A Reply to Liang Sicheng’s Review of My Book
This post is Part II in a series on Chinese architectural history. Click on these links to read the introduction and Part I. 阅读这篇中文文章，请点击这里。
Translated by Yan Wencheng
After my book, A History of Chinese Architecture 中国建筑史 was published, I was informed that the Ta-Kung-Pao in Tianjin 天津大公报 published a review article by Liang Sicheng 梁思成. I looked for it for two weeks and finally got hold of a copy. The article was titled “Repudiating the Errors,” which I read very carefully. Ah! What an excessive tone! [1]
When it comes to research, any aspect of a study of anything within a certain boundary is research. There are many aspects to studying the architecture of China, with its vast lands, abundant resources, and over such a long history. Concerning the research itself, some methods have to be borrowed from foreigners, one therefore goes abroad to study; other methods need not rely on the outsider and can be learned by oneself from what is available in books and other sources in China. Concerning individual researchers, there are those who can afford to study abroad before returning to China to work, such as Mr. Liang himself. There are also those who cannot go abroad to study, and they therefore choose what is closest to their temperament, and do their best with whatever materials are available to them, which is what I have done, something that is also allowed. Fundamentally, it is about every citizen fulfilling their obligations. Although different in methods and approaches, each is doing research. The achievements may be different, but they all constitute the heart and mind of the citizens of the nation.
Ever since my teenage years, I have studied architecture. Whenever I saw and felt something, I started planning and designing the architecture and initially wanted to take this up as a profession.[2] [I am among] the old-school scholars who wrote the bagu [eight-legged] essays and sat for examinations. It was during the Wuxu examination 戊戌会试 that the political transformation occurred and I began to study the so-called new learning with my colleagues.[3] After the reform movement failed, I returned to my hometown, continued to study the new learning and established local schools with my townspeople. After that the revolution succeeded, and I was forced by the Yunnan armies to leave my hometown for the capital where I have stayed to this day.[4] In these thirty years, I have persisted in my architectural reform plans, never tired of them, and yet I have known no scholar of architecture. It was only when I saw books of architecture from both the East and West at the park library in Tianjin in 1913 that I wanted to pursue this research. In 1915 I went to the Panama Pacific World Exposition 美国巴博 and was quite shocked by the debates surrounding the China pavilion; it was then that I realized that the study of [Chinese] architecture could not be deferred any longer (Figure 1). I returned to China in 1916, and started collecting books and sources for my study. I was already forty-eight years old. Subsisting on a small salary and researching during my spare time, how could I have studied abroad under these circumstances? And although I love the arts, I am completely at a loss with languages. During my twenties and thirties I tried many times, and failed many times in this respect. I still do not know any foreign language and what I have collected, therefore, are all in Chinese. But what I found most interesting about architecture is its form, and although I have collected more materials than just on architectural form, I have focused solely on this dimension in my research. As far as architectural form is concerned, there are many materials in traditional Chinese sources as well as in modern printed materials available for reference, which is why I was able to finish my book.
Figure 1. Entrance to the China exhibit at the Panama Pacific Exhibition of 1915, San Francisco. Photo courtesy of the San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library.
Mr. Liang mentioned, in his review, three principles for today’s architecture: utilitas, firmitas, and venustas, [the validity of] which certainly no one can deny. But this is what the Westerners have learnt from years of research, and what Mr. Liang has learnt from his overseas study. How could I, someone who knows no foreign language, and who has not studied abroad, have known this? Even if I had known about this, I am uninterested in engineering/construction and my interest lies always in the form (aesthetics) of architecture, which is also the sole focus of my book. The outline of the book is as follows:
Figure 2. Title page of Yue Jiazao’s A History of Chinese Architecture, first published in 1933. Photograph by the translator, 2014.
