Yin and Yang for Dummies: Dipping a Toe into the Theory of TCM

Last week, I began my discussion of TCM in terms of what it was not. I worked my way through a maelstrom of misrepresentations that denied traditional Chinese medicine its history and validity — news articles that couched reportage on TCM in terms of superstition and belief, dissected classical Chinese pharmacopeias in search of miracle cures, constructed it as an exotic fetish for an increasingly artificial and impersonal Western biomedicine — but I’m not sure that I reached a satisfactory sense of what TCM is once I reached the other side. I’ll start in on that today.

I’m currently halfway through《中医基础理论》(Zhongyi Jichu Lilun, or in English: Foundational Theory of Chinese Medicine), an introductory textbook on TCM that Beijing University of Chinese Medicine students read early on in their undergraduate careers. While it’s by no means an exhaustive representation of TCM*, the textbook provides a valuable starting point for broader reflection on the modern theory, history, and practice of traditional Chinese medicine. Most strikingly, it draws the reader’s attention toward the surprising proximity of medicine and philosophy: the grounded, fleshy, often-messy practice of curing illness and the study of the mysterious workings of the universe. Still with me? Let’s take a closer look.

Written in formal, technical language that forces me to keep a vocabulary notebook close and a dictionary closer, Zhongyi Jichu Lilun is interspersed throughout with quotations from classical medical texts like the Huangdi Neijing and Shanghan Zabing Lun, as well as philosophical texts like the Dao De Jing and Zhou Yi. (Wikipedia articles linked for your convenience!) In its opening chapter, Philosophical Foundations of Chinese Medicine, the textbook introduces some terms that might be familiar to a Western reader: yin and yang. These words might most immediately recall that swirly black-and-white circle with two dots in it, the one that your friend who went backpacking for three months to “find inner peace” got tattooed on his inner wrist. More generally, though, yin and yang are ancient philosophical concepts that remain incredibly useful both inside and outside traditional Chinese medicine: they provide a way of thinking through contradiction, change, and continuity.

Yin (阴) and yang (阳) originally served as direction markers: yin indicated the shady side, facing away from the sun, and yang the sunny side, facing toward the sun. These original meanings expanded alongside the development of Chinese philosophical thought, becoming a core principle of duality that explained seasonal change, bodily function, and the birth and development of the universe. Yin came to signify things that were lower, darker, colder, wetter, heavier. Night is yin, as are fall and winter. Yang, on the other hand, signifies things that are higher, lighter, warmer, drier, livelier. Daytime, spring, and summer are all yang. While yin and yang can be separately identified, they can’t themselves be separated. There’s no day without night, no warm without cool, no summer without winter. Things are yin and yang relative to each other, existing in dynamic states of equilibrium that facilitate both transformation and stasis, and ensure continuity through contradiction.

I recently gave a brief presentation on yinyang theory for the research group I joined on campus at the Beijing University of Chinese Medicine, and received a surprisingly fitting challenge in return: explain yin and yang as if to a Western audience. (That’s right, RADII readers: I’m getting credit for this!) The point was that the application of yin and yang doesn’t have to be limited to the seasons, or to the organ systems of the Chinese medical body. I can discover yin and yang in the acid-base titrations of my tenth-grade chemistry, in the Biblical creation of Heaven and Earth, and even in Broad City’s Abbi and Ilana. Yin and yang can help us think through the world, much in the same way that they helped ancient Chinese philosophers and doctors think through the seasons, the passage of day into night, or our basic bodily functions.

Yin and yang, of course, also remain central to the theory and practice of TCM in clinics. They reappear in TCM’s conception of the body, its modes of diagnosis and treatment, and its ways of classifying medicinal herbs. I’ll continue to elaborate on all of that in future installations. For now, though, I want to stick with this broader point: yin and yang are a way of thinking about the world, of understanding its regularities and contingencies, as well as thinking about the body, its reliable functions and its pressing discomforts. They order a universe, and point toward ways of acting — and of treating disease — within it. And they constitute a crucial first step toward understanding TCM on its own terms.

