[Mao, Selected Works, 2: 74–76]
MAO ZEDONG: “ON ART AND LITERATURE”
The so-called zhengfeng movement of party “Rectification” gave particular attention to the reform of undesirable tendencies in the cultural sphere. In this speech made to a forum on literature and art in Yan’an in May 1942, Mao reasserts the orthodox Communist view that art and literature must serve the political ends of the revolution but insists that art cannot be mere propaganda. He acknowledges that aesthetic criteria are distinct from political ones, that political correctness is not enough in works of art, and that they fail if lacking in “artistic quality.” He does not, however, pursue the question of how such quality is to be achieved in the aesthetic form if the ideological content is so rigidly controlled, and he suggests no remedy for the sterilizing effect that such control has usually had on artistic creativity.
Note the attention given to the special need of cadres, as an elite group, for works of art representing cultural “elevation” rather than mere popularization.
Comrades! We have met three times during this month. In the pursuit of truth, heated debates have taken place and scores of Party and non-Party comrades have spoken, laying bare the issues and making them concrete. I think this is very profitable to the whole artistic and literary movement.
In discussing any problem we should start from actual facts and not from definitions. We shall be following the wrong method if we first look up definitions of art and literature in the textbooks and then use them as criteria in determining the direction of the present artistic and literary movement or in judging the views and controversies that arise today. . . .
What, then, is the crux of our problems? I think our problems are basically those of working for the masses and of how to work for them. If these two problems are not solved, or [are] solved inadequately, our artists and writers will be ill-adapted to their circumstances and unfit for their tasks and will come up against a series of problems from within and without. My conclusion will center round these two problems, while touching upon some other problems related to them.
I
The first problem is: For whom are our art and literature intended?
This problem has, as a matter of fact, been solved long ago by Marxists, and especially by Lenin. As far back as 1905 Lenin emphatically pointed out that our art and literature should “serve the millions upon millions of working people.”5 [pp. 69–70]
II
The question of “whom to serve” having been solved, the question of “how to serve” comes up. To put it in the words of our comrades: Should we devote ourselves to elevation or to popularization? [p. 75]
Though man’s social life constitutes the only source for art and literature, and is incomparably more vivid and richer than art and literature as such, the people are not satisfied with the former alone and demand the latter. Why? Because although both are beautiful, life as reflected in artistic works can and ought to be on a higher level and of a greater power and better focused, more typical, nearer the ideal, and therefore more universal than actual everyday life. Revolutionary art and literature should create all kinds of characters on the basis of actual life and help the masses to push history forward. For example, on the one hand there are people suffering from hunger, cold, and oppression, and on the other hand there are men exploiting and oppressing men—a contrast that exists everywhere and seems quite commonplace to people; artists and writers, however, can create art and literature out of such daily occurrences by organizing them, bringing them to a focal point, and making the contradictions and struggles in them typical—create art and literature that can awaken and arouse the masses and impel them to unite and struggle to change their environment. If there were no such art and literature, this task could not be fulfilled or at least not effectively and speedily fulfilled.
What are popularization and elevation in art and literature? What is the relation between the two? Works of popularization are simpler and plainer and therefore more readily accepted by the broad masses of the people of today. Works of a higher level are more polished and therefore more difficult to produce and less likely to win the ready acceptance of the broad masses of people of today. The problem facing the workers, peasants, and soldiers today is this: engaged in a ruthless and sanguinary struggle against the enemy, they remain illiterate and uncultured as a result of the prolonged rule of the feudal and bourgeois classes, and consequently they badly need a widespread campaign of enlightenment, and they eagerly wish to have culture, knowledge, art, and literature that meet their immediate need and are readily acceptable to them so as to heighten their passion for struggle and their confidence in victory, to strengthen their solidarity, and thus to enable them to fight the enemy with one heart and one mind. . . .
But popularization and elevation cannot be sharply separated. . . . The people need popularization, but along with it they need elevation too, elevation month by month and year by year. Popularization is popularization for the people, and elevation is elevation of the people. Such elevation does not take place in midair, nor behind closed doors, but on the basis of popularization. It is at once determined by popularization and gives direction to it. . . .
Besides the elevation that directly meets the need of the masses, there is the elevation that meets their need indirectly, namely, the elevation needed by the cadres. Being advanced members of the masses, the cadres are generally better educated than the masses, and art and literature of a higher level are entirely necessary to them; and it would be a mistake to ignore this. Anything done for the cadres is also entirely done for the masses, because it is only through the cadres that we can give education and guidance to the masses. [pp. 77–79]
IV
One of the principal methods of struggle in the artistic and literary sphere is art and literary criticism. . . .
