Zhai Xiang
@ZhaiXiang5 • 18,046 subscribers
Stanfordian, Cornell'11 Scholar on China-US Relations Member of China's National Cultural Relics Society
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A video released today by China's State-owned Assets Supervision and Administration Commission, which oversees over 100 major central enterprises, became one of the biggest trending topics on Chinese social media today. The footage was shot on the Gobi Desert in Ruoqiang County (若羌县) in eastern Xinjiang, at the foot of the Altun Mountains (阿尔金山), beyond which stands the Qinghai-Xizang Plateau. There, the site spans 17 square kilometers of what was once empty sand. Now, a robot is taking over: automatically moving and precisely mounting solar panels at a pace that makes the whole operation look less like a construction site and more like a Martian base. "Did I just wake up in the future? Is Mars installing solar panels now?" Chinese netizens joked. By the end of November, this will be a 1-gigawatt solar plant, powering 500,000 homes. The robot is homegrown. The panels? 32 kilos each. Not long ago, this was all muscle and sweat, and a dangerous job at height. Now, the robot with suction cups moves them like paper, at least 60 an hour. No fatigue. No mistakes. No falls. Xinjiang is rich in solar and wind resources. Now, over 60% of its power generation comes from renewables. That clean power is helping China hit carbon peak by 2030 and neutrality by 2060, while supplying grids in eastern, central, and southwestern China. So no, "Mars" is not installing solar panels for now. But the Gobi Desert is becoming China's own energy planet. Over to you, Mars and Elon.
Zhai Xiang58,758 görüntüleme • 7 gün önce
This might be the most ambitious Three Kingdoms film ever made. Light Chaser, China's top animation studio, is dropping its first heroic Three Kingdoms film, Battle of Luoyang, on July 10. Two years ago, I had the chance to be involved-accompanying the creative team on a research trip across Henan Province, where we explore ruins of the imperial palace, various museums, and the tomb of Cao Cao. I also help connect them with some of China's leading archaeologists to answer their questions as they worked to reconstruct the era in the most authentic way possible. Their goal? Not just to tell a story, but to rebuild a lost world. Their commitment to realism goes so far that they would repeatedly question and refine every single detail, down to each brick and bamboo slip. I haven't seen the full film yet. But the short clips released today are already enough to give you chills: The heroes of 1,800 years ago are breathing again. The Three Kingdoms period is one of the most remembered eras in Chinese history, spanning from 220 to 280 AD, though in a broader sense it also includes the final years of the Eastern Han dynasty. Named after the states of Wei (魏), Shu (蜀), and Wu (吴), the era was marked by marked by ceaseless warfare, political intrigue, courage, diplomatic maneuvering, and heroism, producing countless figures who remain legendary and inspirational in China today. The film zooms in on the turbulent years leading up to the Three Kingdoms period, portraying the pivotal political clash between Cao Cao (曹操) and Yuan Shao (袁绍). Cao Cao is a household name across China and East Asia. Originally a low-ranking but ambitious official of the late Eastern Han dynasty, he aspired to restore the imperial court. But amid chaos, he seized his own moment, kidnapping the emperor as a political tool, defeating the powerful aristocrat Yuan Shao, and coming close to unifying China. He abandoned his youthful ideals, yet through bold and controversial ambition, achieved something far "greater." However, in what could be called China's version of the Trojan War, the Battle of Red Cliffs (赤壁之战), he was defeated by the far weaker allied forces of Liu Bei (刘备) and Sun Quan (孙权) along the Yangtse River, losing his final chance at unifying the realm. The year of Cao Cao's death, 220AD, marked the formal beginning of the Three Kingdoms era in Chinese history. Cao Cao was not only a master strategist and military commander, but also a gifted poet. His verse still resonates today, echoing across centuries. For the past 1,800 years, discussions have never ceased: Was Cao Cao a hero or a traitor? A brilliant strategist or a ruthless villain? Warrior. Politician. Poet. Admired. Feared. Debated. Even today, no one agrees. Maybe this film will give us an answer. Or maybe…it will make him even more unforgettable.
