by Bill Porter
The kiln, of course, was no longer extant, but we wanted to visit the site. In recent years, historians have picked through the ruins and have dug up enough fine pieces to fill a small museum. We thought they might have missed something. After parking along the roadside, we walked over to the kiln site and started looking among the ruins. But whenever we bent down to pick something up, our guide stopped us. She said picking up even the smallest shard was illegal. It was a protected site, she said.
Kiln smokestack
Wood curing for use in kilns
Since there wasn’t anything to see at the kiln site other than rubble (rubble we couldn’t touch) we walked across the street to the museum. In addition to the porcelain bowls and cups and vases unearthed at the kiln site, the collection included the tools used by the potters who made the bowls and cups and vases. The displays also included models of the different kinds of kilns at Hutien. Their names suggested their shapes: the calabash, the horseshoe, and the dragon kiln. The dragon kiln was especially interesting. It was a long brick tunnel built on the slope of a hillside. Our guide told us there were still several dragon kilns in the Chingtechen area, but they weren’t used very often, as they require a lot of wood. We laughed at the thought of fire-breathing dragons eating wood.
After we had seen what there was to see, our guide took us to the other side of town. Near the end of the seventeenth century, the city’s kilns were relocated west of Chingtechen near Chushan, or Pearl Hill, and the kilns around Pearl Hill then became the center of the city’s porcelain production. According to our guide, they operated day and night and gave Chingtechen its nickname, “the town of thunder and lightning,” because of the glow and roar of the kiln fires.
In recent years, production has moved away from Pearl Hill, and the city’s porcelain is now produced at more than 300 factories spread throughout the county. The kilns and workshops of Pearl Hill that we visited were more of a living museum than a center of production. As we walked through the area, the potters who worked there showed us the entire production process as it took place during the Ming dynasty. While the rest of the town’s kilns used oil or gas or electricity, the Ming-dynasty style kilns at Pearl Hill still used fir grown locally then air cured for at least a year.
We even had a chance to make a pot ourselves. We weren’t very good at it. Our pots weren’t even round. But it was fun to feel the clay. It was the clay, after all, that made Chingtechen what it was. It was first discovered forty kilometers southwest of town on Kaoling Hill, and the clay was named after the hill. When it was first introduced to the West, Westerners spelled the name kaolin, and they’ve called it kaolin clay ever since. When our guide told us that Chingtechen’s 300 factories produced over 300 million pieces of porcelain every year, we asked how much longer the clay would last. Surely, we thought, it would run out soon. She said not to worry. At the current level of production, Chingtechen had enough kaolin clay to last another 340 years. Obviously, Kaoling must be more of a mountain than a hill.
Our guide also offered to take us to one of the factories. She said we could paint and glaze our own vases or bowls, and the factory would fire them and send them to us in America. We turned down the factory tour in favor of visiting one of the government-run shops. We wanted to take home something of higher quality than something we made. Unfortunately, I’m still waiting for a blue-and-white bowl I bought for 200RMB from the state-run Chingtechen Arts & Crafts Company at No. 27 Chushan Road. Let the buyer beware.
That was all we had time for. We were tired, and our next destination was 200 kilometers to the east in the neighboring province of Anhui. But when our guide took us to the train station to buy tickets, there were no seats, soft or hard, on any train heading east—not for that day, the next day, or the day after that. We didn’t feel like standing on a train for 200 kilometers. We wanted seats. The alternative was to take a bus. At least we would have seats. But we would also have to listen to the air-horn that drivers use at the slightest provocation. However, one rule I’ve learned traveling in China is that if there’s a front door, there’s also a back door. When we went back outside and told our guide about the non-availability of tickets, she went back inside with our money and came out a few minutes later. She not only got us tickets, she got us soft sleeper berths. They were berths on the same train we arrived on the day before. The day before, we got off half-asleep. The next morning, we got on half-awake. But at least we didn’t have to stay awake. We had berths, and as soon as we got on, we stretched out and went back to sleep. Every once in a while, we looked out the window as the train snaked its way past mountains that had been deforested and replanted with tea. Everyone was growing tea. Apparently there wasn’t enough money in trees. Eight hours after we got on in Chingtechen, we got off in Anhui province in the town of Shehsien.
