Cai Guo-Qiang: Falling back to earth

138 139 Children remind us of our own past. When I make art with children, I feel as if I have found or regained the lens of curiosity I had the day I was born. The collaboration returns me to my origin, the moment of my enlightenment, and restores the passion I first had for art. People often exaggerate the greatness of art; even in a lifetime, what one artist can contribute to the whole of art history is limited, and its direct impact on the world is often minimal. But when I talk to children, see the world from their perspective and observe their inherent creativity, I always think that they are the future of humankind. It is the multi-generational link between our ancestors and our generation — and now from our generation to our children’s — that enables us to gradually change the world. Cai Guo-Qiang, upper left, pictured with (clockwise) his mother, younger brother, grandmother and younger sister, c.1970s Courtesy: Cai Studio A story between children and a child who never grew up Cai Guo-Qiang Parallel universes, worlds within worlds I was born in Quanzhou, a small city far from the political and economic centres of China. As a port city, Quanzhou has witnessed intercultural exchanges and conflicts since ancient times. Under the Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368 CE), Quanzhou experienced its golden age, during which it prospered through international trade. Due to its economic ties with the rest of the world, a liberal social climate pervaded the city. This openness was apparent in the growing ethnic diversity of the city as Arabs from foreign lands came to Quanzhou and filled government posts. This diversity could also be seen in the religious and spiritual lives of those living in Quanzhou: the population was comprised of Buddhists, Daoists, Manichaeists, Muslims, Catholics and Protestants. Many also continued to uphold local folk traditions, praying to deities such as the goddess Mazu. Facing the ocean, Quanzhou is surrounded by lush green hills, and is dotted with temples belonging to varying sects and the ruins of these places of worship. These religious places were once the playground where I spent my time daydreaming. As a child, I was convinced of the existence of a mysterious universe parallel to my own reality by the sight of the twin pagodas and arch of the Qingjing Mosque — standing tall among low brick compounds with tiled roofs — and a nearby stele engraved with Arabic texts and partially submerged in weeds. My father was an avid lover of poetry and art, and he studied history in his spare time. He often hosted salons for literati friends at home; when they gathered, they would discuss the greatness of Chinese civilisation. I also remember that he would remain modest about his own achievements but would sing the praises of local painters and calligraphers. When I was a boy, my father would sit me on his lap to help him roll his cigarettes. He would take a drag of his cigarette and start drawing landscapes on matchboxes with his fountain pen. The small matchboxes were illustrated with mountains, oceans, seagulls, ships, waterfalls and clouds. Sometimes, one matchbox stood alone as one painting; other times, a row of them formed a mini long scroll. When asked what he was drawing, he would respond, ‘It’s our home town’. Later I visited my paternal grandfather’s grave, which was under a large banyan tree in my father’s home town. Upon arrival, I discovered that the town looked nothing like the elaborate landscapes that my father inscribed on the matchboxes. It was a small fishing village outside Quanzhou, where there were hills but no mountains, a bay but no open sea. There were a few households and boats, and a couple of seagulls flew overhead. On my father’s matchboxes, however, misty clouds hovered over the town, masts of ships lined the sea, and long rivers meandered down tall mountains. As I grew up and launched my career as an artist, I began to understand my father. In his poetic appreciation of Chinese aesthetics, the vast world was compressed into the canvas provided by the matchbox; in this square inch was a world that was replete with his profound emotions and immense inner world. Cai Guo-Qiang (left) with his friends sitting near a temple in his home town, Quanzhou, China, c.1970s Courtesy: Cai Studio