Zhai Xiang24,554 görüntüleme • 2 ay önce
Xinjiang, where over 90% of China's cotton is grown, has kicked off this year's planting season. It is also one of the largest cotton-producing regions in the world, with approximately 5.69 million tonnes of cotton harvested in 2024 alone. Last year, I visited Xinjiang twice for work, though both trips focused on pastoral communities and archaeological sites. However, I've been curious about the lives of local farmers, especially those who grow cotton, naturally due to some noises and debates concerning this topic over the years. So I reached out to colleagues familiar with the field-and their insights offered some perspectives I hadn't delved into before. Today, cotton planting in Xinjiang is not even labor-intensive. It has been replaced by highly mechanized and intelligent farming practices. Take Xayar County (沙雅县) in southern Xinjiang's Aksu (阿克苏) for example-one of the first places in Xinjiang to start planting cotton each year (Incidentally, over 50 years ago, my father, then just a primary school student, moved from Beijing to Aksu with my grandparents. Life there was much tougher than in the capital, but he still recalls it as one of the happiest and most unforgettable periods of his life. He witnessed firsthand the harmonious ties between different ethnic groups and made several Uygur friends. The ties are so profound that he has returned several times to visit his old buddies). According to 2024 data, Xayar has a population of 261,257, with 225,938 Uygurs, accounting for 86.48% of the total. Uygur farmers make up about 80% of all cotton growers in the county. One of them is Ababekri, who farms alongside his father and four brothers. They use a driverless cotton planter equipped with BeiDou satellite positioning technology. While one person usually remains in the cabin as a precaution, the machine moves in perfectly straight lines according to its programmed route, performing sowing, laying drip irrigation tubing, and applying plastic mulch-all in one go. The efficiency of driverless planter is 30% to 40% higher than manual seeding machines and can even operate at night. For the Ababekri family, they manage 320 hectares of cotton fields (equal to over four times of the Forbidden City), and it takes just over 10 days to complete the entire planting process. "We chose to grow cotton to live a better life-and we're getting there." The 37-year-old farmer told my colleague. That choice, however, didn't start with him. Ababekri's father made the switch to cotton around 2003, replacing about 1.33 hectares of wheat after observing neighbors earned strong profits from the cash crop. At the time, Ababekri was still a teenager and didn't appreciate the decision at all. He found cotton-planting exhausting, especially during harvest season when the entire family had to manually pick cotton in the fields (Yes! Before automation, aside from melons, cotton was probably the most labor-intensive crop in Xinjiang. During harvest season, large numbers of temporary workers had to be even recruited from other provinces across China to help pick cotton up). Yet, that very first year, their household income exceeded 20,000 yuan-a considerable sum even in Beijing at the time, let alone in Xinjiang. He quickly realized that cotton offered a path to a better life, with returns several times higher than any other crops. Over the years, the family steadily grew their cotton operation into a thriving business. Not only has planting become automated, but cotton harvesting in Xinjiang has also largely moved away from manual labor. According to the Xinjiang Cotton Association, as of 2024: ✅100% of cotton planting in Xinjiang is mechanized ✅Approximately 90% of harvesting is also done by machine Ababekri has, for the past three years, hired a Han Chinese driver, around the same age as him, to operate a cotton harvester during the autumn season. The machine can pick about 33 hectares per day, and it takes also only 10 days to complete the entire harvest on his land. In a place where western media headlines often dwell on "ethnic tension," the quiet, seamless cooperation between farmers like Ababekri and his team speaks to a different truth. He employs dozens of workers, several of whom are Han Chinese. Being asked if he had heard about the portrayed division, he replied simply: "I don't care what ethnicity someone is. I only care who can help me grow better cotton." A few statistics help paint a clearer picture of cotton production in Xinjiang: ✅In 2024, Xinjiang's cotton planting area reached 36.72 million mu, accounting for 86.2% of the national total ✅Total production reached 5.686 million tonnes, or 92.2% of China's total output ✅There are 327,000 smallholder cotton farmers in the region, over 70% of whom are ethnic minorities ✅The industry provides employment and livelihoods for over 2 million people from all ethnic backgrounds For many families, cotton farming is the main source of income. However, many export-oriented enterprises have faced serious challenges due to America-led sanctions. Dozens of companies in Xinjiang have been blacklisted over labor allegations. Some companies had to cut production, lay off workers, or even shut down entirely, leaving many employees jobless. A lost job is never just a number-for me it's how they put decent food on the table, send their children to better education, and build a future. The irony is stark: Xinjiang's cotton industry has been fundamentally transformed by modernization. Accusations of "forced labor" are not only baseless, but also deeply disrespectful to the people whose lives depend on this honest work-people like Ababekri and his family, who work hard make the life better. There has been no shortage of headlines and discourse surrounding Xinjiang cotton. But to truly understand this land, we need to look beyond the noise-to the fields, the machines, and the hands who guide them. Their stories aren't about politics. They're about dignity. Not about labels, but about livelihoods. Not ideology, but about effort. Let facts be louder than prejudice, and let truth travel farther than rumors.