There are Three Collections 三编 in this book, with the two-part Collection Two 第二编上下 intended as the main body of my treatise (Figure 2). Among the two parts of Collection Two, part one/the first half is the focus, because it treats architecture according to its form, as I study only the form of Chinese architecture, such as the nine chapters including ordinary/residential houses of the first half. The five chapters on the city of the second half deal with architecture according to its utility, and therefore are not the main body of the book.[5] The roof was originally intended as the end of the first half [of Collection Two], and courtyards/yards originally were after gardens and parks. But when organizing the book, I realized that they did not fit into the categories (residential houses, for example, are buildings, whereas the roof is only a part of a building; as for the courtyards and yards, there are too many design possibilities and too little historical evidence), I therefore set them aside as Collection One 首编. Collection Three 第三编 includes my essays on architecture.[6] I have already explained the organization of the book in the preface. If Mr. Liang thinks it inappropriate, then it is inappropriate. But to say that it is incomprehensible[7] -- could it possibly be that I was not clear enough in the preface? In these two Collections, each one of the nine chapters, including residential houses and other styles, and the five chapters on cities and other types, although less than 70 pages altogether, were studied and interpreted according to ancient texts and drawings. I have really, humbly exerted my utmost. Although the drawings of the buildings that I have used are inadequate in some ways, I have done what I could within my capacity and under my circumstances. How could I know that they are inadequate? I would have discarded inadequate materials long ago, as I have indeed done with many. Although I am no expert of the European way of studying architecture, I understand from what my Japanese friends told me that it generally entails exhaustive investigations and detailed drawings of all the architectural remains of the country according to European theories and using European methods, while on the other hand, sorting out old [Japanese] texts. These two are then combined in an attempt to seek historical truths. This work in Japan was more or less done within thirty years of the [Meiji] Restoration. But when did Japan start the project? How many people were involved? Even though its land mass and history are so delimited, it took them thirty or forty years to accomplish this task. In this country [i.e., China] covering a larger area, with a longer history than Japan, how many people are working like Mr. Liang? And how much does Mr. Liang accomplish each year? And following this, when will China have enough accurate reports for further study? What does Mr. Liang think? As for me, I might not be able to see it even if I lived another dozen years to be an 80-year-old man.[8] One might as well wait for the Yellow River to become clear 俟河之清; how much time does one have?[9] I have regarded it my duty to research Chinese architecture all my life; could I have sat around waiting for the investigation reports to come out during this time (besides, no one was doing that)? Or, do I turn my back to it? Then again: does one have to wait for investigations according to Western methods to be completed before one can study Chinese architecture? Or perhaps there are things one can do with only Chinese books and paintings, and without borrowing Western learning. If there are, why must I wait for the Yellow River to become clear, and why don’t I study what can be done according to what my heart desires and what my ability allows? What my heart desires is form, and what my ability reaches, books and pictures that are available.[10] How can I then not regard it my responsibility to study Chinese architecture when I have these? This is why I have devoted myself even though I am without the help of Western languages or any [financial] aid. As far as my achievement is concerned, fifty years of study surely will have its rewards. No matter the outcome, there is something worthwhile in anyone who becomes a scholar through sustained effort and perseverance. An old saying says that even the movement of a hand will cause the air to stir. [Am I to believe that] devoting half a lifetime to a specific goal would eventually amount to nothing? A creative work must always contain finesse and errors, points to laugh at as well as those to laud. This is just like a person out there getting things done who will always have supporters and detractors, which is no cause for pessimism.
This is common sense for any ordinary person; how can it elude a scholar? Take agriculture for instance. It should of course be improved with Western methods, but should we stop working and plowing in the old Chinese ways before the Western facilities are in place? Do Chinese people lose face if we do? It is natural that Western methods are more productive than the old methods, but the latter is not something to be condemned.
Do the two volumes of my book contain nothing valuable other than the two chapters that Mr. Liang praised and the things that he criticized? It is said that what a great learned man discards is the foundation of a student learner. It means that there is value in a book, however simple it might look. For all the early germination of Chinese civilization and its long history, there has been no one who has organized the architecture of China, with its variety of forms and ambiguities of terminology. I used to consult my Japanese friend about Japanese architecture, and he sent me book titles for reference. A few years ago, Mr. Yan Ciyue 严慈约 asked if a European wanted to learn about the construction of Chinese gardens, what books could we refer him to. I was dumbfounded and could not answer. Another time, my nephew Mr. Boheng relayed questions posed by Europeans: How many styles were there in the architecture of the pavilion [ting 亭], and when did each style begin? I again had nothing to respond with. Who can claim to be a scholar in today’s China! Beijing is supposedly a cultural center, and yet these kinds of simple books and illustrations are nowhere to be found to answer an outsider’s inquiry. Isn’t this a lacuna in the Chinese scholarly community? And frankly, shouldn’t a Chinese write this kind of books? Must we wait for help from the outsiders? Are not the Chinese, with their mind and heart and talent, and the number of scholars old and new, qualified to write such a practical book? How many people specialize in architecture in this country? I haven’t heard what solutions Mr. Liang himself, born of prominent ancestry, and returning from his overseas studies years ago, has to offer. As an old saying tells us, what the purple-robed monk wouldn't say, is said by the rustic monk. I am but an old man waiting for his end, and harboring no desire for fame with my lifetime devotion to scholarly work. I started editing my old writings in my late years out of personal cherishment, and only after being requested by two friends did I plan to publish the book. However slight it is, it creates a structure for architectural studies in China, sorting out various threads, and organizing categorically to create order out of the chaos of two thousand years. Whatever its shortcomings, it can be used for cataloging and indexing, and for answering Westerners’ inquiry so they have an understanding of the subject. This should be the effort of the Chinese. Sending a copy to the Society was a reciprocal kindness (I received many books from your Society and it is nothing extraordinary for me to return the favor) and was not meant as a challenge to Mr. Liang.[11] Why was Mr. Liang so enraged as to pile his vilification and slander on me? Dr. Yetts from the West, when discussing Chinese architecture, was really only talking about the pagoda. Yet his fragmented understanding, shifting from staele to sarcophagi, from lou 楼 to guan 观, is worse than an uninformed Chinese.[12] Even so, is this the Westerner’s fault? The Westerner can only research Chinese things from their perspective and with their methodology, but the peculiar chaos should wholly be the responsibility of the Chinese to clean up. My work is precisely to fulfill my duty and yet Mr. Liang worries about losing his face/honor. I am afraid that it is not necessarily so from the Westerner’s point of view. What Mr. Liang has accomplished is truly remarkable in today’s China, but when compared with what the Japanese achieved after the [Meiji] Restoration, Mr. Liang’s work is nothing but the work of a specialized student after graduation. And seen from the Western perspective, it is but the ordinary work of a scholar, with ostensibly Western scholarship and method. How could this be regarded by the Westerners as the Chinese scholar’s honor? Besides, other than Western scholarship, what is it that Mr. Liang holds so dear as to represent the Chinese scholar? [page 6 of the original manuscript is missing, on a sheet for 630 characters] [13].…Who are those that Mr. Liang deems scholars, and what is the face/honor that he refers to?
