There’s so much. One piece after another after another. The Berkeley Art Museum’s nine packed galleries give a clear indication of the Swiss art collector Uli Sigg’s obsessive-compulsive drive towards collection.
Mahjong: Contemporary Art from the Sigg Collection offers over 140 works of Chinese contemporary art, all drawn from Sigg’s private collection. Together, the works in Mahjong tell the story of a dreamworld called “China,” but that dreamworld may, or may not, bear any resemblance to the real thing.
Sigg began collecting Chinese contemporary art in the 1990s, trying, as he notes, “to cover the whole spectrum” of Chinese contemporary art production, and assemble a collection that embodies “Chineseness.” His encyclopedic impulse is admirable, but the results are less neutral, and less documentary, than he might lead us to believe.
Sigg, like so many others who work with Chinese contemporary art, treats Chinese as a veiled “Other.” The curatorial approach to Mahjong draws heavily upon Orientalist tropes. Due to the Cultural Revolution, the story goes, China was hidden from the Western gaze, and her artists were cut off from contact with the West. Chinese art, like Chinese history, was supposedly divorced from the world, and Chinese contemporary art developed in that secret space. Chinese contemporary art, then, cannot — and should not — be judged on par with Western art. The same standards cannot apply to Chinese contemporary art. Chinese contemporary art must be judged on separate terms. Often, the object’s ability to convey “Chineseness” becomes a key determinant of its value as a work of art. And because that narrative of Chinese art history continues to dominate the discourse, most criticism and scholarship — and consequently, most curatorial approaches — continue to embrace this double standard.
Most critics and curators of contemporary art would find it laughable to organize a show around the essential principles of “Frenchness” or “Americanness,” yet curators of contemporary Chinese art continue to incorporate essentialist notions of “Chineseness” into their shows. To put it bluntly, in every show about Chinese art, there must be a panda. (There is at least one panda in Mahjong. It appears in Zhao Bandi’s A Tale of Love Gone Wrong for Pandaman (2003).) Can you imagine if every show about contemporary American art included an American flag, or worse, Mickey Mouse?