Not many trains stopped in Shehsien, and not many tourists got off when they did. Anyone who came to this part of Anhui was usually here to see the scenic splendor of Huangshan. Huangshan was also on our itinerary, but not that day. There were some things we wanted to see in Shehsien first. In former times, Shehsien was the administrative center for the region and was called Huichou. And Huichou produced two of the four treasures of the scholar’s studio, the first of which was ink.
According to legend, Shehsien was where ink was first produced 2,800 years ago. During the Chou dynasty, a man from Shehsien formed charcoal and glutinous rice into balls that he then ground on a stone, to which he added water. Most of the major improvements in the production of ink since then had also occurred in the Shehsien area, including the charcoal and oil-soot inksticks of Li T’ing-kuei. Back in the T’ang dynasty, Li’s inksticks were worth more than gold, as were those of his recent successor, Hu K’ai-wen. The factory that Hu’s descendants set up in Shehsien was still in operation, although it is no longer a family-run business. It has been taken over by the state. Still, its reputation hasn’t diminished. Orders have continued to come from calligraphers around the world. Hence, the first thing we did when we arrived in Shehsien was hire a taxi to take us there.
Artisan adding a design to a bowl
Usually visiting a factory in China required going through bureaucratic channels. But we didn’t have time for that and thought we would try the direct approach. We told the gate guard at the factory we were poets and wanted to see how ink was made. Of course, it must have sounded silly. It certainly did to us. But apparently we weren’t the only people who tried the direct approach. Instead of turning us away, the guard pointed us toward the administration building, and a few minutes later we were talking to the director. He explained to us that the secret behind the fame of Shehsien ink was the region’s mist. That sounded ludicrous. But he said the mist made for superior pine trees, which made for superior wood, which made for superior charcoal, which made for superior soot, which made for superior ink.
He then led us through the workshops and showed us how the soot from burning pine charcoal or tung oil was collected from the bottoms of huge curved metal lids that were suspended over the fires. The soot was then combined with glue made from animal hides and other ingredients, such as ground pearls, to give the ink a certain amount of luster, and drops of musk oil, to give the ink its distinctive perfume. Once these and other secret ingredients were added, the ink was then kneaded and pounded as if making bread. When it was finally the right consistency, the black dough was then put into wooden molds. But it was only allowed to stay in the molds for a few hours. It was taken out of the molds while it was still pliable, then air-dried indoors. The director said if the inksticks were dried outside in the sun or the wind, they would crack. Finally, he led us into the last set of workshops where hundreds of girls were busy painting gold leaf onto the designs that had been impressed onto the inksticks by the molds. Before leaving, we naturally stopped in the factory store and bought enough inksticks to keep us and our calligraphy friends happy for years.
Artisan adding gold leaf to an inkstick
Ink
, though, is only one of the four treasures of every Chinese scholar’s or artist’s studio. They also need paper and brushes. Shehsien was not particularly famous for either of these. But it was famous for the fourth of the four treasures, namely inkstones, the stones on which calligraphers and artists grind their ink.
After thanking the director for his personal tour of the town’s most famous inkstick factory, we returned to our taxi and headed for the town’s most famous inkstone factory. From the eastern outskirts of town, we drove back through the old part of Shehsien then across a tributary of the Hsin-an River to the new part of town and the Shehsien Inkstone Factory. We weren’t expected here either, and it was already late in the day. But once again the guard at the gate called the director’s office on our behalf. The director was busy, but he was kind enough to ask the factory supervisor to show us around. And a few minutes later we began our tour.
Although the Shehsien Inkstone Factory was just as famous as the Hu K’ai-wen Ink Factory, there were no secrets to the production process, as there were with ink. But we soon found out that not all stones are created equal, and the stone of choice is slate. According to our guide, slate has a smooth, dense grain, which makes grinding ink easier and also prevents the ink from being absorbed into the stone. The reason, she said, for the concentration of inkstone production in Shehsien was because of its stones and also because of its artisans. The best stones, she said, come from Lungweishan, or Dragon Tail Mountain. Even though the mountain is a hundred kilometers to the southwest, it has always been within the jurisdiction of Shehsien. And because Shehsien is the administrative center for the region, it has also attracted a large number of skilled artisans. Not only are the stones of Shehsien famous, so is the carving.
