Japanese Radish

         It’s been another of those days when I had no time to put together a proper blog post, so here’s just a very pleasing and deceptively simple woodblock print by Kōno Bairei (Japan, 1844-1895).  Bairei was a master of depicting birds and flowers, and he opened an art school in 1880.  This delightful radish seems quite simple and straightforward, but remember that those seemingly spontaneous lines were carefully carved and those subtle washed of color had to be carefully inked and printed.  For whatever reason, I’m just finding this piece is making me very happy today!

[Picture: Japanese Radish, woodblock print by Kōno Bairei, 1868-95 (Image from Harvard Art Museums).]

The Lure of Sirens

         Throughout history artists seem to have struggled with a lot of confusion over the nature of sirens.  It’s enough to make you wonder how many of these artists had ever even seen a siren!  But let’s start with what we know: sirens sing so beautifully that sailors are lured to their deaths.

        That’s it.  That’s all that’s certain.  Everything else is a mishmash!

        How many sirens are there?  Homer said 2, other ancient writers suggested up to 8, later artists depicted whole bevies, and some writers suggested 0, either because they didn’t believe in sirens or because they thought that the sirens all killed themselves after Odysseus passed by them without succumbing.

        Where do sirens live?  Early writers said they were in flowery meadows, and only later did they come to live on cliffs by the sea.  Later still they were plunged right down into the ocean.

        What do sirens look like?  Homer didn’t describe their appearance - it was their song that mattered - and as for everyone else?  Whew, take your pick…  Sirens generally began as human-bird hybrids, but how much bird could range from everything-except-the-face, all the way to nothing-except-the-wings.  

At some point sirens began to gain piscine traits as well, generally in the form of a fish tail that could be either instead of or in addition to any avian traits.  And finally in the nineteenth century many artists made them look like straight-up sexy human women, because nineteenth century artists were always looking for excuses to paint sexy women.  So if you’d like to design your own siren, make your choices from this handy guide:

• Face - human, most often female, occasionally male, (or in the case of one medieval illuminator included here, with the addition of a beak)

• Limbs - choose any combination of the following

        wings - 0 or 2  (you can also choose whether to place wings at the shoulders or the hips)

        arms - 0 or 2

        legs - 0, or 2 human, or 2 bird, or 2 sort of beast-looking

        tail - 1 bird, or 1 fish, or 2 fish

• Accoutrements - choose from the following

        fish - 1 or 2

        mirror

        comb

        club (for beating sailors)

        musical instrument - most often lyre, kithara, aulos, or flute

        empty bottle - according to one (and only one) medieval author, if you throw a siren an empty bottle she will be distracted playing with it, thus giving you a chance to escape

• Apparel - choose nothing, OR a diaphanous scarf or 2, OR complete head to toe outfit

        I’ve selected a variety of siren depictions for you, including a couple from ancient Greece showing various proportions of bird vs human.  I had a tough time narrowing down my choices from the medieval era because they’re so diverse and often so amusing.  I’ve started with one that gives the story in two panels: the singing first, followed by the attack on the sailors once they’ve been lulled to sleep.  This artist has picked a surprisingly popular strategy of refusing to make a decision about the nature of sirens and showing one with bird parts and the other with fish parts.  I also picked an illumination in which the

sirens play musical instruments, and one that includes a male as well as a female siren.  I included one showing a double fish tailed siren, in which I especially like the way the man in the boat is gazing so adoringly at the temptress.  I’ve included one with a nice depiction of the transparent water (and more sleeping sailors), that funny beaked siren, and a throwback to the mostly-bird version, who’s looking quite scary.  I also include one who looks purely mermaid, complete with comb and mirror, but who is nevertheless living in a meadow like the earliest versions of sirens.  (By the way, the mermaids’ love of mirrors and combs originated with their siren cousins.)