* Nor, for that matter, should this column be. The term “traditional Chinese medicine” is a convenience that is routinely applied to an incredibly diverse set of ways of understanding and treating disease that extend beyond institutional education and state-sanctioned clinical practice. (I think this complexity accounts in part for the difficulties that Western media representations encounter in their discussions of TCM.) When I talk about TCM, I don’t intend to homogenize, but rather to refer in particular to traditional Chinese medicine as it’s taught in Chinese universities of Chinese medicine and practiced in TCM hospitals.

Radii’s Interview with Michael Xufu Huang, 23-Year-Old Wunderkind of the Beijing Art Scene

Michael Xufu Huang is one of the freshest faces in China’s art scene. Having graduated from the University of Pennsylvania this year, he has hit the ground running with the exhibition Heart of the Tin Man, which opened this past weekend at Beijing’s M WOODS, the museum he co-founded with collectors Lin Han and Wanwan Lei.

Huang and M WOODS are part of a new movement in China, led by a new generation of collectors founding private museums. Huang adds another dimension of newness in focusing specifically on collecting new media and post-internet art, and also being the youngest of his counterparts (he’s only 23).

Huang is known for many things: being a fashionista (he wore Gucci head-to-toe for W Magazine), an Instagram celebrity (@michaelxufuhuang has 32k+ followers to date), and globetrotter (seen at all the major art fairs). But, with Heart of the Tin Man, the first major exhibition he organized for M WOODS, he is asking to be taken more seriously.

The works in this exhibition are nuanced and intriguing. They do well in addressing more meaty issues, like social constructions of femininity in Amalia Ulman’s performance photography (originally made for Instagram) and Institute for New Feeling’s exploration of VR’s potential to be a new frontier of e-commerce. As a whole, the exhibition presents works by a diverse group of artists, ranging from emerging figures in the field of new media art to those who have participated in exhibitions at the New Museum and Guggenheim in New York and Whitechapel Gallery and the Tate Modern in London. Many artists have never been seen in China before, and bringing them here is one of the things that M WOODS does best (they mounted an Andy Warhol show in Beijing last year, which was met with a massive turn-out). By including artists from the US, Europe, Middle East, and China, the exhibition is very much global in scope — something that smaller or B-list art spaces in Beijing lack with their exclusive focus on Chinese artists. As a ’90s kid who went to London for high school and the US for college, Huang is able to present the artists of his collection as not being merely defined by their physical location, but instead connected by the very media they use to make work — the internet, social media, new technologies, and the global economy.

Indeed, M WOODS aims to put itself on the map by building an institution that can rub shoulders with MoMA. With Huang at its head, M WOODS is already pulling out the stops to bring impressive work to China, and it holds promise for maturing as its collection grows, its curatorial arm expands, and the nascent art ecosystem for institutions here continues to develop.

To give Radii readers a better idea of how the show came together and his approach to collecting, Huang answered a few of my questions:

Radii: You’re one of the most well-known “millennial collectors.” As Artnet has pointed out, millennial collectors “network and hustle,” getting more directly involved in the art world and going beyond collecting simply for its investing and party-hopping opportunities. In addition to being one of M WOODS’ founders, you are also on the board of the New Museum. Can you tell us why you wanted to get involved in these institutions? And what sort of things do you do for them?

Huang: For me, it’s important to support artists of my generation and to encourage other young people to see the value of visual art and culture. These are shared goals of both the New Museum, where I sit on the board of trustees, and M WOODS, which I joined as co-founder in 2015. I am the youngest and also the only Chinese member of the New Museum board. Thus far, I’ve participated in reviews of future development plans for the museum. Last spring I helped to organize a research trip to Beijing for their patrons. I help to create a general awareness of specific age and geographical brackets. At M WOODS, my role is much more hands-on. My first show, Heart of the Tin Man, opened June 30.