After telling us about the history of Shehsien inkstones, the supervisor led us into the workshop area. The factory didn’t produce your ordinary, run-of-the-mill stones. Its yearly output was only 20,000 stones, and it only employed 200 workers. That averaged out to 100 stones per worker per year. But no worker was in charge of the whole process. Each stone passed from worker to worker as it went through a number of different stages of refinement. During the final carving, each stone passed through the hands of ten different artisans as the carving and grinding and polishing became finer and finer.
Artisan carving an inkstone
After visiting the workshops, we finally went into the factory store. The supervisor told us that most of the designs were developed by the factory but anyone who wanted to order something special was welcome to do so. I saw no need to design my own stone. I saw one that was already perfect. It was carved in the shape of a lotus leaf and was supported on the bottom by snails. And on top, a frog peered out from the tiny pond where the ink collected after grinding. It came inside an equally lovely rosewood box, also carved in the shape of a lotus leaf. When I bought it, though, I felt torn. It was so beautiful I knew I couldn’t use it myself. I would have to give it to my wife. I already had an inkstone at home, and it was good enough for me. My calligraphy didn’t warrant a lotus leaf. But my wife’s did.
My calligraphy teacher once told me there was another treasure of the Chinese studio beyond the basic four of ink, inkstone, paper, and brush. My teacher’s name was Chuang Yen, and he was one of the most famous calligraphers in Taiwan at the time. He had retired from his post as deputy curator of Taiwan’s Palace Museum, so he had time to teach a few students, and I was fortunate to be one of them.
In those days (the seventies and eighties), I had to go to Hong Kong every six months to renew my tourist visa, and I asked him if I could bring back any Mainland products for him, perhaps some ink or brushes. Until 1987, people in Taiwan weren’t allowed to go to China or to bring back anything made in the Mainland. The only thing Chuang Yen wanted was a bottle of sorghum spirits known as Tachuchiu. When I asked him why, he told me he did his best work when he got up around four o’clock in the morning and washed away the night with a cup or two of white lightning. And Tachuchiu was his favorite. Not many people know about the fifth treasure, but I don’t think Chuang Yen would mind if I shared his secret.
11. Huangshan & Chiuhuashan
Just as the sun was going down, we boarded a bus and said good-bye to Shehsien. An hour later, we said hello to Tunhsi. Tunhsi is the gateway to Huangshan, China’s most spectacular mountain. That was our next destination, but it was still more than an hour away, and it was too late to try shortening the distance. We checked into a hotel near the bus station, then went looking for a place to eat in the old part of town.
Finally Believing Peak
In addition to serving as the gateway to Huangshan, Tunhsi is also a gateway to the Sung dynasty. The city government rebuilt one of the streets in the old part of town as it might have looked a thousand years ago. While the architecture might have been reminiscent of the Sung dynasty, that was the limit of the resemblance. We must have walked past a hundred old-style shops selling the same new-style antiques and tourist souvenirs. We didn’t see anything of interest, nothing that matched the inksticks and inkstones of Shehsien. One store we at least went inside was the Tungtejen Pharmacy. It had been doing business on this street for over 200 years. The aroma of the herbs drew us in. But, as fascinating as it was, we weren’t feeling ill. We were, however, feeling hungry and tried a Sung-dynasty dumpling place that wasn’t bad. I don’t remember the name, but we were easily satisfied and went to bed early.
