In a Class by Herself--Painter Lindy Hsu

To the manor born

Lindy Hsu is generally thought of as belonging the gui xiu school of Chinese art. In painting, this refers to women artists who paint in a very feminine style, eschewing landscapes and sticking instead to the more genteel subject matter traditionally prescribed as the proper focus of a well-bred woman. Such subject matter includes the bird-and-flower genre, for example, and various indoor scenery. Hsu is well known for her liu jin works, a relatively unusual painting style. With liu jin painting, the artist works on a special type of paper that is covered in gold powder and doesn't absorb ink. Because the paper is impermeable, after the overall composition has been sketched out the artist applies layer after layer of expensive pigments-ground crystal, blue chalcedony, emerald green-with the gold base left uncovered to provide the linear sketch elements of the painting. To paint a wild horse, Hsu has to spend many dozens of hours carefully executing every single strand of hair in its mane, for example. The peony, one of the all-time favorite subjects of Chinese painters, is another of the things that Hsu paints especially well, and indeed, it seems somehow appropriate that she should have made a name for herself with her renderings of the zi kui peony, the acknowledged king of the peonies. Who better to portray the regal beauty of the zi kui than Lindy Hsu, pampered child of the upper crust?

The biggest attention-grabber at the upcoming exhibition at Lincoln Center is her painting of a statue of the Buddha, which she spent a month executing. The brilliantly colored necklace is positively dazzling, and practically leaps out in 3-D relief. The Buddha figure is complemented by an inscription from the Prajna-Paramita Sutra, done in beautiful standard script that beckons for attention. It may seem at first glance that there's nothing terribly special about Lindy Hsu's paintings, but unlike most painters, she doesn't build up from a preparatory sketch. She just plunges straight into the painting, and there is always a poetry inscription to enhance the message of her work. This sort of art is beyond the skill of just any run-of-the-mill painter. So how did Hsu, who has never enrolled in any school, pick up her skills?

She is characteristically blunt in response: "Although I've never been to school, I have nevertheless studied under very good teachers, and I've certainly done enough work to have earned a PhD by now."

Her impressive list of teachers includes Chen Chih-fo, a noted gong bi (fine brushwork) master, Huang Chun-pi, a Chinese landscape master, Cheng Man-ching, who also counted Madame Chiang Kai-shek among his pupils, and Fang Tung-mei, a well-known philosopher. In her thick photo album are many pictures of her together at home with such leading lights as the painter Chang Ta-chien, photographer Lang Ching-shan, and the powerful politician Chen Li-fu.

But the most important influence of all was her father, the late Hsu Tzu-ming, a professor of history at National Taiwan University.

No "May 4th" in our house

Lindy Hsu was born in 1933, the youngest child in an influential family in Yixing County, Jiangsu Province. Her great-grandfather, Hsu Chih-ching, had been a Grand Secretary in the Qing court (roughly equivalent to a modern-day cabinet member), and was a leading reformer during the closing years of the Qing dynasty. Hsu Tzu-ming was already well-read by the age of 14 when he was selected among the first group of students from Tsing Hua Academy (forerunner of Tsinghua University) to study abroad. He attended Wisconsin University in the United States and Heidelberg University in Germany, and eventually earned two doctorate degrees. After returning to China, Hsu Tzu-ming taught at Peking University and National Central University in Chungking. In addition, former President Chiang Kai-shek asked the professor to teach special "current events" courses for his top military officers.

But even though Professor Hsu had studied overseas and later taught Western history at National Taiwan University, he was nevertheless a bitter opponent of the May Fourth Movement, and of Hu Shih in particular. He is perhaps best known for his book The Problem with Hu Shih's Wrongheaded Ideas, in which he argued that the literary reformers of the May Fourth Movement were destroying China's Confucian literature and visiting a disaster upon future generations. He was particularly derisive of vernacular Chinese literature, describing it as "the barking of dogs." But the May Fourth Movement eventually carried the day. Hsu found himself labeled a conservative, yet despite being shut out of the mainstream, he remained in frequent contact with other members of the literary community.

The May Fourth Movement had a decisive impact on Lindy Hsu's life. "After the May Fourth Movement, my father and other like-minded scholars were horrified at the new textbooks. Whereas children before had always memorized the classics, textbooks were now dumbed down to 'Run Jane, run' and the like. My father and his friends had energy and ideals, but no outlet. So my father decided to pass on his way of thinking to a successor who could carry on the Hsu clan's Confucian traditions." Professor Hsu felt that there ought to be one outstanding scholar in every generation to do the family proud.