        Moving on to the Romantic era, I’ve got three depictions of Ulysses’s encounter with the sirens.  Etty’s 1837 sirens are among the first to be pure human, but they’re kneeling among the corpses of their victims.  Waterhouse’s 1891 painting bucks the modern trend for naked maidens to depict the sirens much like that original Green vase painting from about 475 BCE.  And in 1909 Draper has used the medieval trick of including different forms of siren rather than picking just one - although in his case it’s fish and pure human rather than fish and bird.

        When I went to make my own version, I rejected the fish tail outright, because we have mermaids for that.  I initially tried to make my siren with more of an avian back half and the legs and feet of a bird, but my artistic skills just couldn’t pull off a bird behind looking alluringly yearning as she gazes over the sea.  So I fell back on copying the Romantics’ version of a nubile young woman, but gave her wings (and feathers in her hair, although that’s not as clear as I’d hoped).  I also considered adding a more modern boat to take her out of ancient myth, but since the story this piece will be illustrating talks about the first time sailors heard her, I figured I’d better stick with the historical view.

        Although I find the confusion of form amusing, one of the things I find most interesting about the depiction of sirens is their degree of physical beauty.  The earliest depictions were quite clear that the temptation was purely auditory and the appearance of the sirens was irrelevant.  Certainly there was nothing alluring about their looks.  During the medieval era artists seemed to be torn between making their sirens beautiful to emphasize the dangers of worldly temptation, and making them downright ugly to emphasize their evil nature.

        One last note: the word siren came into English from French in the mid-14th century.  (The Greek word seiren from the Odyssey might come from roots meaning “binder, entangler,” but then again, maybe not.)  The devices that make warning sounds were first called sirens in 1879, starting with the klaxons on steamboats and later extended to refer to air raids, emergency vehicles, and so forth.  It is not at all clear to me why a blaring alarm would seem suggestive of a sea nymph, unless it’s just the idea of a sound that indicates danger in some way.  But whatever the reason, it does give rise to one of my absolute favorite examples of faulty Google Translate: In case of volcanic eruption, you will hear mermaids.  Do not ignore the mermaids; they are there for your safety.  Oh no; while it’s wise to pay heed to the singing of mermaids, children, always remember that you should absolutely most definitely ignore the sirens!

[Pictures: Odysseus and the sirens, red figure stamnos by the “Siren Painter,” ca. 475-470 BCE (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Pentelic marble funerary statue of a siren, ancient Greece, 370 BCE (Image from Wikimedia Commons);

Sirens attack a boat, illumination from the Queen Mary Psalter, 1310-20 (Image from the British Library);

Sirens, illumination from Bestiary, ca. 1225-50 (Image from Bodleian Libraries);

Sirens and a boat, illumination from psalter, 1303-08 (Image from Münchener Digitalisierungs Zentrum);

Siren and sailor, illumination from De physionomia liber, Franciscus Asculanus, 14th century (Image from Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana);

Sirens, illumination from Bestiary, 1226-1250 (Image from Bodleian Libraries);

Siren, illumination from Livre des proprietés des choses by Barthélemy l’Anglais, 15th century (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

Siren, illumination from Rothschild canticles, ca. 1300 (Image from Yale Beinecke Library);

Siren/Harpy, wood block print from Ortus sanitatis by Johann Prüss, 1499 (Image from Boston Public Library);

Siren, illumination from Bestiary, ca. 1275-99 (Image from Bibliothèque nationale de France);

The Sirens and Ulysses, painting by William Etty, 1837 (Image from Manchester Art Gallery);

Ulysses and the Sirens, oil painting by John William Waterhouse, 1891 (Image from National Gallery of Victoria);

Ulysses and the Sirens, painting by H.J. Draper, ca. 1909 (Image from Wikimedia Commons)

Siren Song, rubber block print by AEGNydam, 2025 (Image from NydamPrints.com).]

Cain and Abel

         My short story “Brothers” was just published in the November issue of Friends Journal (on-line), and to celebrate I’ve got a selection of relief block prints depicting the world’s first brothers.  My story begins with Cain and Abel, but the speculative fiction twist is that the two are repeatedly reincarnated through other sets of Biblical brothers.  If you want to read it, you can find it here.

