I lived for over a month in Beijing after my second year of uni. Nominally, I was here to do an "internship", to get some "work experience" with a consulting firm. A joke, truly, given my limited grasp of Chinese. In reality, I wanted to escape my little summer pocket of New Zealand, and I leapt at the chance to spend a wintry, smoggy season in the capital of the People’s Republic. The Forbidden City. After the fall of the final Qing dynasty, this restricted and walled palace complex, the largest of its kind in the world, opened its doors to the general public after five centuries. Gone were the eunuchs, the concubines, the courtly intrigue, the rites and rituals, and the illustrious strength of dragon rulers. After the ousting of Puyi and its conversion into a museum in 1925, this "city" became a frozen timepiece for the mighty tourist throngs, both Chinese and foreign, to march through. In the slideshow below: ceramics from across the expansive, nearly unfathomable, current of Chinese history. All those differing hues, dimensions, profiles. Such fantastically masterful pieces. I hungrily snap up photographs as I tour the museum wings of the Forbidden Palace. I glance at some other artefacts too, jewellery pieces, delicate goldwork, ornate sculptures, but no – it's the ceramics that I fall in love with. For me, the Forbidden City did not merely draw my attention to its intricate architectural layout, it seemed to command it with a booming announcement. Its yellow decorated roofs and marble bridges. Its glazed dragon tiles and red-walled pathways. This was a microcosm built by a civilisation that believed they were at the absolute centre of the universe. And it almost certainly was. For a time. Jingshan Park. Jingshan Park spreads its ancient trees over 23 hectares in the imperial heart. Sitting directly north of the Forbidden Palace, it is a venerable redoubt of huddled pines and raw-boned cypress. At that time of year, its flower beds were comatose, its fruit trees naked. The green of the branches was a murmur, an echo of woodlands on brighter days. I climbed to the top of one of its peaks and felt the dry, muted chill of the Beijing winter. From somewhere near the foot of the hill, I heard the ghostly rise of old men singing. I had no idea what they singing about. I have never known what old men speak about in Chinese. Beijing Zoo. I visited what I thought was the most depressing zoo in the world. I peered upon far-flung animals in their small and barren pens, their faces pressed against the dirty bars, biding their time in their chilly and unstimulating concrete worlds. What do they think they are waiting for? What could goodness could they possibly feel in this morose menagerie? But this was many years ago, back when the country was not nearly as sophisticated and wealthy as it is now. And change happens so fast in China. But has change come to these denizens? Are their existences better now? I hope so, I can hope so. The Summer Palace. Yí hé yuán, a royal retinue of halls, pavilions, lakes and gardens. We stood on the glassy face of Kunming Lake. Icy vapours rose over Longevity Hill. The Marble Boat was shackled to the frozen waters. The 17-Arch Bridge was made of pale, frosted moonstone. Like the palaces around it and the fallen social order that built it, the lake was but a memory of living water. Its flow and form were held captive, imprisoned by the endling months. My little cousin pattered on the ice next to me, cocooned in her pink puffer jacket. The lake ice groaned, like a persistent toothache. Blue lightning streaks revealed tension points. Another groan. A crunching sound beneath our feet. We were spooked and the two of us scampered for the safety of solid earth. In my mind, I was already jetting back to warmer climes.
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AuthorMing is an economist, traveller, and creative writer from Melbourne, Australia. He’s a nebulous collection of particles on the lookout for a good corner to sit with a book and a cup of coffee. Archives
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