All this time spent in the airport being bored seems necessary. If I just walked out of my apartment in Brooklyn this morning and was in Shanghai I'd probably freak out. You need all this time being desensitized to life to make that kind of an adjustment. Maybe.
In the Toronto Airport I paid five bucks to use the Internet for an hour. I wrote a weird sort of Gchat message to my sister, who wasn't responding, since it was seven in the morning. I wrote, "hey u there?" and she didn't respond, so I kept writing, "sorry i didn't call last night, i was busy..." leaving basically a message somewhere between email and voicemail.
My first night in Shanghai I felt like wandering around, and ended up in what is Shanghai's version of Times Square. Young women introduced themselves to me and I said "Hi" and quickly walked away. Then a cute girl insisted on taking a photo with me, so I was polite. We started talking and I thought for a moment that she really just wanted to be friends until another girl appeared out of nowhere and she introduced us. When I told them I was from New York they didn't seem to recognize it, Coocoo (sp?) was the first girl's name, she said something about Los Angeles. They asked if I had a girlfriend and I said yes, and then they asked where she was and I tried to tell them I was meeting her down the street, but I hesitated too long and they knew I was lying. "You are Shanghai single," they kept telling me. My embarrassment was growing and I wanted more and more to get away from them, but for some reason I felt bad. When they finally realized I really wasn't going to give them any money for anything, they stopped immediately, not even bothering to distance themselves from me, they kept walking slightly behind me, chattering in Chinese. Not two minutes before they had been saying things like, "Your eyes are beautiful," and "You have such long legs."
I had seen an add for a gallery opening on The Bund, the row of buildings on the west side of the Huangpu river famous for their colonial architecture. During Shanghai's colonial heyday in the 1920s and 30s it had been the spot where rich people went to balls, opium was smoked, and foreign countries established their governments. I arrived at the Zhang Dali opening, famous for being the only Chinese graffiti artist in the 90s, expecting to find at least a small crowd of arty Chinese and western Shanghai residents, but there was literally no one in the gallery, except for two girls in the entrance who were probably working for the show and didn't respond when I said "Hi."
Looking upward in Shanghai is completely disorienting, unlike in New York. In New York when you look up you see buildings in a row, planes defined by several building faces and the windows in them, angles and a perspective that make sense. In Shanghai it is as if the buildings are all floating in space, ready to collapse in on you. They are spaced apart inconsistently, they all face different directions, the architecture of each building seems to belong to a different city and different time, there's no telling how to get from one to the next. Because of the mist that has been settled on the city since I got here two days ago you can never see past the first row of buildings, and you can only imagine that the bizarre landscape goes on forever behind the fog.
My aunt's family lives in a suburban neighborhood built for expats, called "Willow Brook." Like Jersey or Connecticut, you can take a train into the urban center of the city in about twenty minutes. Unlike Jersey or Connecticut, you'll find poverty, neighborhoods of shacks and crumbling concrete, on the other side of a wall just beyond the neighborhood, people fishing in a black, polluted canal.
My aunt took me to get a foot massage in the morning. I've never gotten a foot massage, or paid for any kind of massage, before. The woman who massaged my foot had the name "Lisa" written on her name tag, was a pretty and young woman, with a full body and a serious face. We made eye contact a few times during the massage. She didn't speak any English, so we couldn't talk. I found myself oscillating between feeling very relaxed and letting my mind wander and then worrying that I should be focusing the foot massage.
To prove that the pashmina that cost fifty yuan was better quality than the other pashmina, the woman at the pashmina booth on the third floor of the fabric market borrowed a lighter from a man in the booth and lit the ends of both scarves, showing us the difference between the smell and texture after burning. So we got the fifty yuan pashmina, about $6.50 USD, having looked through about ten other identical booths in the giant warehouse filled with identical booths or different clothing things.
The British first established a colonial municipality, the "British Concession," in 1843, and Shanghai became the most important port city. The British made opium, which had previously only been enjoyed by the aristocratic class, available for common people, and soon millions of Chinese were hooked. American and French concessions were later established. Even today you can tell when you walk into the old French concession, now the neighborhood called Luwan. On The Bund, many of the old buildings are empty, their entrances and windows boarded up, neglected during the cultural revolution and left to decay. There are plans to return them to their former glory.
