Art Lover Take 2

In China, tourists are approached by locals wanting to practice English and sell their artwork. The narrator encounters a girl and a boy who try to convince him to buy their paintings. They use various tactics, including guilt and sympathy, to try to make a sale. The narrator eventually buys a scroll from them, feeling both manipulated and relieved to be free from their persistent sales tactics. He hopes that the boy will succeed as an artist in the future. Trying again for art lover, want to make sure we get this, and here we go. A tourist gets approached everywhere they go in China and by some truly surprising people. Most natives simply want to practice English, but everyone is working an angle. From the art student who greets you in Tiananmen Square with an enormous smile and a confusing tale of art and scholarship, offered up in wild smatterings and a mixture of Mandarin and English, to the large-toothed but pretty girl with even better language skills who drives you like a sheepdog toward the National Museum where, she says, she and other students have an exhibition in an upstairs room of the museum's annex. They are true artists in every sense of the word, equally adept with con as well as brush, and I am reminded of a painter I met in Paris who sat in front of his easel, spewing charmingly accented anecdotes to the tourist but never touching brush to canvas. Did these two really paint any of the creations I saw? Or was there a sweatshop three blocks away using grandmothers with bad eyesight who followed paint-by-numbers kits? This is the thought that stops me from buying. That and the fact that their poor, pathetic demeanor masks the truth that they want a small fortune for each painting. I understand supporting the arts, but as Chevy Chase said in Caddyshack, the world needs ditch diggers, too. The asking price is 300 renminbi, which is roughly $40. For the set, I ask hopefully? No, per painting, comes the reply. The series is one common to all Chinese art bazaars. It is of the four seasons. The girl, clearly the superior salesperson, says I am in autumn because I am in the prosperity stage of life. She clearly has not seen my bank statements. He smiles and looks on, hoping she can close me. The paintings are good, clean lines and tasteful use of color, and not of the Great Wall, which is a plus in my book, having seen hundreds of Great Wall paintings in the past few days. The boy takes me over to the master's work. He hopes someday to be as good, he says. The master has a book on his art bound and available for sale. Seemingly, everything in the room is for sale. I carefully leaf through the ragged edition, taking time to remark about paintings I like. I am polite, but personally think the kid's stuff is better. Presuming, of course, that it is actually the kid's. I am left, briefly, to consider the deal. There really isn't any thinking required, except for the soft feelings of a father who hates to see children struggle, and that of a long-time salesperson who is among the easiest to sell. While I battle my conscience, I have offered a sweetener. The girl will write my name in Mandarin, using a fine calligraphy brush. It is a gift, she says, a thank you for visiting. No strings attached. This I see as a chance to escape without damaging my fragile travel expenses or international art detente. This plan of escape becomes my foremost urge of all of my survival instincts, because now I am caged, trapped, and cleverly separated from the herd in a devilish effort to relieve me of those remembies, or, as I call it, maus, in my pocket. The gift is a nice gesture, but please, I insist on paying for it. In this way, we all save face. They make a few bucks for the effort, and I leave my maus money mainly intact. However, they are far too clever for such a transparent and clumsy ruse, and feign insult when I offer 100 renminbi for a scrap of paper. The rebuke is of a mortal sort, a gift refused. Sensing my departure, the assault begins anew. Telling me the museum accepts credit cards when I explain my paucity of funds, they become relentless, nip at my heels, and herd me back into the anteroom. They fully intend to drag this wildebeest back to the pride. I have observed many fine peddlers in my time, but the girl is world-class. She switches the approach, flawlessly shifting from quiet and logical to panicked and pleading, without ever losing her poise or confidence. She explains that the boy is not hers, but she recognizes how talented he is, that he comes from a small village far away, and that if he doesn't sell these paintings today, he will be expelled. I find myself wanting to believe, to be sold. Clearly, he is talented. The room is littered with art of inferior result, including the girls. Is this just guilt or some remorse creeping in? What if the boy hits it big and becomes a great painter? Staring straight ahead are four paintings done by this smiling country lad, and I can own them for a lousy 140 bucks. Not just four of his paintings, but the first four he will ever sell. This makes me an art patron and founder of the feast, so to speak. I flash forward 20 years. The kid is widely viewed as the best brush man in a generation. He is visiting Los Angeles, and I, in my dotage, come to his exhibition in the company of my 20-year-old nurse. She wheels me up to where he is holding court and with great effort. I extend a withered hand to display a faded photograph taken in a sparse room of the annex of the famous Museum of Beijing. The great man, world-renowned, takes up the photo and smiles, remembering a day long ago when he came within a whisper of obscurity, a day when he was hours away