        Meanwhile, just like in my story, I’m marching through the centuries chronologically in these repeated depictions of sibling rivalry turned murderous.  The first wood block print, hand colored, comes from a German Bible of 1483, and it includes the whole story in a single frame.  There are lots of really delightful details, including the swan swimming peacefully beside the conflict, and the heavenly ruffles amongst which God floats in the sky.  I’m amused by the way the flames of Abel’s acceptable sacrifice rise straight up while Cain’s flames flop over limply.  And why is he labelled “Caim”?

        Next I had to include Albrecht Dürer’s version from 1511, even though I don’t love it.  Abel is so contorted he looks like he’s about to be stuffed in a trunk.  This piece as well as the 1599 woodcut beside it focus on the lethal violence of the fight.  I think renaissance artists were particularly drawn to the fight scene as a way to practice their interesting perspectives and anatomically perfect musculature.  (Besides which, of course, violence always seems to be popular.)  If you look at a whole range of depictions of the scene, including many more than I’ve posted here today, you’ll notice that some artists show Abel cowering in passive innocence, while others show him fighting back more actively.  The choice makes for a very different vibe.

        There’s also a variety of murder weapons.  The Bible doesn’t specify how Cain actually killed his brother, so artists get to choose.  Today’s first artist has gone with what is presumably the jawbone of an ass, as inspired by Samson, a choice that many other artists also use.  Dürer has given Cain an ax, while the anonymous artist has provided a club.  Gustave Doré is another proponent of the club in his wood engraving from 1866.  I’ve included illustrations of two scenes from the story: the disparity in sacrifices as well as the murder.  Just like in our first image, Doré has depicted Cain's fire and smoke refusing to rise to heaven, as if Cain has attempted to freeze his sacrifice with dry ice.  The interesting thing about Doré’s second scene is that instead of focussing on the brute violence, it shows Cain staggered with horror as he realizes what he’s done.  To me this is much more powerful than the mere brawl.

        Moving into the twentieth century we see another radical shift in style, and with a scene of violence and passion Expressionism can be just as effective as realism.  Lovis Corinth’s woodcut from 1919 has a weapon like some sort of hammer made with a huge rock on the end of a stick.  Richard Bosman, meanwhile, keeps it simple with a hurled stone (1981).  And finally, James Lesesne Wells in 1990 shows no weapon at all.  While I think bare hands would certainly be a plausible choice, I confess that if I didn’t see the title of this piece I wouldn’t know it was necessarily even a fight going on in the foreground.  And is that meant to be a policeman hurrying over to break it up?

        Clearly this has been a story that artists have been drawn to through the years.  If you want to know my take on the tale, check out my short story.  What part of this ancient story is most meaningful or memorable for you?

[Pictures: Cain and Abel, woodcut colored by hand from Bible pub. Anton Koberger, 1483 (Image from Detroit Institute of Arts);

Cain Killing Abel, woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, 1511 (Image from The Met);

Cain and Abel, woodcut from Wittenberg, 1599 (Image from Harvard Art Museums);

Cain and Abel, two wood engravings by Gustave Doré, 1866 (Images from Wikimedia Commons);

Brudermord, woodcut by Lovis Corinth, 1919 (Image from National Gallery of Art);

Cain and Abel, woodcut by Richard Bosman, 1981 (Image from RoGallery);

Cain and Able (sic), linocut by James Lesesne Wells, 1990 (Image from National Museum of African American History & Culture).]

Woman and Web

         As I continue with my busy busy fall season, I’ve got three exciting new blocks ready to print and another little one just printed (plus a short story coming out later this month - not to mention 3 poetry events, 1 printmaking event, and a spec fic lecture all before the end of November).  I’ll share those when I get a chance, but until then here’s a piece that seemed seasonally appropriate.