There are members of my family who graduated from specialized study and now work in China with their learning, yet they never claim to be Chinese scholars. Because a Chinese scholar is someone who studies China’s own learning 中国固有之学, or contributes to the world with new discoveries through Western scholarship; these are Chinese scholars. These people’s honor is also the honor of the Chinese scholar. What Mr. Liang does amounts to nothing other than gathering architectural data. How ridiculous is it to be so pompous as to call himself a Chinese scholar!
At the beginning of Mr. Liang’s article, there is something particularly questionable about what he regards as the attitude of today’s scholars. He states, “If a foreigner, in discussing the subject, misses the point, we should not let it go, and should repudiate it or correct it, or else roll up our sleeves and show them how to do a better job.” At first glance, it looks as if Mr. Liang is one hundred percent full of responsibility. But a second look suggests that this is hardly what a Chinese person would say, because it is completely irresponsible. When the so-called “foreigners miss the point,” is it really the foreigner’s fault? Or is it rather because the Chinese fail to organize [their own culture] so that when a foreigner comes to China, he is unable to find appropriate materials on the topic? Judging from the latter, the fault is not with the foreigner. Even if we can debate or correct him, why don’t we, before others make such mistakes, organize our own culture so we can understand it ourselves? At the same time, foreigners would have suitable books for their study (If Dr. Yetts had read my book, I can guarantee that he would not have made such a mess out of pagodas, and lou 楼 and guan 观, let alone wander off to the pyramids of Egypt.). What is particularly strange is “rolling up our sleeves to do what they failed to do,” this is more funny than the story about the whale at the eastern station.[14] Please Mr. Liang, should Chinese things be done by the Chinese, or by foreigners? If they should be done by the Chinese, and if Mr. Liang can do it, why does not he take the initiative instead of waiting for foreigners to fail before he “rolls up his sleeves?” And if Mr. Liang cannot yet do the work, what good is rolling up his sleeves, when even taking off his clothes wouldn’t help? The former [i.e., if he can do it] is laziness and the latter [i.e., if he can’t], arrogance. In summary, this results from excessive worship of outsiders. Worship develops into dependence, where the responsibility of the Chinese is unconsciously transferred to the outsider, while the Chinese himself assumes a position of the overseer. Ah! How odd! The attitude of the young Chinese scholar.
Even so, this mentality did not originate with Mr. Liang, but rather has had a long history. In 1912, when purchasing architectural journals in a Japanese store at Suzhou Hutong in the east of the city, I overheard a student who was buying a map of China from the Japanese, and faulting it for being too abbreviated, complained, “Why don’t you have something with more detail?” The Japanese apologized with a smile, and said, “I apologize. I am very sorry. There will surely be more detailed maps in the future.” The Chinese listener would wonder, What is this? Must a Chinese map used by a Chinese be prepared by the Japanese? This mentality is exactly reflective of that of Mr. Liang.
“What Mr. Liang has accomplished is truly remarkable in today’s China, but ... seen from the Western perspective, it is but the ordinary work of a scholar .... other than Western scholarship, what is it that Mr. Liang holds so dear as to represent the Chinese scholar? ... a Chinese scholar is someone who studies China’s own learning 中国固有之学.”