We went to bed early because we wanted to be on the first bus of the day to Huangshan. It left at 6:30, and we wanted to get an early start. Huangshan is, after all, one of the biggest tourist destinations in China. It is China’s most photographed mountain and also China’s most painted mountain. In fact, two of the country’s most famous landscape schools were centered there: the Huangshan School and the Hsin-an School, both of which began there more than 300 years ago. They represented two different ways of painting—with a minimum of ink and simpler brushwork in the case of the Hsin-an School—but they shared the same source of inspiration: Huangshan. Anyone who sees a collection of Chinese landscape paintings from the Ch’ing dynasty is probably seeing examples of these two schools. Though their brushwork and their use of color differed, both schools were inspired by the mountain’s cloud-wrapped peaks and pine-studded crags. This was what we were also hoping to see (but not in a painting).
Strangely, the bus we got on was nearly empty. This was because it wasn’t a regular bus; it was a tour bus on its way back to Huangshan to pick up passengers it had delivered there the previous day. As we left Tunhsi behind, we followed a road along a river and began passing two-story farmhouses whose architecture hadn’t changed for hundreds of years: the distinctive white walls and black-tiled roofs of Anhui. Once again, we couldn’t help noticing that the hillsides had been deforested and replanted with tea. Our driver confirmed our suspicion that the deforestation had led to floods. He also told us that villagers in the Huangshan area divided work differently from those in other parts of China. He said the men stayed home and took care of the children, while the women worked in the fields and tended the tea. We found that hard to believe. But we didn’t have a chance to find out if it was true or not.
As we got closer, we could see Huangshan in the distance. It looked like any other mountain. It was big, but not spectacular. Just another mountain. That was what people had thought for centuries. They had no idea what was on top. In fact, until the last century, Huangshan wasn’t known outside of the art schools centered there and a few rare travelers who hiked to the summit. But not long after the Nationalists established their capital in Nanking in 1927, they built a road halfway up the mountain, and word soon spread.
I should also note that it wasn’t always called Huangshan. It used to be called Yishan, yi being another word for “black.” I’m not sure why. It didn’t look black. Gray, yes, but not black. In any case, when Emperor Hsuan-tsung passed by the mountain in the eighth century, he decided to change the name to Huangshan, or Yellow Mountain,
in honor of Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor, who reportedly completed his course of Taoist training there. Hsuan-tsung, too, had no idea what was on top. But we did. We had seen photos—and paintings.
Finally, ninety minutes after leaving Tunhsi, we arrived at the foot of the mountain at a place called Tangkou. After dropping our gear at a cheap hotel near the bus station, we took a shuttle bus halfway up the mountain to Yunku Temple. The temple was long gone but not the name. It sounded nice: Cloud Valley Temple. It was just past eight o’clock in the morning when we arrived, but there must have been close to five hundred people already in line. They were all waiting for the cable car.
People who visit Huangshan have their choice: the cable car or the trail, and both begin at the former site of Yunku Temple. The trail is 7.5 kilometers and takes three hours to walk. The cable car takes ten minutes. The wait, though, can last hours. In our case, it lasted two hours, which was still better—we thought—than hiking to the top. At least we wouldn’t be exhausted when we got there.
Huangshan peak in a sea of clouds
Finally, our turn came, and up we went. Even if the cable car was a bit crowded, it was a glorious ascent. Ten minutes later, we were standing just below the northeast corner of the summit. One of the first things we noticed when we got out of the cable car was a sign saying that smoking was only allowed in designated areas and discarding trash was prohibited. This was good news. When Steve and I first visited the mountain several years earlier, the place was littered with trash. This time, we had to look hard to find anything, even a cigarette butt. If any mountain deserved this sort of respect, it was Huangshan.
Everyone who has ever been there agrees: it’s the most spectacular mountain in China. But standing there awestruck was not the way to enjoy the mountain, a mountain that’s an infinitely long scroll with a thousand views. From the cable car terminal, we followed the main trail of stone steps for about ten minutes, then we turned onto a side trail that led to a place called Shihhsinfeng, or Finally Believing Peak. The view is one of the most photographed and painted scenes on Huangshan. Huangshan is famous for two things: its rock spires, barren of everything except a few gnarled pines, and its sea of clouds that often obscure the rock spires and gnarled pines, leaving only a single protruding pinnacle or branch. Shihhsinfeng is famous for both, and both were waiting for us.