Zhai Xiang84,185 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce
Today, I saw a report on China Central Television: cotton planting for 2026 has already begun in Kashgar in southern Xinjiang. The planters are equipped with BeiDou navigation and autonomous driving systems. They operate with high precision and efficiency, so much so that workers do not even need to sit on the machines, but simply walk behind to monitor the results. What used to take over ten days of manual labor can now be completed in just three. In places like Kashgar, mechanized cotton planting has already reached 100%. Last autumn, I accompanied a delegation of foreign lawmakers to Aksu in southern Xinjiang. Visiting cotton fields and speaking with Uygur farmers was one of the most memorable parts of that trip. For me, Aksu is very personal. In the early 1970s, my father moved to Aksu from Beijing with my grandparents, who were sent there to support the agricultural development of Xinjiang. My father attended middle school there. He told me that my grandfather grew rice, wheat, fruits, vegetables, and cotton. During the cotton-picking season, my father's school would organize all students to help in the fields. He remembers working alongside classmates from different ethnic backgrounds. The work was intensive, but not exhausting, according to my father. Each student received a daily subsidy of 40 cents, enough at the time to buy about half a dozen eggs. Perhaps this is what some people today would call "forced labor," and my father happens to be a witness. After seeing the level of mechanization firsthand, a former Speaker of New Zealand remarked that is what comprehensive development looks like and that is modernization. A senior Mexican lawmaker also noted that more stories like this should be shared with the world, because China is turning what once seemed impossible into reality. What they responded to was not a narrative, but reality as it is. And that gap, between firsthand observation and distant interpretation, is worth reflecting on. According to official data, Xinjiang produced 6.165 million tons of cotton in 2025, accounting for 92.8% of China's total output. And yes, this is the same region labeled as relying on "forced labor," often cited as justification for sanctions on the entire cotton and textile industry. So it raises a question: If the reality on the ground is this level of mechanization, why does the "forced labor" narrative persist in some political, academic and media circles? Is it a matter of outdated information, distorted perception, or something else, perhaps vested interests tied to competing cotton industries? Why can't they constructively point to China's real shortcomings to help this country become better, instead of indulging in narratives that are simply fabricated? When machines have already replaced large-scale manual labor, the rumor of "forced labor" continues to be reproduced. So what is really being produced, cotton, or the story itself?
Zhai Xiang20,462 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce
In recent days, videos of the Huajiang Bridge (花江), the world's highest bridge, have gone viral on X. Many observers couldn't help but note the irony: the R&D cost of a single US fighter jet is nearly equal to that of this monumental bridge in China. Last year, during a business trip through Xiangxi, I came across another engineering marvel that deserves no less attention-the Aizhai Bridge (矮寨). Built for a little more than half the cost of an F-22, it remains the world's largest canyon-spanning suspension bridge. Like Huajiang, Aizhai sits deep within rugged mountains, where transportation was once nearly impossible. Its name, Aizhai (literally "Low Village"), comes from the view looking down from the cliffs above. The settlement seemed so small and sunken, as if fate itself had pressed it beneath the surrounding peaks. In the 1930s, during WWII, China's southwest became a strategic rear area, and a complex network of mountain roads was built here. In 2004, China planned a 3,000-kilometer expressway stretching from Baotou in Inner Mongolia to Maoming in Guangdong, a road literally running from the Gobi desert to the South China Sea. The route was set to pass through this deep canyon, and a major debate arose: should they build tunnels or a bridge? After much study, engineers concluded that although tunneling could save several hundred million yuan, it would cause far greater environmental damage due to the area's fragile karst geology. During field surveys, engineers hiked across mountains and valleys. On one occasion, they encountered a farmer weeping uncontrollably. When they asked what had happened, they learned that her cow had just fallen off a cliff. At that moment, they understood more deeply how dangerous and isolated this region truly was, and why building a bridge here was not just an engineering challenge, but a moral imperative. In 2011, after four years of construction, the Aizhai Bridge was officially completed. Its deck rises 355 meters above the town of Aizhai below. What once required a thirty-minute detour along winding mountain roads can now be crossed in just one minute. The transformation brought by better transportation is about more than just speed. Once a remote, impoverished mountain town cut off from the outside world, it has become a vital artery connecting China's north and south. Travel time from western Hunan to Changsha has been reduced by four hours, and to Chongqing by eight, rewriting not only distances, but the very radius of people's lives and possibilities. Aizhai is "low" no more. Suspended among the clouds, the bridge shortens distances, lifts lives, and reshapes futures. One fighter jet defends airspace. One bridge redefines possibility. Watch the one-minute video I filmed while crossing the bridge.
