heard herself protesting desperately. “Manager Zhang, you are the Chief Financial Officer. You will make the presentation, yes? I’m not accustomed to do this. And how can I make a presentation in Chinese?  My Chinese isn’t good enough. I will use the wrong tone, I’ll say something silly!”

            “I don’t have an American face!” he snapped, brushing aside her protests. “This is your purpose, didn’t you understand?  Now please come, I’ll show you the accounts. You can use American tools, maybe PowerPoint, maybe special animation, whatever – give us an American face! You speak English if you need to. I’ll translate.” He turned abruptly back toward his cubicle, not waiting to see if Sara would follow him.

            Sara felt a hand touch hers. Scarlet Li had reached out from her cubicle. Her soft voice was like cool water, quenching Sara’s rising panic.         

 “Manager Miller, this will not be hard. The investors will not see you, only the American face, white skin, red hair. They will hear only an American voice, speaking words they only half understand. Imagine you are behind a mask. If you were throwing your voice from behind a curtain to make a dog talk, it would be the same.”

            A sudden picture of a fluffy pink poodle talking to a group of rapt investors came into Sara’s mind, and she had to smile. Her panic left her. “I see,” she said “Zhang will provide the substance, I am the wrapping.”

            “Exactly!” said Scarlet. “Now go! Zhang is waiting.”

            Sara returned from Trueheart’s cubicle carrying the ledgers and some marketing materials she had received from Scarlet Li. She looked at her distorted reflection in the computer monitor, – her face like a white balloon, her eyes high and squinty, her hair a frizzy halo around the edge of the screen. “So – they want a white face and a Western presentation,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll give them the best damn presentation they ever heard from a talking poodle.”

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The Inscrutable East (Los Altos Town Crier, September 2016)

The current marquee exhibit at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco – open to view through September 18 –  is of  Chinese art on loan from the National Palace Museum, Taipei.  The exhibit includes wonderful paintings of misty Chinese landscapes and scrolls-ful of imperial gatherings and parades.  It includes  beautiful ceramics, enamel-work and lacquerware, some examples pristinely simple and others decadently ornate, something for every taste.
And then there is the calligraphy.  This is a class of artwork which is so foreign to Western eyes as to almost not be recognizable as art.  In China, a fine hand at calligraphy is seen as reflecting a worthy soul.  There are standard forms which have originated with revered scholars or national heroes and have been passed down as models for centuries.  Emperors proved their right to celestial status by elegantly inscribing poems in tribute to a masterpiece of painting on the painting itself, adding to, not subtracting from their artistic value. Imagine if Louis XIV had written a sonnet in the upper left corner of the “Mona Lisa”!
The contrast with Western ideas is painful.  In many of our elementary schools “Handwriting” has recently been discontinued as a skill on which to be graded, replaced by “Keyboarding” as being more in line with contemporary needs.   Neither of my sons has ever mastered cursive writing.  How can we judge a series of artworks which consist entirely of handwriting samples?  Especially when the samples are of Chinese ideographs which convey no meaning to most Westerners?
This exhibit of the Emperor’s treasures also highlights another Chinese art form which is opaque to my Western eyes: stone food. When I was a child and didn’t want to eat my dinner, my mother would remind me of the starving children in China.   Perhaps the cyclical famines which are part of China’s history through the second half of the 20th century have sparked the Chinese obsession with food, which extends down to the simplest daily greeting.  (The Chinese equivalent of our “How do you do?” is “Ni chi le ma?”  which translates to “Have you eaten?”)
The most famous item among the borrowed treasures of the exhibit, saved for last and shown dramatically behind a barrier so it won’t be accidentally glimpsed in a way that would lessen its impact, is billed as “the US debut of ‘Meat-shaped Stone’, a world-famous sculpture resembling a piece of braised pork belly.”  Are you kidding me?  Why would anyone want to make a sculpture of a piece of fatty meat? And that is what it is – a large piece of jasper, its top surface stained with ochre dyes and engraved with small dots to resemble pores in the hide, its striations bearing an uncanny resemblance to a thick cut of bacon.
Just to make sure you get the point, the Museum Café, together with other Chinese restaurants in San Francisco, is offering an opportunity to eat genuine braised pork belly (dongpo rou) so that you can see for yourself how truly the hunk of striated and stained jasper on its golden stand does resemble a cut of meat. It is amazing to see (and delicious to taste) how truly the artist has emulated the meat – but why? Perhaps this treasure was viewed by the emperor as a sort of eternal defense against starvation. Perhaps, unlike King Midas in our folklore, the Emperor could gain nourishment from food made of stone and metal.
Maybe the category of “still life” painting in European art is a reasonable parallel, although these realistic portrayals  of fruit, wine, and dead game almost always show the meal unpeeled and unbutchered. Perhaps we Westerners are just  a little more squeamish. There’s still time for you to trek up to San Francisco and decide for yourself whether “Meat-shaped Stone” is art. At the least, you can have an exotic lunch!