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Sugar Man
Before the American butter sculptures of the 19th century, and certainly long before this year's infamous "My Sweet Lord," a sculpture of Jesus made entirely of chocolate, the Chinese already had a form of food sculpture: artists were using melted sugar to create all kinds of intricate figures. Zhou Fusheng is one such artist still practicing today, and he is the subject of this artist spotlight.
Off in the corner of the outdoor market at Yinhe Square, Zhou Fusheng sits alone at his stand waiting for a customer to stop and make a request. His art is called tanghua (sugar painting) and these days he's lucky to make 30RMB in a night. I walk up to his stand and hello. He is slightly taken aback; perhaps surprised to see another customer, perhaps just shocked to see a foreigner come to his stand. I tell him I want to take some pictures of him working. "No problem," he says, and gestures to a board on the back of his stand that displays the many designs. I study the display for a full minute but can’t decide on one.
"How about the praying mantis?" he says. I agree and he turns up the gas on his burner. As he toils away, delicately dripping the melted sugar into the shapes of mantis legs, wings, body, and head, some onlookers remark on the current state of tanghua.
“It can rarely be seen now. The vendors can’t make much money from it, and it’s also not easy to keep because it melts fast. … It’s very possible that it will disappear in 10 or 20 years," one man explains. It seems that just about all of the onlookers don’t have high hopes for the future of this craft. It’s simply not practical in new China. As they speak, I occasionally ask Zhou if he agrees with the rather depressing predictions the crowd has made. Every time, he simply replies, "That's right." The general consensus seems to be that tanghua is well on its way to becoming a lost art.
After several minutes, he finishes attaching the final leg to the praying mantis and presents it. I can see why he suggested the mantis design: it truly is an impressive three dimensional piece and the shiny, translucent melted sugar mesmerizes as few things in this small, ugly world do. It stands in contrast to the artist's dusty hands and clothes and the filthy industrial landscape that surrounds. Judging by the size of the crowd that has gathered, I guess many share similar feelings. One man speaks of his past experiences with tanghua, “When I was little, I liked it but I couldn’t afford it. Now I buy it out of appreciation, not for eating.”
I try to pay him for the piece, but he refuses to take it. He refuses several times before the crowd begins to pressure him. They all shout, "Take it!" He finally he gives in and takes some of the money I offer, but not all of it. I can see that Zhou is actually a humble man and is a little uncomfortable with all the sudden attention. Once the crowd gets loud, Zhou becomes laconic. Luckily, the crowd had not yet gathered when I sat down to chat with Zhou and ask him some questions about his life and the craft he has mastered.
Jin: How did you begin studying this?
Zhou: I learned it from my daye ( dad’s elder brother). We lived in the same courtyard at that time.
Jin: How long did you study before you started to do it for a living?
Zhou: When I was eleven or twelve years old I began to have interest in it, but it was just for fun. I began to sell tanghua in 1985 because the factory I worked with was suspended at that time and I only got 60% of my salary every month. I had nothing to do so I decided to set up my business.
(editor: Zhou is 53 now, so he started selling when he was about 31)
Jin: How long does it take to make a tanghua?
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