Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [69]
A uniformed young woman joins us. “The judges are ready,” she says.
The Chairman clasps his hands together and shakes them in front of him decisively. “We’ll have to continue our conversation later.”
He steps away, and I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’ve been conversing with Chairman Mao, standing so close to him, hearing him reminisce about the past and talk about his new ideas. A part of me thinks, I wish Joe could have seen that. And then Joe’s gone from my mind, because Mao has finished consulting with the judges and has moved to the podium.
“I’ve just had a small struggle meeting with the judges.” He grasps the podium, and confides, “They do not want to see anything too popular or that reeks of Western influence. They don’t like the beautiful girls of the past. I have a different opinion. Instead of beautiful girls, why can’t we have beautiful working women—bringing in the harvest, climbing telephone poles, or … picking flowers?”
I grab Z.G.’s arm excitedly as murmurs of surprise rattle through the gallery.
Mao smiles. “Comrade Li Zhi-ge, please step forward.”
Z.G. makes his way to the podium and stands a slight distance from Chairman Mao. Cameras flash.
“You have come away from your Western ivory tower,” Mao says. “At the same time, you have used foreign techniques to serve China. You have shown me the loyalty of your redness over the expertise of your brush. You have won the grand prize.”
CHRISTMAS COMES AND goes without a single carol, decoration, or present, but life is still festive and fun. Z.G.’s poster of me is everywhere. Posters can be reproduced in about ten hours from conception to final printing, making them almost instantaneous revelations of the Party’s mood, wishes, policies, and positions. As a result of Z.G.’s overnight celebrity, we’re invited to interviews and even more banquets. I’m fed all the famous delicacies—monkey brains, lion’s head, bird’s nest soup, shark’s fin, sea cucumber—and all the rice I can eat. Everywhere we go, Z.G. introduces me as his daughter and his muse. I don’t object, but I still don’t feel like his daughter and I’m not sure I want to be his muse. Since the exhibition I’ve been wondering if I could be an artist. If so, what would be the right kind of art for me—Mao’s idea, Z.G.’s idea, the things I’ve seen in Western art books? Would it contain beautiful girls like my mother and aunt or have beautiful working women as Mao suggested? And what would be my subject? Art that glorifies the revolution, honors heroes, or promotes Party policies? Nothing feels quite right. Emotions are what drive me, and I can think of only one subject: Tao.
I stay out late and sleep long into the day, but I always have time—I need the time—to think about Tao. I spend hours drawing him from memory, trying to recall just one finger. I keep reminding myself of the Song dynasty artists who knew how to capture the essence of something with as few strokes as possible. Sketch after sketch, brushstroke after brushstroke, bring me closer to Tao. That’s how much I love him. Along the way, I notice that my technique has gotten much more refined.
In January, Chairman Mao goes to the city of Nan-ning to give a speech launching what he calls the Great Leap Forward. Listening to him on the radio, I see this is a continuation of what he was telling Z.G. and me at the exhibition. “There are two methods of doing things,” Mao proclaims, “one producing slower and poorer results and the other faster and better ones.” He announces that he’s taking control of the economy. He says China can overtake