        This woodblock print is by Caspar David Friedrich (Germany, 1774-1840), a Romantic, almost Gothic landscape painter whose work has risen and fallen in popularity in inverse proportion to the popularity of modernism.  Friedrich was one of the first to use landscape to convey psychological and political messages, using dark and subtle colors and dramatic light effects, so this woodcut is not exactly his usual ouevre.  On the other hand, the woman turned away from the viewer, contemplating or looking for something within a lonely wilderness… that’s pure Friedrich.

        By the time this piece was made Friedrich’s use of woodcut as a medium was a deliberate return to earlier German wood block printmaking, and an adaptation of those earlier styles for use as an independent art form instead of merely a method of reproduction.  His use of differently angled hatch lines is an interesting way to differentiate different areas while keeping them all in shadow, but I particularly like the texture of the tree trunks, as well as the more detailed thistles and plants to the left.

        What do you think the woman is thinking about?  Is this actually Miss Muffet, grown older now but about to have a recurrence of her youthful surprise?

[Picture: Woman with Spider’s Web Between Bare Trees, woodcut by Caspar David Friedrich, 1803 (Image from Art Institute Chicago).]

Words of the Month - Hearse and Rehearse

        I haven’t had time for blog posts this week, (if you’re local, come see me at the Needham Open Studios Fall Pop-Up tomorrow!), but I couldn’t let the month end without at least a couple of Words.  So here’s a very quick look at a linguistic question that occurred to me recently: what on earth do hearses and rehearsals have to do with each other?

        Let’s start with the hearse that seems somewhat appropriate for Spooky Season.  Would you have guessed that its root goes all the way back to an Oscan word that may have meant either “wolf” or “bristly”?  Oscan was the language spoken in central and southern Italy before Latin took over.  Latin also took over the word, with the meaning “harrow,” presumably because of the teeth or the bristles.  A harrow, in case you don’t know, is a sort of large rake for breaking up soil, hence a harrowing experience feels like you’re being raked and broken up.  But we still seem to be pretty far from a vehicle for carrying a dead person to the grave…

        The next step took place when late 13th century Anglo-Latin used the word to refer to a large church chandelier or framework for candles to be hung over a coffin, presumably because it was sort of shaped like a rake with candles stuck on the spikes.  From there the word was applied to any sort of display or framework built over a deceased person, and from there, in the 1640s, to the vehicle that transports the coffin.

        So why, then, does rehearse not mean something like, “to transport a dead person again”?  Well, go back far enough and it does mean “to rake again,” at least sort of.  Old French took that “harrowing” meaning and applied it metaphorically for “to go over something again, to repeat,” which is a natural extension since after all we still have sayings like “let’s not rake that up again,” or “we keep going over the same ground.”  By the mid-fourteenth century rehearse had entered English with the meaning “to tell again, repeat.”  By the 1570’s (just in time for Shakespeare) it had gained the sense of “to practice in preparation for a public performance,” because you have to repeat your lines over and over.  And there we are.

        So as you’re raking the leaves from your lawn this fall, consider the connection with both hearse and rehearse.

[Pictures: Harrow, wood engraving by J.W. Whymper from An Illustrated Vocabulary, for the use of the deaf and dumb, 1857 (Image from University of California);

Hearse, wood engraving by John Henry Walker, ca. 1850-1885 (Image from McCord Stewart Museum Montreal);

Funerary carriage, wood engraving by Walker and James Lovell Wiseman, ca. 1875 (Image from McCord Stewart Museum Montreal).]

Balloonist's-Eye Views

         In doing the research for a rubber block I’ve been working on recently, I discovered a number of nineteenth century aerial views of cities in the UK and USA, and I am absolutely smitten with them.  Panoramic views of cities had been around for centuries and you can see an epic aerial map of Venice from 1500 in this previous post Venice in Relief.  Usually these images were based on views from nearby high ground or from a handy steeple or other tower.  The development of hot air balloons in the 1820s, however, contributed enormously to the genre, which really took off (get it?) in the middle of the nineteenth century.  (To be clear, most of the actual drawing of these maps was done on the ground, using older techniques of mapping and perspective, but ballooning allowed artists to get an actual birds-eye view for the first time, and patrons to be excited about this new-fangled technological marvel.)

