Classmate Jianjun

Jianjun, on its surface, can be understood as a name connoting military affairs. People with such names can be readily identified as males born in the 60's in mainland China. Jianjun and I were classmates at the art academy. At the time, rumor had it that he was a poet, and he was often seen with men and women poets on campus. Of course, some of those women poets were good looking, making others rather envious. Most of the time you would see him sitting in a quiet corner of the teahouse close to school, sipping a diluted cup of tea and surrounded by cigarette smoke, scribbling rapidly in a sketchbook. In fact, it was filled with words, line after line. Once in a while, in between the lines, you would find a nervous looking hand done in fountain pen or an empty look from a pained face . . . I have always thought that “poetry” is both “noble” and “mysterious." Jianjun has given me a selection of poetry over the years that I haven't understood nor read often. I recall Jianjun would also read out loud from his poems, late into the night in his rented room surrounded by alcohol and dim lighting. What's left with me are only his impressive characters: Jianjun's hand writing is so excellent that even years after graduation I kept in touch in the hope of reading his nice handwriting. However, that beautiful handwriting is the script of a bizarre language. For instance, one poem is written about “newlyweds” and “pants”, (if I recall correctly) I'm uncertain whether it was the newlywed not wearing pants or whether there was no newly wed in those pants, nevertheless, it was strange, I was befuddled with the strange interior of a person with such a delicate appearance. Over the years, Jianjun continued to write poetry, most of his friends are also poets. One year I went to visit him at the small town where he taught, he invited me to dinner at a small diner owned by a graceful woman who named it “George-san”. Overall, Jianjun is a quiet introvert, living in his own delusional world. I even think he loves poetry more than he loves art. I think his dream is to become a great poet rather than to become a painter. It is rare to hear him talk about poetry or paintings, but once in a while shocking words emerge in a low voice from his body, those sensitive and somewhat neurotic eyes send out sharp glimpses that make it almost impossible for you to listen to what he says. And, after is always a long period of silence. However, you can truly feel the surging blood beneath his peaceful appearance. Until the day, walking into Jianjun's studio and seeing the eye-grabbing yellow, green or even bloody red, twitching, distorted and fantastic body-like images piled in the dark corners of the room. In this dream he becomes a strange bird, unable to fly, and in the end burned by an unnamable fire, you can even hear the sound of sizzling . . . is this a dream or an illusion; moreover, is this the true spirit? This is when I realized that Jianjun is a true poet . . .

Jianjun’s solo show will open in Beijing. I remember that my first time touring Beijing was with Jianjun on a hot August summer day. This year, Beijing’s August was quite rainy and September will be breezy fall weather . . . I wish Jianjun success in his exhibition.

Zhao Nengzhi
Wangjing
2006-08-15