Another thing that millennial collectors are known for is doing their own research, even visiting artist studios themselves and hanging out with them. Is this how Austin Lee’s portrait of you came about? Tell us a little more about how you know him.

H: Maybe millennials are just going about collecting in a different way. I definitely think online channels have made acquiring art a much more democratic endeavor, but yes, like most collectors, I enjoy visiting artists at their studios for the added perspective it lends to their practices and material concerns. Austin Lee has actually visited Beijing before, but I first him at his solo show at Postmasters Gallery. Watching his career blossom has been a rewarding experience. He spray-painted a portrait of me staring at my phone when I was visiting in New York once, and I thought it epitomized Heart of the Tin Man in a lot of ways, so I put it in the show.

Are there other artists from the Heart of the Tin Man whom you’ve met/become friends with?

H: Over the past several years collecting and researching for the show, I’ve spent time with each of the artists.

You’ve said that your interest in collecting new media and post-internet works comes from growing up in the digital age. Can you tell us more about what you were thinking in selecting works for the exhibition? Are there any themes that certain works have in common?

H: The main theme is the dual effects of technology: its advantages, while obvious, also serve to diminish real-life sensation. With the increased prevalence of mobile and digital technologies, our methods of acquiring information and perceiving the world have completely changed. I think the works selected are using technology to critique its effect on our lives.

I noticed a contrast between the shiny-high-tech-plastic-ness of the artworks and the museum space, which was once a factory, right? Is this something intentional? (If so, can you tell us more about your ideas for creating this contrast?)

H: Yes, the space now stands in complete contrast to the quiet, introspective layout of Cristof Yvoré: An Ode, which closed less than a month before. I think art shouldn’t simply exist in a white cube. The viewing experience becomes more engaging in an imperfect space. There’s a great contrast between the first floor — its unpolished look — and the second floor, especially with the environment used for Amalia Ulman’s work, which comments on the fantasy of upward mobility prevalent over social media. I also think it’s a comment on current lifestyle. It seems we’re less concerned with our physical surroundings as long as there’s a strong internet connection available.

Now that you’ve graduated from Penn, are you going to be working on curating more shows/starting more projects/doing new research (maybe moving beyond being the “college student with his own museum”)? What sort of things can we look forward to from you?

H: On the museum side, we’re working on a solo exhibition of Lu Yang in the fall. But, a good artist doesn’t say what he is doing next. You will have to wait and see 😉

 

Telling “The Story of China” in Six Hours is Futile, But Give BBC Credit for Trying

It can be difficult to convey the broad sweep of China’s history in six hours. More than one professor has struggled — even when given a whole semester of lectures — to properly tell the story from Yao to the Ming and then on to the Yao Ming. It’s hard, then, to fault the producers of the BBC Two documentary The Story of China (being broadcast this summer in the US on PBS, viewable online) for perhaps falling into the trap of the old Chinese saying, “走马看花” — to view flowers while racing a horse — i.e. attaining a superficial understanding through cursory observation.

At least once a decade the public broadcasting networks of the Anglo-American world put together a multi-part documentary on the Middle Kingdom. (See: China: A Century of Revolution, and China from the Inside). The Story of China is simply more ambitious in its scope. It also differs by having TV historian Michael Wood out front — he’s one of the producers and chief writer of the series — as a stand-in for the audience in this exploration of China’s past.

Wood is an amiable enough travel companion, even if he sometimes wanders into pie-eyed hyperbole. (Chang’an was the greatest city of its time! Luoyang was the greatest city of its time! Kaifeng was the greatest city of its time and the greatest city among multiple parallel universes!) And as a historian — or at least somebody who plays a historian on TV — Wood often seems a little too eager to believe whatever he’s told. Folklore and mythology are interpolated with research and archaeological evidence even as Wood’s charmingly naïve Slow Boat to China act sometimes leaves the viewer to wonder if he can’t tell the difference between the two.