Like the art gallery, there's no one in the Mao Zedong house and it seems to fit in with the surrounding area and be generally unnoticed. The gallery was on the sixth floor of a what was basically a fancy mall, and shared the floor with a bar/lounge thing. Mao Zedong house looked just like any other alleyway, but I went in because I saw the weird statue of Mao reading to a couple of children and then realized I was in a museum. One older man came in as I was leaving.
The Shanghainese seem to have a fondness for models, model cities, buildings, historical figures.
Somehow, after the Mao museum, I found myself in front of the Shanghai Library , without even meaning to. I guess I spend so much time in libraries I've developed a sixth sense that pulls me to them unconsciously.
or
In high school I discovered in the University of Richmond library, while I was supposed to be researching a paper on either JD Salinger or Samuel Beckett, a book called The Carnal Prayer Mat which is an ancient, erotic Chinese novel, and was obsessed with it. That was a long time ago but I thought about it today while I was in the ancient books room in the library, where the signs in front of the display books were marked only in Chinese, not in both Chinese and English like most things around Shanghai, so I it's possible, maybe unlikely, I was looking at original copies of The Carnal Prayer Mat.
An old Chinese saying: "Shanghai is like the emperor's ugly daughter: she never has to worry about finding suitors."
Shanghai has a temperate climate, located in the middle of China, approximately the same latitude as New Orleans and Cairo, it has distinct seasons and is tropical and hot in the summer. In the 1840s, Westerners, who were unaccustomed to the heat, would often change clothes three times a day, and were susceptible to "distressing skin problems."
By the 1880s Shanghai had one of the largest populations of missionaries from every variety of Christendom. The port was called the "Sodom and Gomorrah of the East."
Westerners viewed Chinese in Shanghai as half-civilized. Chinese were not legally allowed to own property or live in the foreign concessions, the only Chinese inside were servants. The Chinese regarded Westerners as fan kuei, "foreign devils."
After walking through Old Town, or Yuyuan, we went to God's Temple, an old temple that had been refurbished countless times and has become a tourist trap.
This is the path of seven turns. It is believed that devils do not like to take turns, so many bridges and paths are built this way. This year is the year of the Tiger.
In the car on the way to Mogonshan Lu, where rezoned industrial lofts house art galleries, Hilary again talk about her philosophy of shopping and how it differs from other expats. She doesn't like bargaining, but she's good at it because she doesn't actually want anything, so if she doesn't get her price she just walks. The other women just buy tons of crap.
I saw a lot of art in galleries, in Taikang Lu, a famous block with tons of galleries as well as tiny coffee shops and little shops, remind me of my basic problem with art, that I can't keep any of this stuff, that it's physical existence for me is so ephemeral. That I'll barely even remember it except when I maybe attempt to recall an event sometime later.
Like the fabric market, it feels like there are a million of these little galleries, too many to process, so the experience becomes one of saturation, like surfing the Internet in real life. It's impossible to know if the art in any given gallery will be schlock made for tourists or "high art." The distinction loses meaning. There are galleries in Luwan, not in the overloaded areas of Taikang Lu and Mononshan Lu, with what most people would recognize as "high art," modeled after Western art galleries and often curated by Europeans.
One gallery had a program of art that addressed the upcoming World Expo, which is in Shanghai this year. They are completely remaking parts of the city in order to prepare for it. A big theme of my reading about China and talking to people in Shanghai is how the Chinese are constantly rebuilding and replacing, with a disregard for history. The Expo represents another redressing of the city of Shanghai, "Better City, Better Life," is the slogan, which is misleading in that in it makes it appear as though the changes are for the benefit of the Chinese, while they are really intended to benefit foreign visitors, many of whom are not going to be used to the level of sanitation in Shanghai (though if we want to get into it there is the argument that this is for the benefit of the Chinese economy over time, I guess).