Perfectly lonely

Lindy Hsu was selected to bear the torch. She began learning to read Chinese characters when she was just two years and eight months old. Her parents personally taught her to read the Four Books and the Five Classics. At age nine she began learning to paint and write poetry, and even though these were only a sideline to her regular studies, she nevertheless learned them under the tutelage of the best university professors of the day. What she didn't do was attend a regular school. Not for one day in her life.

"I had an unusual childhood," remarks Hsu wistfully. She never played ball with the neighbor kids, never formed close friendships with other girls, and never interacted with a peer group. As the youngest daughter in her family, and her father's chosen successor, she was taken along whenever he went to see friends or acquaintances, so she could get a feel for the larger world from an early age. She was a clever girl, and received endless praise from the adults. Spending her days surrounded by doting elders, she missed out on the chance for a normal childhood.

"I remember complaining once when I was young about not having any friends my own age. But they just said, 'What do you want friends for? You've got all of us here seeing to your every need. Just do what you have to do.'" She explains that her elders were anxiously hoping to mold an intellectual giant for the good of the country, and they felt that no sacrifice was too great. "But was I really the right person to be pinning those hopes on? I really don't know." The question has haunted her all her life, and in fact there is no one who can answer it.

What with the doting elders, her own competitive nature, and a lack of exposure to the rough-and-tumble feedback of peers, Lindy Hsu grew arrogant. The adults in her life were always more inclined to praise than critique. They weren't as demanding of her as they would have been had she been forced to earn her way into their company. She believed she painted and sang more beautifully than anyone else, and she never cared a whit for fashions and trends in society at large. She designed and sewed all her own clothing and accessories, all of superior taste, naturally. Even now, she unconsciously exudes an attitude of superiority, comparing herself favorably with some of the most storied Chinese personages of the 20th century: "I paint horses better than Xu Beihong did," or "I was Cheng Man-ching's student before he ever started teaching Madame Chiang Kai-shek."

She's not totally unaware that her manner puts people off. The children of her father's friends, all graduates of American universities, won't have a thing to do with her. Even her own brothers and sisters don't like her. But that can't be helped. "I do believe that I'm the best," says the outspoken Hsu, who recalls the advice of her father: "You have to believe in yourself. If you don't, how are you ever going to amount to anything?" Add to that a lifetime of effort. For over 60 years now, she has not gone a single day without working diligently at her inkwash paintings. She spent her entire youth in the pursuit of perfection. Under such circumstances, one might well expect to see some results.

A husband crosses the threshold

Lindy Hsu was 14 when her family moved to Taiwan, and 20 when she married. Her father chose a husband for her from among his students, a young man named Yang who traced his roots back to the Qing imperial line. For all her picture-perfect classical beauty, Lindy Hsu confides that she has no experience of romance.

Indeed, what lad could have caught the fancy of one who had rubbed elbows since childhood with the elite in every field of endeavor? "If I felt like taking photographs, my first thought would be to do it with Lang Ching-shan. For me he was just 'Uncle Lang.' When I put on an overseas exhibition, I'd ask Chang Ta-chien to be my 'publicity agent,' and 'Uncle Chang' was happy to do it. I knew so many people through my father. There was Chen Tzu-feng, the legislator. He was so handsome and dashing. Then there was Yao Tsung. He really stood out from the crowd." And as if the bar weren't high enough already, there was also the matter of her father's traditional concept of the ideal woman-admired by all men, but beyond their dangerous reach. How could she let herself fall in love with just anyone?

Lindy Hsu's husband had no relatives at all in Taiwan, and he was ten years older than her. Like her father, he was a handsome man, and tall at 182 centimeters. And perhaps most importantly, from Hsu Tzu-ming's point of view, was that he was willing to move into the professor's home. The education of Lindy Hsu was, after all, an unfinished project, and her continued presence under her father's roof was important.

Hsu bore three daughters, but continued to accompany her father to speeches and attend the courses that he taught at National Taiwan University and Soochow University. Every evening after dinner he would instruct her in the classics, and she would sit at her desk studying furiously until dawn. The task of childrearing fell largely to her mother, while Hsu herself carried forward with her father's dream of greatness.

Freeing the children

Young Lindy was often invited by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Government Information Office to exhibit her finely detailed paintings overseas. She became a virtual "cultural ambassador" for Taiwan. Even when at home, she worked so hard that she did not have much time to spend together with her daughters. Fortunately, they were quite talented girls who went on to graduate from Yale and Harvard. All now have families and careers in the United States.

Asked whether she had wanted her daughters to follow in her footsteps, she is emphatic: "Absolutely not!" No one knows better than Hsu herself the hardships on the path she has followed. After a lifetime of unstinting effort, there is still no guarantee that she will ever distinguish herself, so how could she bear to push her daughters into the same predicament?