        One of my favorites is this giant map of Liverpool from 1865.  I’ve included the full view of one panel to give you an idea of the scope of the thing, in addition to a zoomed-in detail.  The map actually has two of these full panels, and was published as a supplement in the Illustrated London News.  It’s when I look at the detail, however, that I find myself utterly mesmerized.  I’m appreciating the stories implicit in all these buildings with all their windows, the ships, the carts, the tiny people… and I’m simultaneously appreciating the carving of all those precise lines, the choices of pattern and texture, and the technical expertise of the wood engravers.  I used these elements of carving as inspiration for my own block, which seems very complex and detailed to me, but is the equivalent of probably less than 1% of this piece.

        The most deluxe versions of these maps were carefully hand-colored, which you can see in these details of Glasgow and Manchester.  Many of the maps in this genre are (copper) engravings or lithographs, which are much easier ways to produce the detail and accuracy required.  Naturally I’m most excited about the wood engravings like Glasgow and Liverpool, but I included the engraving of Manchester because it’s such a fun image to look at.

        Every map has an agenda, and in the case of these aerial panoramas it’s all about national pride in the glory of great cities mushrooming in the rapid expansion of industrial progress.  There’s a focus on all those ships and warehouses symbolizing trade, while the smoky blocks of mills, which we might consider eyesores, are treated with as much respect as churches and other civic buildings.

        As for my own block I'm working on, it too is inspired by the mills of the early industrial revolution (somewhat earlier than these depictions), and I’ll share it with you before too long!

[Pictures: View of Liverpool from the Mersey, wood engraving from Illustrated London News, 1865 (Image from Historic Liverpool);

Bird’s Eye View of Glasgow in 1864, hand colored wood engraving by Thomas Sulman from Illustrated London News, 1864 (Image from University of Glasgow);

A Bird’s-Eye View of Manchester in 1889, hand-colored engraving by Henry William Brewer from The Graphic, 1889 (Image from The University of Manchester).]

Autumn Birds

         Each year I like to post a few autumnal block prints, and this time around I’ve found a collection that feature birds.  Because wherever I go I do love spotting the local birds!  (Want a few more autumn birds?  How about turkeys by Walther Klemm (c. 1906), or my own Magnolia Warbler?)

        First up is a Nuthatch by Nina Sage (UK).  With a background in biology and ecology, Sage has a keen eye for the natural world.  This little nuthatch is quite carefully detailed, but I think I love the leaves and bark of the tree even more.  This is a reduction print, and it looks like it has 5 layers of ink.  That's certainly quite complicated, but I appreciate that it retains a look of carving and inking by hand.

        Next up is a piece that celebrates the autumn migration of swallows, by Cathy King (UK, b. 1967).  This is more stylized, with a mid-century modern aesthetic.  It looks like it was printed with multiple blocks, maybe 4 or 5.  I especially like the grass and seedpods, and also how the birds capture the look that swallows always have of absolutely delighting in the lightness of flight.

        For a very different style, here are two pieces by Imao Keinen (Japan, 1845-1924).  He specialized in kachō-e woodblock prints, which are pictures of birds and flowers.  These come from the Keinen Kachō Gafu, 1892, four volumes of bird-and-flower prints, one for each season.  Both of these little birds look somewhat similar, and in this case I picked the images more because of the plants.  We have both the flamboyant glory of a bright red maple, and the subtler autumn beauty of berries and mushrooms.  These woodblock prints look particularly delicate when compared with today’s bolder images.

        Finally, another piece by Nick Wroblewski (USA), whose work I’ve featured several times before.  This goldfinch looks a bit scruffy, and I especially like the leaves filling the space around him.  This is described as a three block reduction woodcut, which I take to mean that it involved three different blocks, and at least one involved multiple carvings.  It might be that a background block and a black key block were not reduction-carved, while the middle block was carved four times successively.  But I’m not sure that explains the touches of grey on the bird’s tail, so the process may have been even more complicated than I’m seeing!