Before leaving for China I read in an Eliot Weinberger essay that the Chinese government does not censor artists the way it does writers and intellectuals, because no one cares about art. Mogonshan Lu is more deceptive in its presentation of art as "high art." These galleries are much larger. The buildings are just like the ones in East Williamsburg, and by the Williamsburg waterfront, where I spend much of my time in New York. Except they are woven together by bamboo rafters, over which Chinese construction workers walk.
Some galleries made and impression others didn't. One gallery has a bunch of digital and interactive art that I was excited about because it reminded me of some stuff I did in college. The French curator started talking to Hilary. I met an American guy (from Stamford, CT) who works for the gallery and looks about my age. He introduced me his friend and co-worker, a French guy who at first seemed totally uninterested in talking to me, until the American tells him I'm from New York. His brother lives in Manhattan, and he's spent time in Williamsburg. I told him the buildings on Mogonshan Lu are very similar to those in Williamsburg and agrees. He asked if I'm an artist and I said yes, the simplest reduction of a pointlessly complicated true answer. He told me about some cool places to go in Shanghai at night, and a party that I wouldn't be able to attend because I would be babysitting my cousins. He came to study Chinese for six months, but dropped out of his program and started working for the gallery. "Shanghai is like a trap," he says, "It's like Hell." He has no intention to go back to Paris.
At first I didn't realize that Liu Dao, the name on all of the art that I like, and most of the art in the Gallery, is the name of a collective of artists, mostly Chinese and some European, and not one Chinese guy, as I had been imagining. The work is a lot like digital and interactive art that I've seen before, but it's cleaner and more complete. It seems like art and not like a technological experiment, the way the work I did in college was. My favorite piece is called "Birds on a Wire." In a frame about two feet wide and three feet tall, two birds animated by red, orange and green LEDs move subtly behind a translucent yellow screen of paper filled with Chinese text.
Walking through art galleries with my aunt was a slightly awkward experience, because as hip as she is, she has young children, and the graphically violent and sexual pieces made her just uncomfortable. We didn't comment on them like other pieces, except occasionally she'd say something like "I don't get all this violent imagery." Later, Hilary said something to the effect of "I don't really understand art," or "I'm not an artsy person," which is something that I often hear from older people like my parents. It seems to be an expression of feeling unfamiliar and slightly out of place in a hip art gallery, but Hilary is impressively comfortable navigating her away around Shanghai, bartering in Chinese with aggressive merchants and vendors. I don't imagine most middle aged expat house wives have can say they have the same relationship with the city.
After Mogonshan, I went alone to People's Square to go to MOCA Shanghai, the Museum of Contemporary Art. Hilary's driver, Mr. Guo, dropped me off in front of a Starbucks on a corner near People's Square, but for some reason I couldn't figure out which direction led into the park. While I was looking at my map and trying to decipher the winding paths, I was approached by a couple of Chinese girls, who looked around my age, maybe a bit older. One of them calls to me, I look briefly, and then turn back to my map; I've learned to ignore any Chinese people who talk to me. Hilary told me when I arrived that influx of expats over the past five years in Shanghai has assuaged the Chinese residents of any interest in foreigners; the only ones who will spontaneously talk to you are trying to sell you something, whether or not they want you to know that at first. But they persisted. The one who first called to me looks nerdy, she wore glasses with thick lenses and a turtleneck, and had her hair pulled back. "Are you French?" she asked. "No," I said, smiling (people always think I'm French), "American." "Oh, American, where are you from?" She had better English than most of the Chinese I've heard speak it. "New York." She didn't seem familiar. "Tourist?" she asks. "Yes, I'm visiting family." "You're family lives here?" she asked. "Temporarily," I said, but she doesn't understand the word. "For two years," I explained, and she nodded about fifteen times in three seconds. She explained that her and her friend are also tourists, from a small town south of Shanghai, the name I didn't catch. I realized that the friend was very pretty, innocent looking, with hair that fell to her chin and crooked teeth that have her smile a cute quality, and engaging eyes. She hadn't said anything, but smiled at me a lot. The nerdy girl told me that she wants to practice her English. "It's quite good," I told her. Then she asked if I knew about the tea festival in China. I didn't, I hadn't heard anything about it. She began to explain but she is speaking too quickly and I didn't understand. Then she asked if I want to have tea with them and I began to feel suspicious. This is one of these cultural differences between Westerners and Chinese, one that has been reinforced again and again in the few days I had been in Shanghai; Chinese view lying as craftiness, while Westerners are uncomfortable lying, at least in the same bold faced way. I told them I was going to the Contemporary Art Museum, and she started bargaining, saying it would only take twenty minutes. I said thanks but I need to go to the museum and walked away. "You don't think we're pretty enough for you," she called after me. "You don't like Chinese? You don't want to help us with our English?" I waved and continued walking.