There are times when what appears to be the town drunk is given equal screen time as the recognized experts. Fortunately, many of those experts are top notch, especially Jingyi Jenny Zhao, a fellow at the Needham Research Institute at Cambridge University, and Harvard University’s Lik Hang Tsui; they provide much needed heft to Wood’s sometimes moony platitudes.

Nevertheless, there is much to like here. The discussion of Confucianism and its evolution from outlier philosophy to state ideology is done well. Film buffs can have a bit of fun spotting clips from Chinese costume dramas used as B-roll for the narrative. The myth of a closed China is dispensed with early in Episode 2, which then segues into a lengthy bit on Tang-era (618-907) cosmopolitanism, imperial expansion, and China’s religious and cultural diversity. Fans of the Song (960-1279) are in for a treat as Episode 3 is mostly a deep dive into the Song, even though the founding mythology of the Zhao brothers, the first two emperors of the Song Dynasty, is given an unwarranted amount of credibility. The foreignness of the Manchus is not forgotten, and the role that the Manchus played in creating the boundaries of the modern state is done well. A long bit on the Taiping War (1850-1864) is useful for its discussion of one of the deadliest and most important 19th-century conflicts. A few fascinating and important figures who may be relatively unknown outside of China are given the spotlight, including the poet Du Fu (712-770 CE), traveling monk Xuanzang (602-664), Song-era polymath Su Song (1020-1101), female poet Li Qingzhao (1084-1155), and the Kangxi Emperor [r. 1661-1722].

No documentary can be perfect, especially one as ambitious as this project.

Perhaps the greatest conceptual flaw is the relentless emphasis on continuity. Wood goes out of his way to hammer home the point that China’s present connects with the past in a myriad way. It is unclear though whether this is a latent bit of Orientalism (the “timelessness” of non-Western societies) or an undigested blob of Chinese exceptionalism. To say that Chinese culture and civilization displays a striking continuity is one thing, but to make the same argument about the Chinese state puts the documentary on less sure footing. Certainly there is an ideal of unity and continuity, but the story of China is also one of rupture and disunity. The documentary treats these periods as interludes rather than as eras to be considered on an equal basis with the great states of Tang, Song, and Qing.

The 13th-century Mongolian invasion and conquest of China is practically relegated to a post-credit scene in the episode on the Song. The 17th-century Ming-Qing transition is streamlined to such an extent that Li Zicheng and the rebel armies which toppled the Ming aren’t mentioned at all. The less said about the opening establishment shot (a cartoon dragon against a backdrop of fireworks complete with sound effects) the better. There are other bits with which the more pedantic expert might quibble as well.

Ultimately, this is a documentary for your aunt or dad: somebody who is interested China but might not ever come here. It might also have some use in the classroom, as the condensed nature of each episode might make good “background viewing” for survey courses on Chinese history and civilization. Finally, armchair travelers may enjoy following Wood around China as he searches for the perfect backdrop for his historical bromides.

That most of the sites he chooses have long since been destroyed, or at best were rebuilt in the last quarter century, suggests that China’s connection with its past is perhaps not as certain as this documentary would want us to believe.

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Are You Drinking Real Tea? Know the Six Different Types to Impress Your Friends

There are six main types of tea on the market — green, yellow, white, oolong, red, and black — and they all come from one plant: Camellia sinensis. If it doesn’t come from Camellia sinensis, it’s not technically tea. That might sound controversial, since drinks made from infused leaves — such as chamomile or chrysanthemum — are still called tea… but they’re not. Now you know.

Before we begin it is important to understand what makes tea, tea. How come you can brew Camellia sinensis and get a flavor, but if you brew a maple leaf you can’t? The answer is enzymes. In the Camellia sinensis plant there are six enzymes. As soon as the leaf is picked, oxidation triggers a metabolic process that breaks down these enzymes. In tea language, this is “fermentation.” The different types of teas, and the different flavors, are closely linked with manipulating these enzymes and controlling how and when they break down.