Zhai Xiang40,004 görüntüleme • 9 ay önce
Beneath the seemingly unremarkable yellow earth of central China's Wuyang County (舞阳) lies a prehistoric civilization representing of the earliest peak of Chinese civilization. It predates the Egyptian pyramids by millennia. The people there played bone flutes, brewed rice wine, crafted turquoise ornaments-leaving behind some of the very earliest footprints of Chinese civilization. This place is called Jiahu (贾湖). Recently, Chinese archaeologists discovered the world's earliest known wooden coffin here, dating back more than 8,000 years. The latest archaeological findings reveal more than 200 tombs in the central area of this site, among which 10 show evidence of wooden coffins. These coffins are rectangular in shape. Some measure around 2 meters in length, 0.6 meters in width, and 0.06 meters in thickness. Soil analysis from these locations indicates that the lignin content is significantly higher than in the surrounding areas. So far, no coffin lids have been identified. In Egypt, coffins appeared roughly 6,000 years ago. In China, the arid northwest region of Xinjiang has preserved a wealth of ancient artifacts. According to the chief archaeologist there, the earliest coffins were discovered at the Xiaohe Cemetery: boat-shaped coffins covered with cattle hides, dating back about 4,000 years. In eastern Zhejiang, a wooden coffin over 6,000 years old has been found, though only as a single instance. More systematic use of wooden coffins appeared around 6,000 years ago in eastern China's Shandong. The Jiahu site was discovered in 1961 during the excavation of a cellar used to store sweet potatoes, but systematic archaeological work did not begin until 1983. In a twist of fate, the son of its original discoverer now works at the local museum. Over ten excavations, nearly 50 bone flutes made from the ulnae of cranes have been unearthed. These are the oldest and best-preserved wind instruments known in Chinese music history. This remarkable site dates back some 9,000 years, emerging as the Ice Age came to an end. About 7,500 years ago, according to traces of flooding found in the archaeological record, its inhabitants abandoned the settlement due to this natural disaster. The flutes vary from two to eight finger holes. Over decades of careful study, Chinese scholars have tested and measured their sound. They found that most of the seven-holed flutes can roughly perform a diatonic scale. By contrast, the world's earliest bone flutes, discovered in Germany, though skillfully drilled, lack the ability to play a seven-note scale. As for their purpose, some suggest the flutes may have been used to lure game, while others believe they were intended as offerings or prayers to the heavens, the latter pointing to a ritual use. Today, the Ancient Music Ensemble of the Henan Museum (河南博物院) performs daily for visitors using replicas of the Jiahu bone flutes alongside other traditional instruments. I captured this video two years ago during a performance held as part of a conference I attended (top left). As archaeological research continues over the past four decades, the Jiahu site keeps delivering new surprises. I would like to share some of the important findings I have learned: The earliest evidence of rice in China comes from more than 9,000 years ago at the Shangshan (上山) site in Zhejiang. Charred rice grains have also been discovered at Jiahu. Although not as abundant as those at Shangshan, they indicate that the inhabitants of Jiahu were among the earliest people on Earth to eat rice. In recent years, excavations have also revealed a 65,000-square-meter moat-surrounded settlement at Jiahu-essentially a prehistoric metropolitan. The area outside the moat has yet to be excavated, but it is possible that rice fields once lay there. Chronologically, the rice at Jiahu appears slightly later than that of Shangshan, yet they exhibit a higher degree of domestication. This disparity suggests that the two sites may have developed independently, without direct interaction. One distinguished archaeologist has speculated that the people of Jiahu may have migrated from continental shelves submerged by rising sea levels after the Ice Age, bringing with them a remarkably advanced civilization. Here lies one of China's earliest ding-shaped vessels. Around 3,000 years ago, ding with three or four slender legs symbolized state power and were reserved for the ritual ceremonies of the highest aristocracy. Even 2,000 years ago, the First Emperor of Qin went to great lengths in search of the nine sacred ding, which represented the sovereignty of the realm. At the Jiahu site, archaeologists uncovered numerous ceramic tripod ding vessels. These pieces may already have carried ritual significance, as they appeared only in tombs of high status that contained turtle plastrons. Here lies one of China's earliest ding-shaped vessels (鼎). Around 3,000 years ago, ding with three or four slender legs symbolized state power and were reserved for the ritual ceremonies of the highest aristocracy (top right). Even 2,000 years ago, the First Emperor of Qin (秦始皇) went to great lengths in search of the nine sacred ding, which represented the sovereignty of the China. At the Jiahu site, archaeologists uncovered numerous ceramic tripod ding. These pieces may already have held ritual significance, as they appeared only in tombs of high status that contained turtle shells. 