I mustn't be a burden

Hsu has not come anywhere near achieving the degree of success she had envisioned for herself, and so she continues to labor away day after day, ever conscious of her father's hopes.

Mentioning the last time she saw her father alive, her voice still trembles with emotion: "My father could have lived another five years but for me. He died early for my sake." Always a very healthy man, the professor was hardly slowed down at all by the stomach upset that put him in the hospital for the last time. There he gave a four-hour interview to researchers from Academia Sinica working on an oral history project. But when he was diagnosed with gastric cancer, he refused to have an operation. He sat up in bed, assumed the lotus position, let out a few exhalations, and left this life in the manner of a Daoist sage. It took less than five minutes to will himself to death.

"Before he died, my father said to me, 'You carry on without me. I mustn't be a burden to you.'" With his daughter nearing 40, Professor Hsu was concerned that her unfinished studies would be interrupted if she had to go into a long, drawn-out death watch for his sake. And he was already psychologically prepared for death anyway. Four months before, perhaps sensing that his days were numbered, he had his friends promise to continue looking after his daughter after he was gone. Not too many years after Professor Hsu's death, his friend Fang Tung-mei also passed away. A noted philosopher, Fang took Hsu by the hands as he lay in his hospital bed and said, "Lindy, I haven't been able to keep my promise to your father. You've got to keep working hard. You can't let up!"

With her father's dying wish always uppermost in her mind, Lindy Hsu often writes and paints all through the night. "My father died in 1972, and in the 30 years since then I haven't had a single good night's sleep." The strong emotional bond between father and daughter lives on even now, and there are times when she sees the professor standing by her desk late at night, full of fatherly advice and concern, as always.

Dust in the wind?

Though there may be no royal road to learning, Professor Hsu went to great lengths to ensure that his daughter had the closest thing to it. Ensconced in her ivory tower, she never had to deal with the mundane trivialities of everyday life. In her younger years, whenever she went abroad to put on an exhibition, an assistant would always see her safely all the way to her seat on the airplane. Although an artist herself, she had very little contact with other artists. She never learned the social niceties of the art world-doing a painting on request, praising the work of others, or doing a bit of salesmanship on her own behalf, for example. Even today, she wouldn't know how to open up an account at the bank, and while classical poetry flows from her pen easily, she couldn't write an essay in modern Chinese to save her life!

Now that her husband has passed away and her daughters are married and living in the United States, Hsu has been on her own for nearly ten years. As a result, she has had to learn to be more independent.

"I'm a bit more savvy now about some things," say Hsu. She now flies by herself, without anybody seeing her off or picking her up at the airport. She has also learned to humor other people, and doesn't always put herself first.

She's not as well off as she used to be due to a couple of colossal investment blunders over the past dozen years or so. She owns two apartments next door to each other, one of which she once used as a studio. Now, however, she has to rent out the studio to make ends meet. Former students of her father's find it painful to see her living and working all in the same cramped space, but Hsu herself is not bothered in the least.

The proud artist wrote a poem downplaying the problem: "What need have I for fame or fortune? In my little room, I rule supreme. My brush decides the fates of entire worlds, and all the great moments in history are no more real than a dream!"

It may be easy for Hsu to turn her back on fame and fortune, but her sense of mission is quite another matter. When will she be able to forget about her lonely quest for excellence, and learn simply to let the brush flow free and unfettered across the page? Thinking about her life story as I look at her paintings, I find myself wishing her all the best.

p.97

Lindy Hsu paints every day. It is both her work and her life's mission. She has never worked from sketches, but composes right on canvas, and there's meaning to each work. The snow-white peacock on page 96 is a symbol of pure virtue. (photo by Pu Hua-chih)

p.98

Lindy Hsu came to Taiwan with her family at age 14. Endowed with great natural beauty, she soon became known as "the flower of Wenchou Street." Young Lindy is pictured here together with her father, Professor Hsu Tzu-ming.

p.98

Professor Hsu Tzu-ming was friends with many of the most famous cultural figures of his day, including the painter Chang Ta-chien (center) and photographer Lang Ching-shan (left), both of whom tutored Lindy Hsu. This photo was taken at Chang's residence four months before his death.

p.99

The adults that surrounded Lindy Hsu as she grew up have died off one by one over the years. This calligraphy was done especially for Lindy in her youth by the famed politician Chen Li-fu.

p.100

Lindy Hsu was born with a beautiful singing voice, and she is very good at Peking Opera. She is shown here portraying Yang Kuei-fei on stage six years ago. Even then you could still see what a great beauty she must have been in her prime.

p.101

Widely read Lindy Hsu often combines painting and poetry. The lines above are taken from a famous classical work.

p.101

The baby tiger in this painting is cute, but already one can see the great power it will one day wield!.