Green Tea

Green tea is made by exposing the Camellia sinensis leaf to high heat right away. Imagine a man sitting in front of a giant wok pushing around tea leaves with his bare hands for around 45 minutes. The wok is burning at 200 degrees Celsius and the only thing between his bare hand and this wok is a small pile of leaves. The high heat of the wok stops the enzymes in the tea leaf from breaking down, thus keeping the green tea leaf in the closest state as when it was picked off the plant. This results in a light and refreshing liquid with lots of complexity.

Famous examples of green tea are Hou Kui, Long Jing, and Bi Luo Chun. (Refresh your memory by clicking on my previous column, 10 Chinese Teas You Have to Know.)

Yellow Tea

Yellow tea is probably the least known of the teas, examples being the Junshan Yinzhen (Silver Needle Yellow tea) and Huang Ya. For yellow tea, the leaf starts off exposed to high heat right away, but it is then taken off the heat and left in small piles to promote a little enzyme breakdown. As the amount of enzymes broken down in this step is very small, it is referred to as micro-fermentation. The resulting flavor is very close to, and often confused with, green tea, and is differentiated by a slightly bolder and less complex flavor.

White Tea

White tea is the most natural tea, and the only one that is never exposed to high heat. Instead, the tea is laid out to dry under the sun for around 55 hours. It is important to watch the amount of sun the leaves get: too much and they will burn; not enough and they won’t dry out. Watching my white-tea-farming friend make his tea was one of the most peaceful moments in my life. We sat in the afternoon sun, in front of his house, looking out over the drying tea leaves and the valley of mountains below. Every now and then the most senior tea maker would say something and everyone would get up to move the tea leaves a few feet over, so as to catch more rays. Then they would sit down again, chatting and smoking cigarettes, but always on the lookout. This is white tea making: relaxed but focused.

Oolong

Oolong (or wulong, i.e. black dragon) is one of the misunderstood teas. It is often described as “half-fermented,” but the truth is there’s no set length of fermentation that’s required. What makes an oolong a oolong is the shaking and resting. Let me explain. After being picked, the tea is jostled in a machine or on a large tray before being laid out to rest. This process is repeated numerous times. Farmers must constantly smell and feel the tea to see if it’s ready. Oolong requires constant supervision, which means oolong farmers get very little sleep during tea season. The result is a beverage with unmatched unmatched floral aromas.

Famous oolongs are Wuyi Yan Cha (rock oolong), Tie Guan Yin, and Feng Huang Dan Cong.

Red Tea

Red tea — known in the West as “black tea” for reasons that aren’t fully understood — is made by rolling tea leaves before letting them sit in piles until they fully ferment. All the enzymes break down and then they are baked to remove excess moisture. The environment is controlled so that the moisture and heat of these piles are kept at an optimal level. The result is a tea that is smooth and sweet, with notes of berries and honey. Famous red teas include Qimen red tea, Dian Hong, and Zheng Shan Xiao Zhong.

Black Tea

These teas are post-fermented. What that means is: after the tea leaf has been exposed to high heat, into what can be drinkable tea, they are put into large piles. This facilitates the growth of specific bacteria that produces the deep dark flavor of these teas. The piling is similar to red teas, but in this case the piles are much larger, and while red tea stays in a pile for hours, black tea stays in these piles for days and months. The piles are much larger not only because production is usually larger; since we’re dealing with a finished tea, there is a much smaller chance that something will go wrong, so they don’t need to be watched as closely. Since bacteria is still found in the finished tea, black teas are known not only for their ability to age but also for their probiotic benefits. Famous black teas include Shou pu’er, Lubao, and Liu An.

 

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All You Need to Know About Chinese Baller Zhou Qi, the Houston Rockets’ Newest Signee

The Chinese sports world was abuzz after the Houston Rockets’ recent signing of 7-foot-2 center Zhou Qi — who they drafted 43rd overall in the 2016 — to a multiyear deal, as reported by ESPN’s Adrian Wojnarowski. While the exact structure of the deal has yet to be revealed, Zhou Qi is all but guaranteed to become the first Chinese national to log minutes in a regular season NBA game since Yi Jianlian in 2012. That’s a long time for basketball-crazy China, where an estimated 300 million play the sport.