3,000 years ago at Yinxu, capital of Shang Dynasty, diviners recorded their oracles on bones, primarily turtle shells-and these inscriptions, known as oracle bone script, are the earliest known systematic writing in China. While the precise origins of this script remain uncertain, discoveries at Jiahu offer important clues. In certain high-ranking burials at Jiahu, turtle shells have been unearthed, some engraved with symbols (bottom left). These symbols appeared in isolation and remain undeciphered today, yet they predate oracle bone script by nearly 5,000 years. Some of the shells contained small pebbles, suggesting their use in divination. Between 3,000 and 4,000 years ago, during the Xia and Shang Dynasties, turquoise held a status comparable to that of diamonds today. It was often used in the most luxurious objects. The earliest turquoise ornaments in China have also been found at Jiahu. In addition to what appear to be necklace beads, archaeologists discovered pieces that may have once been sewn onto fabrics covering the bodies of the deceased (bottom right). Jiahu also offers the earliest known evidence of pig domestication in China. Residues of alcohol have been found inside many pottery vessels; and chemical analyses reveal that they once contained a fermented beverage made from rice and hawthorn, marking the earliest known evidence of wine in China. Its age is comparable to the wine made in Georgia! Although DNA has yet to be successfully extracted, studies of human remains from the burials reveal that Jiahu males averaged 1.72 meters in height and females averaged 1.67 meters, with some individuals reaching 1.8 or even 1.9 meters-much taller than today's national averages. Considering the limited nutrition available in ancient times, such stature is truly remarkable. Half-jokingly, I once asked the chief archaeologist of the excavation: "Did they perhaps get enough calcium, maybe by drinking pork bone soup?" He chuckled and replied, "It's quite possible." One of my most respected mentors, Chairman of the Chinese Archaeological Society, once said that Jiahu represents "The earliest great peak of China's prehistoric culture; a place where the first light of Chinese civilization began to shine." To me, this radiant culture was both nurtured and scattered by water. Its level of development far surpassed that of other regions during the same period in China, and I cannot help but think of one name-the Atlantis of the East. If the Atlantis of the West is a myth born of humanity’s longing for a perfect world, then Jiahu may be a real miracle of early civilization. The melody of bone flutes, the elegant curves of ceramic ding, the lingering fragrance of ancient rice, the mysterious symbols carved on turtle shells-all lie silently beneath the yellow earth, waiting not to be imagined, but to be unearthed, understood, and remembered.
Zhai Xiang41,678 görüntüleme • 10 ay önce
I once thought of Jingdezhen (景德镇) merely as an historic porcelain-producing town, quietly tucked away in the margins of history books. To my surprise, it's not only alive but also thriving with modern flair: A friend of mine recently returned from Jingdezhen, brimming with stories-about a little duck made of broken shards, lovingly restored porcelain factories now taken over by young artists from around the world, and some sixty thousand hand-painting workshops. Listening to these tales, I couldn't help but feel: this city is so worth writing about, even though I've rarely delved into ceramics and seldom write about places I haven't yet seen for myself. Before it became the renowned "Porcelain Capital," Jingdezhen was not particularly noteworthy. Prior to the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), the region remained rather obscure, as the most advanced ceramic workshops were concentrated in China's central plains. That changed dramatically in 1127, when the Northern Song fell to the Jurchens from the north. Waves of skilled artisans migrated southward, bringing Jingdezhen an unprecedented historical opportunity. By the Southern Song (1127–1279), the town was already producing porcelain for the imperial court, and large quantities of its wares have been found in shipwrecks in the South China Sea from this era. Under Mongol rule (1279–1368), mature blue-and-white porcelain (青花瓷) was born here. Beyond breakthroughs in painting techniques, Jingdezhen's abundant kaolin clay resources allowed artisans to create larger, thinner porcelain bodies-a true leap in craftsmanship. From then on, Jingdezhen established itself as the very heart of Chinese porcelain. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, the imperial court even established official kilns in Jingdezhen dedicated to producing porcelain exclusively for royal use. After the founding of the PRC in 1949, several large porcelain factories were set up here. Astonishingly, half a century ago, one-third of China's foreign exchange earnings came from Jingdezhen porcelain. That number alone shocked me, but what I learned next surprised me even more. In my mind, an industrial city like Jingdezhen would be turning out ceramics that were rigid in design, lacking creativity, and largely mass-produced with printed patterns rather than hand-painted ones-something without sufficient artistic value. But my colleague told me otherwise: today Jingdezhen has more than 60,000 workshops, and over 90 percent of porcelain designs are still hand-painted: Machines may guarantee standardized mass production, but Jingdezhen's true strength lies in its culture of handcrafted customization. While many former industrial hubs shifted entirely toward the service sector in the post-industrial era, Jingdezhen has remained firmly rooted in porcelain. Last year alone, the city's ceramic industry reached an output value of over 93 billion yuan, exporting to more than 80 countries and regions. Even more impressive, the city has embraced bold innovations-reimagining what porcelain can be in the 21st century. Let's take a look at a few examples. Top left: You might not expect it, but