What Ito [Chuta]! What Sekino! What Boerschmann![15] Who are these people? What do they have to do with me? I am Chinese; I research Chinese architecture in whichever way I please; must I plead with the Japanese or the Westerner for his approval and assignment before I dare start? Once my book is published in China, if a foreigner would like to read it, he can read it; and if he wants to criticize, he may criticize. If he does not want to read it, he can ignore it. How can he possibly say “I don’t permit you Chinese to do your architectural history because it doesn’t suit my taste?” What I heard from Mr. Liang is: “You must take care not to arbitrarily research, nor randomly publish because the Japanese and Westerners are also doing this; you would make others laugh. Don’t you know how great they are?” And what I wanted to say is: “There has never been a scholar, from the East or the West, who is as narrow-minded and biased as Mr. Liang.” One needs only to see how hard both Eastern and Western scholars are searching for old Chinese texts. Is my book really inadequate? Please find some old texts on art, and look at their titles and contents, before criticizing mine. Fundamentally, a book manifests one’s mind and talents, which cannot be satisfying to others in every way. Forget about foreigners, even the government of this country cannot set up a formula to restrict thinking and interfere with the speech of the people (freedom of thought, freedom of speech). Who does Mr. Liang take himself to be to assume such authority? I would accept criticism from anyone, but what was Mr. Liang’s attitude, let alone his fabrications? Example 1, changing my wording; example 2, wilful slander and outright insult. Does Mr. Liang know what criticism is? If not, please take a look at the opposite side of the newspaper (the page that published his review), where there was a piece of criticism. Notice the decorum, and the tone of speech. What is really ridiculous about Mr. Liang’s article is that he was in constant need of a foreigner. Why was this necessary? Does not Mr. Liang’s own words count?
Example 1: I have never read books by Sekino Tadashi or others, nor quoted them, yet Mr. Liang accused me of careless reading, and impetuousness.
Example 2: My words “old people, women and children, young male and female,” were changed by Mr. Liang to “old ladies and young people,” to poke fun. But it might not be amusing even with Mr. Liang’s wording. Here I was talking about ting 庭 [the courtyard/yard]; what is funny about old ladies and young people, as they are the hosts of the courtyard? If this is funny, how much funnier was Mengcius’s planting mulberry trees under the wall and raising chickens and pigs? Such impetuousness is no good, and I do apologize to the readers of the newspaper. After calming down for five minutes, let us resume. I will respond to any legitimate critique (although the attitude is not that of critique). The fifth paragraph of the review, for instance, states, “Then we will expect to read .…” That style of history seems to be the history of Westerners, such as one sees in textbooks on this or that period, but this is only a critique of the style! The Chinese have never used this style in their history. Naturally I could have used this Western style of history, but must I? Besides, a creative work means I can of course create my own style. In my study of architectural form, each chapter, dealing with various forms, develops with the historical period. What is that if not history? One should not read with a prejudiced mind. In Mr. Liang’s mind, there were only Westerners, and naturally only the Western historical style too. Some scholars at the end of Qing quibbled that nothing of the Chinese history throughout of the dynasties counted as history, that even A Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government 资治通鉴 was merely “historical materials.” If that is so, what can I say if my book is not considered history?
We call such Western-style history “the signboard history,” because it functions as a signboard of a store, from which people know instantly [about its merchandise]. Chinese history pays equal attention to the peculiarities of each period, only without hanging up the sign. Signboard history makes good textbooks; whereas Chinese history, without the signboard, allows readers to investigate on their own. Whether this is history or not is not within the purview of my discussion now.[16] Besides, what is difficult about writing history as Mr. Liang expected? Take the ordinary/residential buildings in my first chapter. It is easy for me to put up some signs: the prehistoric period, the four-directional style of the Shang dynasty, the conglomerative style of the Zhou dynasty, and the double-floors of the end of Zhou, etc.[17] I can then copy some nonsense from history books, which would provide the background, supplemented by religion and science. Is that writing a book, or copying one? Forget about two volumes; you can’t finish in twenty. That is precisely calling a deer a horse! 指鹿为马
The so-called “one part” is one part of a building. A part of a building has its history just like the building itself has a history. The rooftop, being a part of a building, has its history which is obviously worthy of research. What is architecture itself? My answer: architecture itself is the nine chapters including residential architecture in the first half of Collection Two, and not the second half, which combines various buildings [in a group].
It is my original idea that the curvature of the roofline resulted from a weakness. Why should I quote from something if it is my own idea? If I can quote some other work, then it’s not my original interpretation. Mr. Liang is welcome to offer counter evidence if he can; and if not, and if he simply does not trust my interpretation, what can I say? If one asks me what I have seen to develop such a view, my answer is the thatched houses and residential buildings. Although lacking citations, there are plenty of instances where a weakness/a sickness is turned into an object of aesthetic appreciation. Dong Shi mimicking Xi Shi holding her chest, the teardrop and accidental-dismount makeup style of the later period, and a woman’s sickly appeal, all count as evidence.[18] [In addition], likes and dislikes are emotional phenomena. Westerners’ likes and dislikes of Chinese things are not necessarily results of research, but rather emotional swings half of the time. But those who look up only to Westerners would spare no effort in proving what the Westerners praise as “really good,” and providing footnotes damning as “truly bad” what Westerners disapprove of. This is a sickness of the social psyche. The Chinese are the masters of China, and Chinese culture is the culture of the Chinese. Any Chinese person is free to investigate and critique the culture of his country. Must we look to Westerners first? The Chinese always tends to be passive, even in his hobbies: the sickly beauty and the bound feet and so forth provide such examples. In northern China there are points of beauty with the curved roof because of appropriate application; in the south, however, the roofline tends to be excessive and not always consistent. As someone growing up in the south, I have seen rooflines both pleasing and not necessarily so. Even carpenters from the north would often agree that the curvature is too much in the south, making the roof appear flimsy. Therefore from my point of view, the curvature of the roof, women’s sickly beauty, and the bound feet are all forms of sickness. How did this sickness come about? My investigation into its origin reveals weaknesses in building materials and technique. The bound feet are no longer fashionable, nor is the sickly beauty of a woman, but the sickness of the roofline, my discovery perhaps, is something I do not wish to rid of, only merely to point out that it is a weakness, and that it has its origins. There is nothing philosophical about the “natural result.” If the roofline is curved, how can the eaves not follow suit, except that the corners are called upturned corners, or qiao 翘. Does this knowledge of an ordinary builder really elude Mr. Liang? If the roofline is curved and the eaves and corners all of a sudden straighten out, how do they reconcile (Figure 3)?