        In any case, these are wonderful evocations of the beauty of the season, and they’re reminding me that it may be time to refill my bird feeder.

[Pictures: Nuthatch, reduction linocut by Nina Sage (Image from VK Gallery);

Migration Autumn, multi block linocut by Cathy King, c. 2025 (Image from Cathy King Prints);

Shijukara and Yamagara, wood block prints by Imao Keinen, 1891 (Images from Internet Archive, Smithsonian Libraries);

The Golden Thread, three block reduction woodcut by Nick Wroblewski (Image from Nick Wroblewski Woodcuts).]

No Kings!

         “No Kings” should be the one thing every single person in the United States agrees on, regardless of political affiliation.  After all, that’s kind of our thing; we’ve been rejecting the unchecked power of kings for the past two hundred and fifty years.  So in honor of this perfectly straightforward and non-controversial sentiment, people all across the nation will be gathering for rallies this weekend, to celebrate the USA’s king-free state.  I mention this today because printmaking actually played an important role in the American Revolution and its lead-up.  Remember “Join or Die” and Paul Revere’s version of the “Boston Massacre”?  But when I was looking around for block prints on the subject to share, I found something much more fabulous.

        In 1861, after Japan had been forcibly “opened” to the west, author Kanagaki Robun wrote Osanaetoki Bankokubanashi (Children’s Illustrated International Tales) which is a history of America, illustrated with wonderful wood block prints by Utagawa Yoshitora.  In this version of the

American War for Independence, the idea of a “republic” without a king was something our author struggled to get his head - and his language - around, but he didn’t let that cramp his style.  Let’s start with George Washington, who famously refused to be made king, or even to be president for a third term, knowing that a too-powerful “charismatic” leader wasn’t in the best interests of the nation and its people - just sayin’.  The first image above shows Washington shooting an arrow from his place beside the Goddess of America.  Nothing too crazy there, on an allegorical level.  The second image, however, is fantastic in every way as

Washington punches a tiger.  I regret that I can’t read Japanese because I really wish I knew a little more about what was going on here!  (Thanks to Japanese historian Nick Kapur for the information I do have.)

        Next we have John Adams stabbing a giant snake in a spread that merits breaking out the red ink.  Apparently there’s a whole subplot in which Adams is out for a picnic with his elderly mother when - surprise!- along comes another giant serpent and devours her!  Adams asks for assistance from a mountain fairy (shown in the next image), who summons a giant eagle to help Adams slay the monster…  I don’t remember learning that part in US history!

        In a slightly less fantastical image, Adams directs Benjamin Franklin where to fire his hand-held cannon.  There are also a number of other illustrations that include monsters, and I really wish I could read what’s going on in them.  I mean, what’s going on aboard this ship?!?

        These wood block prints are mostly black and white, with just a few featuring red and blue ink.  That means they’re relatively low-budget efforts, but nevertheless the actual carving is very detailed and full of verve.  I enjoyed them enormously, and I hope you do, too!

        I myself will not be at a No Kings rally because instead I’ll be at Roslindale Open Studios this weekend (details here: come see me if you’re in the area!)  But I will have a couple of little items to signal my solidarity with Washington, Adams, Franklin, (a mountain fairy?), and all the others who have worked so hard through two and a half centuries to keep the democratic experiment alive and moving forward - staying strong against the attacks of metaphorical tigers, serpents, and other monsters.

[Pictures: Six wood block prints by Utagawa Yoshitora from Osanaetoki Bankokubanashi by Kanagaki Robun, 1861 (Images from Waseda University).]