ceramic materials can be transformed into musical instruments-flutes, chimes, even stringed instruments. And not just for show-they can really play. Hit play and listen for yourself. Can you believe this sound comes from clay? Top right: Shown here are the work of a Jingdezhen artist's daughter, who returned after studying in the UK: a ceramic speaker and a beautifully engineered teacup. Ingeniously designed with clever mechanics, this teacup will not topple no matter which angle the tea is poured from. With its simple form and distinctive texture, it carries both an Oriental heritage and a modern sensibility. She shared that her daily work involves constantly negotiating the space between tradition and innovation-often engaging in passionate, sometimes stubborn, debates with elder craftsmen. But she said it's exactly in those moments of tension that the most unexpected ideas are born. At one point, Jingdezhen stood in the brink of becoming China's Detroit. Once a glorious industrial powerhouse, prosperous for centuries longer than Detroit ever was, the city began to decline in the late 1990s. Large state-owned porcelain factories shut down one after another, tens of thousands of workers were laid off, and aging dormitories fell into disrepair, some crumbling into near slums. Meanwhile, Western ceramics companies, armed with more advanced industrial techniques, took over the mass-production market, and Jingdezhen's traditional advantages steadily eroded. As the city declined, a question loomed: What should be done with the husks of its abandoned factories? Some pushed to level them for new real estate projects, while others argued for preserving the industrial heritage. In the end, the preservationists won. Many of the old facilities were restored, repurposed, and left largely intact: transformed into artists' studios, small shops, and homes for young craftspeople. The porcelain fires no longer burn only in the kilns. They now fuel the city's way of life. It is precisely this unique blend of cultural atmosphere and youthful vitality that has brought Jingdezhen back to life. Over the past decade, the city has welcomed a net population inflow of 136,000 people, more than 80 percent of them young. In their twenties and thirties, ceramic artists have set up studios in alleys and courtyards, while young visitors wander through the streets, making it feel as though every lane holds a hidden story. What's equally surprising is that Jingdezhen's charm has crossed borders. Today, a growing number of young people from the United States, Japan, France, Turkey, and beyond have chosen to live here long-term, immersing themselves in the art of ceramics. They call this ancient-yet-youthful city "China within China." At the lower left and lower right are the Imperial Kiln Museum (yes, its architecture itself resembles a kiln) and its most popular artifact. Surprisingly, this piece is actually a "reject." Made in the mid-Ming dynasty for the emperor, it is a porcelain incense burner in the form of a duck. To date, the Palace Museum in Beijing has not discovered another example like it. As for its status as a flawed piece, there are a few theories: one suggests that the designer originally intended for smoke to spout from the duck's beak, but the effect proved unsatisfactory, and the craftsmen abandoned what was, perhaps, a rather avant-garde idea; another possibility is that a more perfect version was eventually produced, but those pieces did not survive through history. In Jingdezhen, porcelain rejects from the imperial kilns of the Ming and Qing dynasties were always smashed and discarded. Over time, they formed a mountain of shards. Archaeological work on this "porcelain mountain" continues to this day, with archaeologists patiently piecing fragments back together, like working with Lego bricks. The colleague told me that among this mountain, they even found some flawless porcelain pieces. When I asked why such perfect works would also be smashed, he explained one theory: certain pieces were so difficult to fire that, had the emperor seen them, he might have happily ordered, "Make ten more!" To spare themselves endless trouble, the craftsmen may have deliberately destroyed them, pretending nothing had ever succeeded in the first place. After the duck-shaped incense burner was pieced back together and put on display, its charming form earned it the nickname Suisuiya (碎碎鸭/Broken Duck) from Chinese netizens. Quite unexpectedly, it became something of a cultural phenomenon: quirky, creative, once a "failure," now rediscovered. Many young people see themselves in "Broken Duck": imperfect, but interesting; not yet celebrated, yet deserving to be seen. Artists, too, have embraced its odd yet endearing beauty, creating popular cartoon characters. Since the beginning of this year, merchandise and spin-off IP related to the Broken Duck have already generated more than 10 million RMB in revenue. In September, Khaby Lame, the most-followed creator on TikTok, visited the Imperial Kiln Museum and posed with the duck, pulling his signature expression (Though I must admit, I still don't quite get Lame's appeal…The duck, on the other hand, I find utterly delightful). Across China, Jingdezhen has emerged as a new model for urban renewal: one that does not blindly chase GDP growth or uncritical modernization, but instead draws from its own cultural roots to find common ground between tradition and the future. Sometimes, the hope of a city is hidden in the secret of a "Broken Duck." Not because it is flawless, but because it was once overlooked, and then reappreciated. Like Jingdezhen itself, true revival is not about rebuilding, but about learning to understand who you are, and learning to see it with new eyes.