Figure 3. The main hall of the Baoguo Monastery, Ningbo, Zhejiang province, showing the upturned eaves and corners. Photograph by the translator, 2018.
There is one thing in particular that I wish to make clear: my historical conception is based on evolution, and so Chinese architecture evolves naturally with time, from a state of simplicity to that of complexity, and from crudeness to refinement (with occasional exceptions, including none other than the roof itself). Until Jie’s 桀 time in the Xia 夏 dynasty, Chinese houses were thatched and curved extremely easily. I suppose the curvature appeared back then and later adopted as something beautiful in tiled roofs. Although we have no written record about the Shang 商 dynasty roofline, we can see its traces from the upturned corners of the Zhou 周 dynasty, which, through inheritance, culminated in the Song 宋 dynasty magnificence. Not just architecture; many things in the world began as natural phenomena. Examples abound. Since Mr. Liang accuses me of being mysterious when I discuss Chinese things, allow me now to discuss something from Europe. Newton’s idea of gravity develops from the phenomenon of an apple falling from a tree; Watt’s steam engine results from applying the principle of the steam from a kettle. Had these appeared in a book by a Chinese, one could imagine how “mysterious” they would have looked. The few sentences in Mr. Liang’s description of the roof is nothing short of a philosophy of the roof, as if the philosophy predated the roof itself. Following this argument, the steam engine must have predated Watt.
“Careless reading” is a problem that Mr. Liang himself cannot avoid. Take Sekino Tadashi’s photographs of Chinese architecture for instance. It is a joke to say that I did not read it well, or I was careless and impetuous. Honestly, I have never seen the photographs; what makes Mr. Liang say I read the book carelessly? Mr. Liang accuses me of impetuousness, but I am afraid he is delusional. Because of his preoccupation with Sekino Tadashi, he assumes that whenever others read, they must be reading Sekino’s photographs.[19]
My illustrations are culled from magazines and newspapers. The construction dates involved are all taken from descriptions of the cited sources without meticulous proofreading, which means they inevitably fall far short when compared with the materials gathered by hundreds of people in dozens of years. An old saying thus goes, “Speedy crudeness beats tardy perfection” 巧迟不如拙速. My book is something urgently needed in Chinese architecture. Whoever reads it, whether a Chinese or a foreigner, would know the types of Chinese architecture, its shape and form, its terminology, and the history of each type. That is enough, as it is not meant as a research of the pagoda, and [besides], who would ask for such research in this book? The ancients said, “The lavish chariot comes from a wheel without spokes” 大辂椎轮. Society is progressing, and there will be better books on Chinese architecture even if mine is no good. I am only the inventor of the steam engine. Is it not excessive to blame Watt’s crudeness with today’s steam engine?
This is not my angry self-defense, for what one person with his mind and heart can do is bound to be limited. Is the book useless? I have already discussed this. A foreigner reading my book would not make certain mistakes. There is at least helpful material for those wishing to study the subject. Or if it is really so useless that someone is prompted to write a better one, is not my brick of a book then introducing a piece of jade 抛砖引玉? Year after year, the desolate atmosphere surrounds the Chinese scholarly community with such low spirits, and the attitude should be to liberate everyone, both old-school and new, young and old, and let them fulfill their duty according to their ability. As for the books that are published, they can be examined and corrected, critiqued with good intentions, and not treated as a laughing stock. To accuse me of calling a deer a horse, I have explained explicitly in my preface (energy waning, starting, stopping and resuming work many times, worrying about finishing due to diminishing energy so I edited the finished two collections (history) and attached essays to make Three Collections…. In print and as an outline 简编, it is, after all, too scanty, and therefore it only presents various concepts of Chinese architecture with ten years of laborious work.[20] When it comes to a comprehensive treatment of past and present, and a precise conclusion therein, it cannot do.) Viewed this way, my book is a collection of concepts of Chinese architecture. As for the book of architectural history that has to be this and cannot be that as Mr. Liang expects, or what I term as comprehensive treatment of past and present, I explicitly stated that my book falls short of it (Ito also made it clear that this is something for the far future). Therefore my book can be a deer, or it can be a horse. What evidence is there to accuse me of calling a deer a horse? If Mr. Liang refers to the rooftops and courtyards, then the history of the rooftop covers the Zhou dynasty to the present, and the historical traces of the courtyards are all in the summary, and further discussed in the essays. When was I calling a deer a horse?
