The Artists Quarter

Recognizing that I had not had a day entirely to myself in the six weeks since I’d been in China, I took it upon myself to do some research and plan a little solo ‘artistic’ excursion. I spent a few hours online researching the art scene in Shanghai, weaving through webpages and unearthing a plethora of galleries, exhibits, and studios in the area. Armed with two hand-written maps (THIS, as I soon discovered, does not rival the ever-exalted PRINTED map), camera, two lollipops, a notepad, my sunglasses, a handkerchief (what??!! It was blazing that day), and a vivacious attitude, I set out on my mission…

Two hours later, having sweat through my jeans, soaked my handkerchief, gnawed half my lollipops (1), taken two pictures, talked ‘to’ three non-English speaking and utterly unhelpful locals, and caused the ink on my handwritten maps to bleed into one upsetting blob (“…does that say ‘zhong dang road’ or ‘wrong damn raod?’”), I almost reached the quitting point when I literally stumbled into my holy grail of street signs: Moganshan road. Still skeptical as I staggered past homeless people, workers tearing apart the street, others throwing around bags of rice (as a job, not for fun), abandoned bikes and graffitied walls, the unexpected sight of beautiful, glass-windowed art galleries cried out in sweet, air conditioned, oil-painting and photographic glory!

Naturally, however, and complementing my prior luck for the day, the first gallery I went to was closed (Mondays!!). One might think this would stop me. Well, the curator eventually DID stop me, but not before I’d gone in (what?! The door was unlocked!) and browsed around, flicking on lights as I meandered. In fact, not only did the curator begin talking with me, but soon after the Taiwanese artist, himself, came in and we had a full fifteen-minute conversation, by means of the curator as translator. Tsai Yulong; with his beautiful, modern “calligraphy painting” style, smashing together modern Pollack-esq splashes of color and shapes with sweeping Eastern calligraphy on top.

I explored a few more galleries exhibiting some photography and paintings by (apparently) world-renowned international artists, and made my way a little farther down the worn-down street until I came across the entrance to what I had read about to be the “artists quarter.” Literally a twenty-building complex, each building containing anywhere from three to twenty art galleries (many of which were active studios as well), some had signs on the glass windows through which you could see a number of young interns sitting behind computers, and some galleries had handwritten signs pinned to the door frame saying…well, I had no idea…I can’t read Chinese. Each gallery a different artist and/or company, mostly locals, most of which were inside sitting around, sleeping, reading, or creating. Some fabulous pieces, some avant garde, some hackneyed and clichéd, others eye-grabbing and thought-provoking, I was inspired, exhausted, over-stimulated, sweating, and utterly amazed.

I couldn’t believe that, in the outskirts of Shanghai, sandwiched between high-rise, gated communist apartment complexes boasting gigantic red and yellow flags and signs, only feet away from poor, rundown village-like houses and street vendors selling twenty-cent dumplings sat this living, breathing community of hundreds of international and local artists who support each other, sell their art, literally live with their art, and ostensibly survive by the fruit of their passion; something apparently not accepted into the mainstream and more notable areas of town. Perhaps the most astounding destinations should not be found in a guidebook and, though I am not completely aware of its history or agenda, a community like that seems to me to be a true gem in the roughage and diversity of a city built around its people.