Zhai Xiang27,928 görüntüleme • 9 ay önce
The Chinese have held a deeply romantic reverence for the universe. Over two thousand years ago, the poet Qu Yuan (屈原) composed Heavenly Questions, a long poem filled with inquiries about the origins of heaven and earth, and the movements of the stars, attempting to unveil the mysteries of the cosmos through poetic language. The ancients even coined the term tianlai (天籁), or "the sound of heaven," to describe music so beautiful and pure-an ideal of sonic perfection. Yesterday, I attended China's most prestigious cultural fair in south China's Shenzhen. In addition to representatives from more than 60 countries and regions, every province in China, including Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macao, had its own pavilion showcasing the highlights of its cultural heritage. What left the deepest impression on me was a brief yet breathtaking musical performance I stumbled upon at the Shanghai Pavilion. Honestly, I hadn't heard of this performance. By chance, I happened to be nearby when it began. Sometimes, serendipity works in mysterious ways. Within moments, I realized I was hearing something truly extraordinary: the real sound of the heaven, or cosmos. The Shanghai Astronomy Museum had led the creation of the world's first musical instruments made from meteorites, and this was their debut performance. The instrument, known as qing (磬), or chime stones, dates back to China's Neolithic period and was traditionally made of stone. It reached its peak usage over two thousand years ago. Inspired by mythical beasts described in legends from the time of Qu Yuan, the museum used 3D printing to recreate the creatures as instrument bases, then cut 20 pieces of meteorite into chime stones. Due to the extreme difficulty of processing meteorites, several precious pieces were lost in the process. Nine chimes were brought and played publicly for the first time. Two young musicians performed two pieces: The first was "Big Fish," the theme song from a beloved Chinese animated film. Ethereal and profound, it conveys a sense of awe and reverence for nature, and calls for a deeper respect for life and the laws of the natural world. The second was "The East is Red," a song that carried the hopes of a generation for light and renewal. It was also the name of China's first man-made satellite, and has since become a symbol of the nation's space ambitions. From meteorites born billions of years ago, crossing time and space to arrive on the Earth, they responded to our wonder in the form of music. The mini-concert made me believe, more than ever: To gaze at the stars is humanity's deepest form of romance. Our reverence for the cosmos has never ceased. And the universe, in its own way, has never stopped answering.