An architectural history is but a history of architecture. The way Mr. Liang discusses it, it appears full of mystery, beyond comprehension. Seen from Mr. Liang’s reports, the framework and the dougong 斗栱 are all architecture; why is then a pavilion, a ge 阁 not architecture? Take human physiology. If a bone and a muscle are [parts of] a human, is there any reason not to regard the whole person as a human being? When it comes to history, must there be a certain style? I mentioned the signboard style of history earlier. Let us now take Nakamura [Fusetsu]’s History of Chinese Painting. This book wove time periods with various kinds of art. Its content and sophistication might correspond with Mr. Liang’s idea of a history. I do not use this type of history because my ideas and expectations differ from those of Nakamura. The difference between various kinds of Chinese art has always been very clear and easy for a reader to understand no matter how they are organized. When it comes to architecture, however, it is enough of a mess with only form and terminology. One form might have a few names, and one name can denote several forms. The difference across time and in different regions exacerbates the problem. Therefore my research focuses on these two aspects: I investigate the name/terminology to arrive at a certain form or forms; each form therefore comprises one chapter [of the book], which narrates its development, i.e., its history. All these [chapters] are combined to make my history of Chinese architecture; where is the discrepancy between subject and content in this? Chinese histories have always been divided into standard histories and annals. Nakamura’s book is a chronicle whereas mine is a standard history, that style of history which was created with Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian, divided into basic annals, hereditary houses, biographies, and so forth. So to categorize and classify has been a tradition of Chinese history, and what I had to do with architecture was similar to what Sima Qian faced with his Records: sorting out the huge mass of material in front of us. The first step of organization is to classify. This kind of history, when compared with chronicles, might not be as systematic as the latter, but more clearly structured. In my book, I present various styles/forms of architecture to the reader, who, if deeply interested, can understand the history of each style/form, and if reading casually, can know the true picture of each form so that he knows the terminology when seeing the real thing and visualizes the thing when reading the terminology. This is the utility of my book, and also the responsibility of the first author of architecture. The above is about political history, and now let us get closer to the history of art. As far as I know, there are A History of Calligraphy 书史 and A History of Painting 画史 by Mi Fu 米芾, A History of Calligraphy and Painting 书画史 by Chen Jiru 陈继儒, A History of Epigraphy 金石史 by Guo Zongchang 郭宗昌, A History of Seals 印史 by Wen Peng 文彭, A History of the Brush 笔史 by Liang Tongshu 梁同书, A History of the Inkstone 砚史 by Mi Fu 米芾, and A History of the Vase 瓶史 by Yuan Hongdao 袁宏道, and so forth (Figure 4). These kinds of old texts do not make easy transmission, so whenever an artist chanced upon a title, he spared no effort in searching, and once found, he treasured it by editing it and passing it on. If Mr. Liang could take one and check it for its content and style, he would understand that he shouldn’t fuss about my book, and that a “history” is written by anyone who so wishes.
Figure 4. First page of A History of the Inkstone, by renowned Song-dynasty calligrapher, painter, and poet Mi Fu (1051-1107). Screenshot of later edition online by the translator, 2022.
When I said that there was the Changchun yuan 畅春园 during Kangxi’s 康熙 time, Mr. Liang stated that Changchun yuan was on the former site of Qinghua yuan 清华园 owned by Li Wei 李伟 of the Ming 明 dynasty, and Kangxi never built Qinghua yuan.[21] These two sentences are so fragmented and vague one does not know what to do with them. If Mr. Liang was not quite clear himself, why the rush to criticize? Let us assume it is indeed as Mr. Liang says that “Changchun yuan was on the site of Qinghua yuan,” which amounts to admitting the existence of the former. What exactly is a garden? And what is a former site? Could Mr. Liang please figure out these two terms? To turn a former site into a garden involves construction, does it not? The garden certainly did not appear by itself. My book was written mostly with materials collected when I was living in the park in Tianjin in 1930, where the library was very close and I borrowed books whenever I had time.[22] For the most part I will be unable to recall the sources right now, except that of Changchun yuan. My source here was Emperor Yongzheng’s 雍正 Record of Yuanming Yuan 圆明园记, which stated, “The Shengzu Emperor of Benevolence 圣祖仁皇帝 [referring to the Yongzheng emperor’s father, Emperor Kangxi], constructed Changchun yuan at the site of abandoned residences of the Ming royal family on a smaller scale.” Impetuous as I always am, I used this material without verifying the words of the garden’s owner, whether father or son. There is indeed no evidence of Qinghua yuan, but could it have transformed from a former site of the Ming dynasty to a garden of Kangxi without construction? Besides, did I say “constructed or construction?” I merely said it was there. I also discussed “Xiaoyou tian 小有天 inside Yuanming yuan,” yet Mr. Liang retorted that Xiaoyou tian was in Wuling chunse 武陵春色 of northern Yuanming yuan. Is Mr. Liang correcting me, or supporting me? This is most baffling. Isn’t northern Yuanming yuan still Yuanming yuan? An analogy would be if I said there is a White Pagoda 白塔 in Beijing, and Mr. Liang corrected me by saying the White Pagoda is in western Beijing. Isn’t western Beijing still Beijing? This section of Mr. Liang’s review was nothing but nonsense because he did not contradict what I had said.