from expulsion and a humiliating return to the farm. He knows who I am and what I did for him. Reaching down to touch my shoulder, he asks if I still own the paintings, and I say yes, of course. He offers me the pick of the exhibition as a gift, as a way of expressing more than gratitude, perhaps something akin to salvation, but I refuse. His acknowledgement for me is enough. Then a tug on my arm drags me back to the present, to the windowless room, the nagging thought of the sweatshop and the persistent girl. Smiling kindly, I tell them they are extraordinarily talented, but that I did not intend to purchase anything, and, as I have a full agenda today, do not want to carry these paintings around. Is it firm enough to secure my release, I wonder? Again, I offer to pay for the scrap of paper which is no longer forthcoming. Again, they refuse, and instead introduce me to their teacher, a great artist of local fame. She does not speak English. We have little to say or even gesture. And I am tired. Waiting for the right moment, I remain mute until the silence is unbearable, then offer a quick Xie Xie and edge toward the door, adding an empty promise to return that we all know will go unfulfilled. Crestfallen, the boy accepts the decision, but the girl, ever on the attack, tries once more before realizing her charms will not be sufficient to conclude the sale. Undaunted, she says that they can take my cheap paper and replace it with a scroll, suitable for hanging, she adds. It is a compromise we both can accept. I consider myself fortunate not to have fallen prey to the wiles of a couple of seasoned con artists, and they at least scored something for the effort. How much, I ask, expecting to pay the equivalent of a dollar or two. Two hundred, she responds, coolly. I consider the price for a moment before fishing into my back pocket. Two hundred, I ask, hoping she meant twenty. That's twenty-five dollars. Yes, she says, it is very good parchment and a strong scroll. It doesn't look that strong, not twenty-five dollars strong. Heck, I'd been buying up art bazaars in Shanghai for a buck or two. This was out of line, and we both knew it. I cocked my head and arched my eyebrow dramatically to demonstrate I was confused and unsure of the price. Staring into her eyes, I searched for the break that always followed such a pause, when the seller would flinch and drop their pants. It did not come. She was good. Fine, two hundred it is. I know it is outrageous, as does she, but it is my ticket and safe passage out of the room and away from those pitiful eyes. It takes her, at most, two minutes to copy the three characters onto a scroll. To paint each scene was undoubtedly the result of hours of arduous labor and, per painting, only ten dollars more. What is happening is not fair or right, but it is the way things are going to play out, because I'm not about to change the course of destiny. I simply want to be on my way. I hand her the two hundred renminbi and my business card. If the art thing doesn't pan out, I say, call me for a job. Your gifts extend far beyond the arts. She does not comprehend. Asians typically do not understand sarcasm. Our sitcoms are lost on them. Still, she smiles and accepts the offering. Meanwhile, the master quickly snatches up my twenty-five dollars and catches it in a drawer toward the back of the room. There is no buyer's remorse allowed here. I took up my scroll, safely encased in a paper box, and left, followed closely by my two artist friends. Outside, in the sunlight once again, I took their picture as a memory of my great Beijing art-buying experience. They posed, then turned and left, but not before extracting one last promise from me to return. Purposefully, I walk in the opposite direction from that which I came. After a time, I stopped and looked over my shoulder to see if I could spot them across the enormous square. They were gone. Enjoying my freedom, I crossed the street and trotted toward the forbidden city. It was early still, not even one in the afternoon, so I took some comfort in the thought that the boy might still find a patron for his art and scholarship. His image was in my camera, but given recent events, it would be a far different future meeting. Now, when I showed him the ancient picture, he would peer into my eyes and say, Yes, I remember you. You had a chance to buy my art, but refused. Now get out of my sight. Leave the nurse. You can wheel yourself home, old man. That's life, choices, opportunities, decisions. They say time will tell, and I suppose you can't argue with that. For both our sakes, I hope he sells those damn paintings, gets his scholarship, and becomes the artist he was born to be. I can live with that. As I strolled over to the entrance of the palace, I passed a number of government-sponsored craft vendors, each with a plastic number pinned to his chest. They sold calligraphy. Knowing the answer before even asking the question, I pointed at a scroll with three characters and, using international sign language, asked, How much? 30 renminbi. The vendor typed into a calculator. Chaché, I said, walking away. Too much? I give you the best price. 20 renminbi. I didn't bother to turn around. Strangely, I did not feel abused, but amused. I smiled as I paid for my admission ticket to the palace, for I had experienced China. All was right with the world, and I pitied those dismissive tourists who bull-passed the Chinese tugging at their sleeves, for they may travel to China and never interact with the people whose civilization they swallow as eagerly as the fake artifacts they purchase at the airport gift shop on their way out of town. That's the art lover. The end.