Zhai Xiang25,443 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce
Within the Forbidden City, several crabapple trees planted during the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911) still bloom each April. They blossom as expected, cluster upon cluster, radiant as rosy clouds. Yet in less than a week, their petals begin to fall like rain, a dreamlike scene, fleeting yet intoxicating. Crabapple trees, native to China, have, for thousands of years, carried deep cultural associations in Chinese literature-symbols of spring's passing, distant longing, and tender sorrow. Much like cherry blossoms to the Japanese, crabapple blossoms are millennia of unspoken gentleness in the hearts of the Chinese. One such heart belonged to Li Qingzhao (1084–1155), widely regarded as the greatest female poet in Chinese history. Her early works are light and graceful, while her later ones are filled with grief and depth. Through her brush, the emotional sensitivity and elegance of poetry reached new heights. When I was studying at Stanford, a professor offered a course dedicated to her works-a testament to her enduring influence in both Chinese and world literature. Li once wrote: Last night the rain was sparse, the wind sudden and fierce昨夜雨疏风骤 Even deep sleep could not dispel the lingering wine浓睡不消残酒 I asked the maid who rolled up the curtain. She said the crabapple flowers as they were试问卷帘人，却道海棠依旧 But do you know? Do you not know? The leaves grow lush, the blossoms wane知否知否，应是绿肥红瘦 Her affection for the crabapple, her tender concern, and her acute awareness of beauty's transience still allow us, a thousand years later, to envision her standing by the window-sorrow between her brows, blossoms in her eyes. Even earlier, the poet Zheng Gu (849–911) became known as a "master of a single word" (一字之师) after improving a poem's meaning by changing just one character. He wrote of the crabapple: Drunk in the morning, chanting at dusk, never enough to behold朝醉暮吟看不足 I envy the butterflies, resting deep in the shade羡他蝴蝶宿深枝 He also likened the crabapple to colors carefully painted on by the spring breeze. From his poem I can see the beauty of crabapple flower and fleeting spring. Then there is Su Shi (1037–1101), one of the greatest literary figures in Chinese history. An undisputed genius, Su passed the imperial examinations and was once praised by the emperor as a future prime minister. Unfortunately, his patron died too soon. Despite his talent and achievements, Su was repeatedly demoted and politically suppressed by the following emperors, attaining only the post of Minister. Yet he left behind an unmatched legacy of literature and spirit. He once wrote of crabapple blossoms: Fearing the flowers might sleep too soon at night只恐夜深花睡去 I light high candles to illuminate their rouge aglow故烧高烛照红妆 This poem, filled with fervent love for the blossoms, was regarded by Su Shi himself as his finest work. Su had a friend who, in his eighties, married a young woman of eighteen. Su playfully wrote a poem teasing the age gap, describing it as: Snow-white pear blossoms weighing down the blushing crabapple一树梨花压海棠 I hadn't heard this line before attending graduate school. It was a classmate at Stanford, once the top humanities student in Beijing's national college entrance exam, who first shared it with me. Su Shi's political rival, Wang Anshi, once a powerful prime minister, eventually reconciled with Su in their later years when both were out of office. Wang's son also penned a beautiful poem in memory of his ex-wife: Willows trail softly in the breeze, smoke-like threads woven into sorrow杨柳丝丝弄轻柔，烟缕织成愁。 The crabapple has not yet wept, the pear blossom snows early, and half the spring is gone海棠未雨，梨花先雪，一半春休 That sense of grief of spring fading and love already lost, was quietly entrusted to the crabapple blossoms, which bloom in silence and fall with grace. Last week, a fierce wind swept through Beijing. This year's crabapple blossoms were gone with the wind. Yet every couple of years, I still make time to visit the Forbidden City, just to witness that fleeting rain of petals. To me, it is a rare and treasured moment. Through a narrow gap in the palace door, I saw a cat resting in a closed-off courtyard. The blossoms are gone, but that rain of petals still drifts gently in my heart. That cat, hidden in the quiet courtyard, might be dreaming the same dream Li Qingzhao once had a thousand years ago, a dream of wind, of flowers, and of tender sorrow of the human world. As long as someone is willing to pause when the flowers fall, those verses and feelings will continue to bloom. Softly, and timelessly.
Zhai Xiang17,611 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce
At the Shenzhen cultural fair, I met many museum professionals from across China, including the director and deputy director of the Tribute Tea Museum of the Tang Dynasty (618-907), based in Huzhou of China's coastal province of Zhejiang. 1,200 years ago, the legendary tea sage Lu Yu (陆羽) lived in Huzhou and wrote The Classic of Tea (茶经), the world's first monograph on tea. This region is rightly considered a major birthplace of global tea culture. One local variety, Zisun Tea (Purple Bamboo Shoot tea), was named for its tender buds that resemble tiny purple shoots. It was once the imperial tribute tea of the Tang emperors, presented every early April for grand imperial spring tea banquets in the capital. Lu Yu held tea in the highest regard and to him, brewing tea was a ritual. In The Classic of Tea, he described in detail how to select water, grind tea, and even add salt, influences still visible today in places like Japan and mid-Asia. Of course, the world has moved on. Today, we steep loose leaves or tea bags, a long way from the Tea Sage's ideal cup. I asked the deputy director if she could demonstrate for my global friends on X how tea was prepared in the Tang dynasty. She happily agreed, and to my delight, she also dressed in full traditional Tang attire for the occasion. Elegant, precise, timeless. In that moment, 1,200 years felt just a sip away. Would you like to host your own Tang Dynasty tea ceremony at home, just like Lu Yu and she have done?
Zhai Xiang14,406 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce
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