Mr. Liang’s reaction to my citing “Chu Ni 鉏麑 killing himself on the scholar tree,” namely “what’s so peculiar/precious about this?” was yet another joke. Writing is supported by evidence, which begs the question of veracity, not peculiarity. This paragraph was about the courtyard, and the citation was used to prove that there were trees in the courtyard during the Zhou 周 period. From an evidential point of view, this is reliable evidence, and thus valuable. If Mr. Liang is not impressed, he is welcome to come up with something better. If he can do this, he can say “there’s nothing peculiar,” and I welcome more evidence. If not, then his words were put down too hastily. What is particularly ridiculous is Mr. Liang’s comparison with today’s Beijing without regard to time or place. Even so, there is no family in Beijing today whose courtyard doesn’t have a scholar tree (I used an analogy with the human hand earlier, saying that just like there’s no one without hands, there’s no courtyard in Beijing without a scholar tree).[23] Mr. Liang can investigate this situation himself. I heard that Mr. Liang lives in someone’s garden; he might therefore think every person in Beijing lives in a garden.
One is capable of some things and not everything; to say he knows what he knows and not the things he does not know is the honest attitude of a scholar, and not something to be ashamed of. Whether to have the Construction Methods 工程作法 or whether the drawings are good or inadequate, is merely a matter of money. Buying a copy of the Construction Methods would cost thirty yuan, and hiring a drafting assistant, another forty. What is so peculiar about that? Fastidiousness like this is silly. Mr. Liang can stop.
Notes
[1] The entirety of Yue’s article, except one missing page, was published in 2018. See Li Fang, Pang Sichun, eds., “A document of debate buried for 80 years” 一份湮没了八十余年的争辩文献 Guizhou Culture and History 2018.1:109 ---119. The Chinese editors of the article (link here) briefly explain the context of the article, including a short introduction to Yue Jiazao’s life and work, before appending Yue’s response as well as Liang’s review as the bulk of their article.
[2] The Chinese original here is a bit unclear in meaning. What is intended might be that Yue did not get to pursue architecture as his profession. A word about the text: information inside brackets is in Yue’s original article in Chinese, whereas I have inserted, in square brackets, some necessary information or explanation, to facilitate a smoother flow of the text and better understanding, except in one instance where the editors of the Chinese original noted about the missing page of the article. See note 13.
[3] Yue here refers to the year 1898, the year of the Wuxu Reform, when the top-down reform movement, undertaken by the young Guangxu Emperor aimed at social and governmental restructuring, lasted a little more than 100 days, therefore known also as the Hundred Days’ Reform.
[4] Yue here refers to the Revolution of 1911, which ended the last imperial rule of the Manchu Qing dynasty (1644-1911), and established the Republic of China on mainland China (1912-1949).
[5] There seems to be a confusion caused by punctuation in the original Chinese here: the Chinese editors explained that they followed almost all of Yue’s original punctuation in the article, but here the period was after “because it treats architecture according to its form, as I study only the form of Chinese architecture.” “The nine chapter including…” and “the five chapters on the city…” were connected with a comma, as if neither of them were the main body of the book, which is clearly not the case. In fact, the nine chapters including ordinary/residential architecture, tai [terrace], lou guan [lou and guan], ting [pavilion] etc., comprise the entirety of the first half of Collection Two [第二编上], so I changed the punctuation by putting the period after the “nine chapters including…” to accord with the content of the book.
[6] A few words here again about the organization of the book: The original 1933 edition of the book contains three individual volumes, with Volume 3 taken up completely by illustrations. Volume 1 includes Collection One, or diyi bian 第一编 (which the author Yue also refers to as the “Beginning Collection”, or shou bian 首编）and the first half of Collection Two, or di’er bian shang 第二编上, Volume 2 includes the second half of Collection Two, or di’er bian xia 第二编下 and the Third Collection, or disan bian 第三编, which includes three essays by the author.
[7] There seems to be a typo in the Chinese original here. 不可触, the original, would mean “not touchable,” where 触 might be a typo for 解 [note the formal similarity of these two characters] which, together with the prefix 不可, means, “not understandable.”
[8] Yue Jiazao was born in 1867 and by this time in 1934, was 67 years old.