Going to the team that drafted Hall of Famer Yao Ming means Zhou will continue to face inevitable comparisons. “The new Yao Ming?” SCMP asked in a headline in 2016. (The answer is no.) The pressure is only heightened by the NBA’s very public desire for a marketable mainland Chinese star. None other than league commissioner Adam Silver said before the start of this year’s NBA Finals: “It frustrates me that there are no Chinese players in the NBA right now. There’s probably more basketball being played in China than anywhere else in the world. And more NBA basketball is being watched in China than anywhere else in the world.”

Who is Zhou Qi, and will he be any good? First, he does have some game — an ability to stretch the court with a deft outside shot, and a 7-foot-7-and-three-quarter wingspan that makes him a low-post defensive presence. Former NBA guard Jordan Crawford, who played in the Chinese Basketball Association, compared him to current New Orleans Pelicans star Anthony Davis, and said, “His mid-range is money; he’ll never miss that shot. He blocked a lot on defense, dribbles well, can jump… I honestly thought he was older then because he understood the game. Most Chinese players just want to shoot all the time.”

Again, he’s not Anthony Davis — he’s twig-thin, for one, and will need to add considerable bulk — but he has potential. The man is 21 years old (if you don’t believe the rumors that he’s actually a few years older), and he’s been China’s next great hope for years — ever since a 41-point, 28-rebound, 15-block performance against Germany at a U-16 tournament in February 2011. He recorded a 32-inch vertical at a pre-draft combine, which is pretty good for someone over 7 feet.

His nickname is “Big Devil King,” which speaks for itself.

Here he is in 2016 scoring 21 points and grabbing 8 rebounds in an epic 20-point comeback win against South Korea in an Asia Championship pool play game:

Zhou will likely begin the 2017-18 season as the Rockets’ third center, but he’ll get his chances. As early as April 28, Rockets GM Daryl Morey posted on his Weibo account this assurance to Chinese fans: “We plan to have Zhou Qi join the Rockets. We are excited to welcome him to Houston.”

Zhou has played the last three seasons with the Xinjiang Flying Tigers, which won its first CBA title in franchise history this year (in a clean sweep against the Guangdong Southern Tigers). Here he is rejecting former NBA player Carlos Boozer in Game 1 of the finals:

Zhou led the league in blocks in 2014-15. He averaged 15.8 points and 9.8 rebounds in 42 games in 2015-16, the year before he was drafted. This past season those numbers increased to 16.0 points and 10.0 rebounds, with a respectable 3-point percentage of 36.4 on 55 attempts. He was voted league Defensive Player of the Year.

Here he is with an impressive 27-point, 10-rebound game in December:

Born in Henan province, Zhou appears to be getting out of China at just the right time — if he stayed any longer, NBA scouts and executives would be concerned about the CBA stunting his development. Zhou was actually drafted on the same day as Wang Zhelin (No. 57 overall, to the Memphis Grizzlies), another big man who shares some of his skills. Wang, who is two years older than Zhou, has played five years in the CBA now, and at this point it’s extremely unlikely he’ll get a shot at the next level.

It remains to be seen how Zhou will fare against world-class competition. He’s a long-shot to be anything more than an NBA role player, but that might be enough for now… as long as he pulls out the occasional move like the one below, faking out — twice on the same play — NBA Defensive Player of the Year Draymond Green:

We wish him the best.

POSTSCRIPT: It should be mentioned that the CBA’s domestic MVP this past year was not Zhou, but Ding Yanyuhang of the Shandong Golden Stars, who recently started a game for the Dallas Mavericks in NBA Summer League. Summer league means very little, but nonetheless, here are some highlights of the 23-year-old (via Asian Players):