New Classic of Mountains and Seas

         I need to start this post with the old Classic of Mountains and Seas.  Shanhai jing is a Chinese text from the early Han dynasty (about 200-1 BCE), although the earliest versions may have been started as long ago as the fourth century BCE.  It takes the form of a geography book describing the strange creatures that can be found in areas spreading across more than 500 mountains and 300 waterways.  As such it functions much like a medieval European bestiary: the creatures are described primarily in their use or danger to humans, with many magical properties and a lot of ancient Chinese mythology.  As such, I’ve referred to it many times in my posts about fabulous creatures, including quite a few of them listed in Y is for Yonder.

        With that background, let me introduce New Classic of Mountains and Seas, which is a project by artist Qiu Anxiong (China, b. 1972).  Apparently Qiu has worked on this idea in multiple media over many years, including an ink animation film, as well as paintings and wood block prints.  The concept in all of them is to describe modern technologies as if they were mythical creatures.  I encountered some of his wood block prints, made to mimic the

look of early printed editions of the original Classic of Mountains and Seas, at the Philadelphia Art Museum and was quite taken with them.  Just like the texts which they mimic, these pieces come with a description of a creature along with the illustration.  The first one above says, “To the west of the great wasteland there is a kind of bird with four wings and a tail.  A single toe grows on each of its four feet that are connected to one another.  It makes a loud sound like thunder.  It is called ‘Xuanbei.’”  That name means “swirling bird” and it represents a whirlybird helicopter.

        Ten years after the set of twelve wood block prints (which was about 12 years after his first animated films on the same theme) Qiu continued to explore the idea with paintings.  Here’s a fun one with text that says “It moves at the speed of electricity,  It storms off like a rolling thunder;  It travels thousands of miles in the wind;  Unfettered between heaven and earth.  New Classic of Mountains and Seas; Ha Lei.”  The name of the creature, “Ha Lei,” is a phonetic approximation of “Harley.”

        Qiu’s 2008 portfolio had a particular emphasis on weapons, and some of them are quite poignant.  The “Bitu” bird, for example, is described “On the American continent there is a kind of giant bird with no head.  Its wings are long and large, suitable for flying high above

the clouds.  It does not rest anywhere but its nest.  Rarely can people see it.  It lays eggs in the sky, which strike thunders when hitting the ground and turn everything they touch into ashes.  It is called ‘Bitu’.”  This is the B-2 bomber.  Like all the best fantasy, Qiu prompts us to look again at our own world with fresh eyes and hearts.

        On the other hand, I also like the pieces that are simply whimsical.  Here is the “Kang Pu Si Shou” (computer) from the 2008 series.  And among the more recent paintings I particularly like the Moon Walker, and this tiny bee helicopter, “Ke Feng,” whose name I don’t know how to interpret.  It’s a lovely image, though.

        I love the whole concept of these works because they bring their meaning in two directions.  On the one hand, they use an ancient format to shed light on our modern world, and at the same time they shed light back on the ancient world by reminding us that those people, too, were trying to make sense of their world.  It’s also an excellent reminder that descriptions that sound crazy and fantastical to us often make a lot more sense when we realize what people were actually trying to describe.  If you like how this twists your brain, you may enjoy my game of Guess That Medieval Beast.  

You can play at

     Episode 1                    Episode 6

     Episode 2                    Episode 7

     Episode 3                    Episode 8

     Episode 4                    Episode 9

     Episode 5

[Pictures: Xuan Bei (Whirlybird), woodcut by Qiu Anxiong from New Classic of Mountains and Seas, 2008 (Image from MoMA);

Ha Lei (Harley), ink and color on paper by Qiu from New Classic of Mountains and Seas, 2018 (photo by AEGN at Philadelphia Art Museum, on loan from collection of Beningson and Arons);

Bi Tu (B-2), woodcut by Qiu from New Classic of Mountains and Seas, 2008 (Image from MoMA);

Kang Pu Si Shou (Computer), woodcut by Qiu from New Classic of Mountains and Seas, 2008 (Image from MoMA);

Moon Walker, ink and color on paper by Qiu from New Classic of Mountains and Seas, 2019 (Image from Artsy);

Ke Feng, ink and color on paper by Qiu from New Classic of Mountains and Seas, 2019 (Image from Artsy).]