Down in the Hutong...

I love her / she loves me
But I don't fit in her society
Lord, have mercy on a boy from down in the hutong.

Hutongs are the narrow, winding alleys that spiderweb across Beijing. They are the traditional neighborhoods of often-ancient stone houses, clay-tile roofs and shared bathrooms. If Beijing's six circular highways (ring roads) are the arteries of the New City, then the hutongs are the network of capillaries that have given life to the capital for centuries.

They're everywhere, crisscrossing main streets, leading to landmarks' rear entrances and dead ends alike and twisting—often at 90-degree angles, without warning. But at the same time, they're easy to overlook, for this is where the city's underclass lives. A few hutongs here and there have been gentrified, with new walls and tea shops sprouting up. Mostly, though, stepping into one is stepping into the way of life for millions of Chinese.

It is a step, I think, that many tourists don't take. Just like it's easy to stay away from the run-down neighborhoods at home, wandering through hutongs isn't a necessity. There are main roads, taxi cabs and sparkling new subway lines to whisk foreigners from photo op to photo op, shopping centers built below high rise office buildings to peruse (mostly Western) name brands and plenty of KFCs, McDonalds and Starbucks to visit instead of getting your feet dirty trudging through back alleys. This isn't a condemnation; it's just an observation. I've had my share of iced coffees from the baristas over the past month, too.

But I've also found the hutongs to be an indispensable part of my experience here. Perhaps when this is all over, my times wandering through these neighborhoods will be my fondest memories of the city.

Stepping off the sidewalks into a hutong means you're leaving behind all of the comforts you're used to. There aren't any English menus in the restaurants and very few will have pictures. You may have to put up with the smell of open toilets as you pass by the common bathrooms the residents share. You'll be dodging delivery people and garbage collectors on bicycles and have to endure the occasional interested stare as one of the locals watches you, perhaps wondering if you're lost.

Walking through a hutong also provides you with potential for some of the best travel experiences you can have. For one, I've found the food to be incredible. Most of the restaurants will either have open-air kitchens or will only have one dish for sale, which will be on display. I can spot something I like (egg and tomato stir fry or pistachio pastries, for example), pay a couple yuan for it and either eat it there at a small stool and table or take it for later munching. While these places look ramshackle and run-down on the outside, I'd trust their food over pretty much any Westernized fast-food joint in Beijing. These restaurateurs are basing their entire livelihood on their dumplings or their steamed buns—make a couple people sick and no one's going to come to you ever again.

There are almost always children playing in the streets, whether it's kicking a ball or running around playing tag or some other chase game. Many will skid to a halt after spotting me, sidle up and whisper a nervous, "Nihao." I'll respond with the same and a smile and their faces never fail to light up as the foreigner tries to speak their language. They'll giggle and then run off to keep on playing—the joy of children is universal.

The other day, I stumbled into Yang Guanjun's art shop, attracted by the watercolors and the English "ART" sign on the front door. I found the owner to be a delightful dude, with enough knowledge of English for us to stumble through a conversation. Guanjun is from X'ian in central China and he studied art at university there. There wasn't enough work for him in his hometown, so he brought his wife and young daughter to Beijing ten years ago to open an art studio and tea house. Business has been okay, but it's hard for the tourists with money to find him, as his home/studio is a few blocks from the main road, down a narrow hutong with no signs and no other shops. He gladly showed me his wares—everything from calligraphy on antiqued scrolls to photographic prints—before inviting me upstairs to see the living space he's trying to rent out for the Olympics (a pair of twin rooms, a brand new shower he was infinitely proud of and Internet access on provided, ancient PCs). I spent 30 minutes chatting, sampling the tea he had on sale and talking about the coming Summer Games before I departed, two original paintings under my arm. Those souvenirs are nice, but their meaning will go beyond that of the trinkets I've picked up in the Silk Market or around town because I shook the same hand that painted them.

None of that would have happened, had I not gotten lost, wandering alone through a hutong. If you're ever in Beijing, I suggest you do the same. You never know what you might find.

Yang Guanjun with his work


Champion Art Gallery (owned by Yang Guanjun)


Hutong Rooftops


Bicycles Along the Wall

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Editor's Note: Yang Guanjun does not have a website, but he can be emailed at yangguanjun [at] sohu[dot]com. His shop is at 26 Men Kuang Hutong, in the Xuan Wu district (about a 20 minute walk south of Tien'anmen Square).

Whatever happened to art? Abortions and starved dogs...

I'm going to rant and maybe I'm going to preach a little here, so bear with me.

Undoubtedly, you've heard about the two "art" exhibits that made headlines over the past couple weeks, In case you haven't, though, let me refresh your memory.

First, there was Aliza Shvarts, the Yale art major whose final project was a combined media installation. The premise behind her exhibition was to make a documentary of her 9-month experience with self-impregnation followed by repeated abortions. Shvarts filmed every resulting miscarriage and her installation was a looped video showing the documentary along with preserved specimens of the blood from the abortions.

Then, we had Guillermo Vargas, a Nicaraguan artist who paid two local children to trap a stray dog. Vargas then tied the dog up inside a gallery, just out of reach of dog food arranged to say, "You are what you read." The pooch starved to death over the course of several days, but not before several portraits were taken, several featuring the legs of anonymous viewers who looked, but did not help the "exhibit."

Thankfully, after the stories hit the public eye and some background investigation happened, it appears that both are likely hoaxes. Neither babies nor dogs were harmed in the process. The only victim, it would seem, is art itself.

Perhaps no blog post - or blog itself for that matter - is long enough to successfully and comprehensively debate the "What is art?" question. And maybe I'll be accused of using the Supreme Court's definition of pornography ("I'll know it when I see it."), but so be it.

Neither exhibit was art.

What happened to the times when art served a purpose? When a painting was supposed to thrill and inspire you? When the beauty of nature was celebrated in galleries and on canvases? When the best in mankind could be found in the monumental works of the great masters? Have we really come so far as to think that videotaped abortions and starving puppies are great works of art?

On a base level, you might say, art is supposed to get a reaction out of the viewer. Both of those pieces did that. However, I would only agree to a point - more than one simple reaction (in this case, disgust) is necessary. Art should drive us to experience the thrill of having our higher senses tantalized, not make appeals solely to the basest of instincts.

Let me put it more simply. If you and I were in a quiet, well-lit room, surrounded by squares of color on the walls and I punched you in the face, that would not be art, no matter how much of a reaction I got out of you. But apparently, it's okay to do the same thing with aborted fetuses and dead dogs? Bollocks.

Post-post-post-modernism, or whatever you want to call it, has gone too far. Shock value has replaced emotional connection. Irony has supplemented true communication. It makes me sick and I'm sick of it.

I'm no artist, so I can't create something beautiful as a reaction to all the ugliness I see around me. But what I can do is use the power of the almighty dollar and not patronize that crap. I hope those around me with more artistic talent, and more money, will do the same.

I'm Mike Nagel and I approved this message.