The solution to our equinox mystery

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Go to Yongzheng's Screen of Twelve Beauties to see large size scans of this wonder. Above is a tiny reproduction of one of the twelve life-size paintings to whet your appetite, this one is entitled: Murmuring to Herself while Reading.

Yongli was Kangxi's younger son, and therefore a minor prince and not originally intended for emperorship. Thus he was free to spend his youth like Marcus Aurelius -- studying the classics, composing poetry, staging dramas, painting -- and generally polishing his cultural and connoisseur credentials. (And in the winter making snowmen -- in the shape of mythical Chinese beasts in classical poses, of course). Then the usual series of plots, counterplots, rebellions, arrests and poisonings have left him alone on the stage to claim the throne, thus giving China one of her greatest connoisseur emperors.

In his youth, he had commissioned many works of art, one of them being this series of twelve portraits of beautiful women with Yongli's favorite toys: his birds, his antiques, his poetry and paintings and even -- calligraphy in his own hand. (In this painting, the calligraphy on the wall is a well known, and still extant, piece by Mi Fu (1051-1107); and the book before her is from the imperial edition of the poems of Du Qiu; but the painting on the wall remains unidentified). When he became emperor these paintings were considered compromising and packed away. (They were not rediscovered till 1950's). At one point Emperor Yongzheng (as the once prince Yongli had become) had to write a memorial apologizing for their existence and explaining how they had really been intended as a serious work of art and not some sort of prurient eye-candy, Mencius forbid.

(Another human art universalism: Chinese art has the same problem with moralizing kill-joys as our own and Muslim art does. The moralizing kill-joys are invariably just the fellows who can't afford the art in question. The point is this: if I cannot have it, neither should you. Fie. Says a poor man, who can barely afford his one wife, to a rich man: thou shallt have but one wife at a time, says God).

Perhaps as a result of this cover-up, we know almost nothing about these paintings. All objects in them seem to have been real objects (most have been identified); were the women also real people? Or were they conceived as kind of muses -- allegories of connoisseurship?

Six of them are now on show at the Taipei National Palace Museum as part of the Yongzheng show.

Dancing pork bellies

I don't know who Francisco Capelo is, but the man sure has taste. Wow. Taste most commensurate with his (obviously) pretty ample financial firepower, too: the show of his Chinese pottery collection at the Madre de Deus (a.k.a. Museu Nacional de Azulejo)-- that would be Mister Tile Museum to you -- is a merciless progression of take-no-prisoners masterpieces.

Through this magical forest the (very) occasional French, German or Spanish tourist marches briskly with barely the time for an occasional snapshot.

I carried away 450 photos. Here are five.

This piece is a tripod censer with a purple-splashed jun-ware glaze, Jin or Yuan dynasty, ca. 13th century, 7.3 cm high. It is also a meibutsu, having once been owned by the Moris of Hiroshima.

Look at the detail of the crackle (and, as they say on porn websites, "click to enlarge yourself"):


The mouth is a kind of blunderbuss -- it's pure pornography, really -- :


And look at this lady's stubby feet jammed into the world's pointiest stilettos:

Would not these tiny trotters make the world's most delicious pie-de-cochon?

And do be my guest, go ahead, take a prurient peek (in the privacy of your cabin) at her incredibly erotic belly (no, love, please, never lose a gram of weight, do not, I repeat, do not change a thing):

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Jun wares -- writes the catalog learnedly, if ungrammatically -- are among the most fascinating and controversial Chinese ceramics. Unlike most greenish- or bluish glazed wares, which rely for their color on mineral oxides, it turns out to be very difficult to understand how the typical thickly-bubbled Jun glaze generates its characteristic opalescent blue color. Current theory holds that it is generated by a phenomenon called "liquid-liquid phase separation" in which glasses in the glaze separate out within other glasses during cooling. When light strikes the glaze, it is scattered by the glass-like particles in the glaze and produces the same sort of effect as when light from the sun is scattered by the atmosphere and appears blue to our eyes.

There, fellows, the girl wears the sky for a dress.

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The Francisco Capelo of the collection is probably not this Francisco Capelo, but I rather liked the idea that he might be: "Yeah," his collection set by side with his portfolio would be telling us, "I sell this stuff because I can -- God only knows why; and also because I just don't want to keep it around the house (I mean, would you?); then I use the proceeds to buy something of universal and eternal value whose quality I could not hope to match in a thousand years. For me, it is a win-win situation."

(In financial markets, this would be termed arbitrage).

Stimulus?

As this painter goes, this is a successful piece -- the colors are generally good and the reflections in the water are well rendered, though bear in mind that they look better in a small size reproduction than in the original: the actual piece is 26 x 26 inches and if you see it up close in person you will realize how intrusive the brushwork is and how little of the liquid feel of the water remains as a result on closer inspection; this one is definitely best admired from 6 or 7 meters away, in other words. And this is a relatively successful piece, I say, since others by the same fellow are significantly less technically attained (and most reek of fake modiglianismo). Yet Bonhams is putting them all on auction in the absolutely breathtaking price range of HK$1,500,000 - 2,500,000 (US$190,000 - 320,000) each.

Bonham's is a good outfit and I have no doubt they read the market right, yet I cannot help feeling incredulous. Really? Why? A street hawker just outside my house turns out approximately ten of these a day and will sell you a day's production for probably 50 euros, if you haggle well. (His first price is 50 each, but he never sells more than a piece day, so most of his work either rots or gets scrapped, which makes me feel certain that a deal can be struck, especially if you throw in a beer or two).

Which brings me to my point. Why aren't all of you painting for a living? It is a well paying profession even at the economic bottom; apparently, the sky is the limit on the upside; and not much actual painting skill is required. And if you have children, please, forget the usual law, medicine, and engineering bit. The obvious economic call is: Paint, young men, paint!