At the security check for the Urban Planning Exhibition, the guards found a bottle of Perrier in my bag and asked me to drink from it. I didn't understand at first, but eventually they were able to explain that they just wanted me to drink it to prove that it wasn't some sort of biological weapon or something. It was odd, but I drank a few sips and then entered the Exhibition. I wonder what they would have done if I had refused to drink. Or if there really had been some dangerous substance inside.
Everything looked very new and shiny, but poorly made. The fake wood paneling on the exhibitions were falling apart. On the first floor there were facimiles of old pictures and maps of Shanghai in the 19th and 20th centuries, focusing on the colonial period of the 1920s and 30s. There was an exhibition of maps, mounted on large frames that slide in and out of fake wooden boxes, it was really a bizarre way to present them, and the sliding mechanisms didn't seem to fit right; the frames screeched against the box as I pulled them out, but I love maps so I looked at all of them. The second floor was dedicated to the World Expo. There were tons of models of different architectural designs, the majority of which didn't exist yet. Building it all in the next two months seemed impossible, but that's the thing about Shanghai and China in general, so I've heard. Man power. The third floor had a scale model of the entire city. It was huge. I tried to find Hilary's house, and I located her neighborhood, but it was impossible to pick out one model house from the dozens.
After the Urban Planning Exhibition I met up with my roommate's cousin, Lara, the only person my age I had contacted when I arrived in Shanghai. Her and her boyfriend Trip walked with me along Foushou Lu toward the river, telling me about Shanghai. They graduated from Depaw University a year and half ago, and after struggling to find jobs in the states, came to Shanghai, where Trip had studied during a semester abroad, to teach English and live cheaply. When I met them they were frazzled by their work situation. They have in Shanghai since October, but they had learned that the company employing them to teach English had forged some of their qualifications in order to get them work visas. Their employers had lied to them, much the way the merchants at the fabric market lie to my aunt about the quality of their products. They were looking for new jobs and worried about their visa status. Despite all of that, they were positive about living in Shanghai. They said they had planned to stay for only a year but were now thinking of staying longer. We turned back through the walking mall because I had to catch the train back to Pudong to meet my aunt and cousins for dinner. It was a brief interaction, but it gave me some idea of the younger expat experience in Shanghai.
When you're in a new place, especially a huge city, it's impossible not to think about what it would be like to live there. After living in New York for almost three years, Shanghai seems like a good deal, given that you can live comfortably there on a few thousand dollars a year. But I try not think about that.
I slept in my aunt's bed, reading to the kids from a book of Peanuts cartoons I brought Michael as a present before putting them to bed. They snuggled up on either side of me. After they were asleep I watched a Chinese bootleg copy of Avatar for an hour and got bored, and then wrote until I couldn't concentrate anymore, which was about fifteen minutes. Michael jumped into the bed the next morning at exactly seven. "I've been waiting for an hour," he told me. "I think I have hair growing on my elbow." "What are you talking about, Michael?" I said, sitting up in bed, trying to focus. "I think you need to turn on the light to see it," he said. I turned on the light and realized it had been a trick to wake me up faster. We went downstairs to play Wii. I had to convince them to eat breakfast so I could make myself coffee.
After Owen Roberts is a writer living in Brooklyn...
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