[9] The Chinese original, Si he zhi qing 俟河之清, literally “waiting for the Yellow River to become clear,” refers to something that would take a long time to happen, if it ever does.
[10] Here Yue sounds like borrowing verbatim (“我心之所到，与力之所能及” in Chinese) what Liang Sicheng’s father, the elder Liang (and also Hu Shi), had expressed in their view of history writing for Chinese scholars at the time. The elder Liang encouraged Chinese scholars interested in history to “do what their nature inclines and what their ability can reach 各因其性之所嗜与力之所及,” to write a new history to contribute to the larger effort. It is not outrageous to assume that Liang Sicheng was familiar with his father’s writings and therefore would be doubly irritated by Yue’s response here had he seen it.
[11] Here the Society refers to the Beijing-based Society [later Institute] for Research in Chinese Architecture, or Zhongguo yingzao xueshe 中国营造学社, an institute devoted to the study of traditional Chinese architecture, where Liang was Director of Technical Studies, and where he most likely received and read Yue’s book as a gift, as Yue here states.
[12] Here Yue is probably referring to W. Perceval C. Yetts’s article about writings on Chinese architecture, originally published in 1927. It was translated and published in Chinese in the first issue of the Bulletin of the Society for Research in Chinese Architecture. See Yetts, “Writings on Chinese architecture,” The Burlington Magazine for connoisseurs 50.288 (Mar., 1927), 116+119-121+123-124+126-129+131, and for the Chinese translation, see the aforementioned Bulletin’s inaugural issue in July 1930.
[13] The sentence in the square brackets here is the Chinese editors’ note for the article in Chinese when published in 2018.
[14] This could refer to a news story, or a joke? about a whale landing at the eastern station of Beijing? I have unfortunately been unable to locate the source of the story if it is indeed a story.
[15] These are a few of the art or architectural historians working on Chinese architecture at the time that Liang had mentioned in his review article: Ito Chuta, Sekino Tadashi, and Ernst Boerschmann.
[16] There seems to be a word missing here in the original Chinese.
[17] There might be another typo here in the original Chinese: the original 回向 here does not make sense, whereas 四向 [again, note the formal similarity of 回 and 四], meaning facing four sides, or four sides as frontal, was discussed in detail in the first chapter of Yue’s book. I used “the conglomerative style” to translate 推进式, which means progressing one after another; think of the layering of courtyards in a lavish house plan. The double-floors, or liang chong shi 两重式 was discussed when Yue talked about the possible influence of southern China, citing raised floor/stilted houses of the south, also in this chapter. Xia 夏, Shang 商, and Zhou 周 are hereditary ruling houses of ancient China, roughly from the 21st-century to the 8th century BCE at the end of the Western Zhou (barring the somewhat mythical nature of the earliest Xia, whose existence scholars still debate). The succeeding Eastern Zhou was divided into the Spring and Autumn period and the Warring States period which was ended by the First Emperor of China in the unified Qin dynasty (221-206 BCE).
[18] Xi Shi 西施 was a legendary beauty of ancient China from the Spring and Autumn period (771-476 BCE). Known to have a heart condition, she was considered more beautiful when she frowned and held her chest in pain, thus being epitomized as the sickly beauty. Dong Shi 东施, an ugly woman, copied the act hoping to achieve the same result, but only to the opposite effect. Note that in Chinese xi (meaning west) and dong (meaning east) are opposites too. The so-called teardrop or falling-off-the-horseback makeup style, associated with the Han period, refers also to the presumably sad and sickly look of a woman not feeling well.
[19] Here Yue seems to prove Liang’s point. I would refer the reader to Liang’s critique here; Liang did not really accuse him of not carefully reading Tadashi’s photographs per se. Liang’s point was that Yue was careless in his observation of the Songyue Monastery Pagoda, because what he noted about the pagoda (i.e., that it was circular in plan) was wrong, as attested by Tadashi’s photographs, as well as textual explanation of it.
[20] In Yue’s preface to the book, he used this sentence to describe the book after explaining that his original plans to do field work for observation of actual structures 实物观察 were thwarted by family duties and a lack of financial means, and concluded right afterwards that the book can thus only provide “various concepts of Chinese architecture after ten years of laborious work, and fails to give a comprehensive treatment of past and present with a definite conclusion.” See Yue, A history of Chinese architecture, preface.
[21] Here Yue’s book said, [During] Kangxi’s reign there were Changchun yuan and Qinghua yuan. The two gardens he named were placed on equal standing, as if they were two different gardens. After Liang pointed out the succession of the one after the other, he omitted the second garden in his reply here, attacking only Liang’s wording of “construction” 营, insisting that construction was involved to transform a former site into a garden.
[22] There seems to be a typo here about the year: the Chinese original says “the ninetieth year of the Republic,” which would mean 2001; it should, in all probability, be “the nineteenth year of the Republic,” which would be 1930.
[23] This sentence reads a little out of place here. Judging from what it says, it might be referring to something in the missing page. See note 13.