There are two criteria in art and literary criticism: political and artistic. According to the political criterion, all works are good that facilitate unity and resistance to Japan, that encourage the masses to be of one heart and one mind, and that oppose retrogression and promote progress; on the other hand, all works are bad that undermine unity and resistance to Japan, that sow dissension and discord among the masses, and that oppose progress and drag the people back. And how can we tell the good from the bad here—by the motive (subjective intention) or by the effect (social practice)? Idealists stress motive and ignore effect, while mechanical materialists stress effect and ignore motive; in contradistinction from either, we dialectical materialists insist on the unity of motive and effect of winning their approval, and we must unite the two. . . . In examining the subjective intention of an artist, i.e., whether his motive is correct and good, we do not look at his declaration but at the effect his activities (mainly his works) produce on society and the masses. Social practice and its effect are the criteria for examining the subjective intention or the motive.. .. According to the artistic criterion, all works are good or comparatively good that are relatively high in artistic quality and bad or comparatively bad that are relatively low in artistic quality. Of course, this distinction also depends on social effect. As there is hardly an artist who does not consider his own work excellent, our criticism ought to permit the free competition of all varieties of artistic works, but it is entirely necessary for us to pass correct judgments on them according to the criteria of the science of art, so that we can gradually raise the art of a lower level to a higher level, and to change the art that does not meet the requirements of the struggle of the broad masses into art that does meet them.
There is thus the political criterion as well as the artistic criterion. . . . But all classes in all class societies place the political criterion first and the artistic criterion second. The bourgeoisie always reject proletarian artistic and literary works, no matter how great their artistic achievement. As for the proletariat, they must treat the art and literature of the past according to their attitude toward the people and whether they are pro
gressive in the light of history. Some things that are basically reactionary from the political point of view may yet be artistically good. But the more artistic such a work may be, the greater harm will it do to the people, and the more reason for us to reject it. The contradiction between reactionary political content and artistic form is a common characteristic of the art and literature of all exploiting classes in their decline. What we demand is unity of politics and art, of content and form and of revolutionary political content and the highest possible degree of perfection in artistic form. Works of art, however politically progressive, are powerless if they lack artistic quality. Therefore we are equally opposed to works with wrong political approaches and to the tendency toward so-called poster and slogan style that is correct only in political approach but lacks artistic power. We must carry on a two-front struggle in art and literature. [pp. 84–86]
[Mao, Selected Works, 4: 69–86]
WANG SHIWEI: “POLITICAL LEADERS, ARTISTS”
In February 1942 Wang Shiwei enthusiastically took up Mao’s call for the rectification of the party and the government. In so doing, he sought to continue the independent role that intellectuals had first assumed during the New Culture Movement as critics of society and government. Although Wang was eventually purged and executed, Mao still looked to intellectuals to check the power of the bureaucracy in the abortive One Hundred Flowers Campaign of the mid-fifties.
There are two sides to the revolution: changing the social system and changing people. Political leaders are the revolution’s strategists and tacticians; they unite, organize, and lead the revolution. Their main task is to transform the social system. Artists are the “engineers of the soul,” and their main task is to transform people’s heart, spirit, thinking, and consciousness.
The filth and darkness in people’s souls are the product of an irrational social system, and the soul’s fundamental transformation is impossible until the social system has been fundamentally transformed. In the process of transforming the social system, the soul too is transformed. . . . The tasks of the political leader and the artist are complementary.
The political leaders command the revolution’s material forces; the artists arouse the revolution’s spiritual forces. The political leaders are generally cool, collected people, good at waging practical struggles to eliminate filth and darkness, and to bring about cleanliness and light. The artists are generally more emotional and more sensitive, good at exposing filth and darkness, and at pointing out cleanliness and light. . . .
The political leaders understand that during the revolution the people in their camp will be less than perfect and things will rarely be done ideally. They take the broad view, making sure that the wheel of history advances and that the light wins. The artists, more passionate and more sensitive, long for people to be more lovable and things to be more splendid. When they write they take small things as their starting points: they hope to eliminate the darkness so far as they can so that the wheel of history can advance as fast as possible. As the practical transformers of the social system, the political leaders take things more seriously; the artists, as the soul’s engineers, go even further in demanding perfection of people. In uniting, organizing, and leading the revolution and waging practical struggles, the political leaders are superior. But the artists are better at plunging into the depths of the soul to change it—transforming our side in order to strengthen it, and transforming the enemies so as to undermine them.
The political leaders and the artists each have their weak points. If the political leaders are to attack the enemy successfully, establish links with allied forces, and strengthen our side, they must understand human nature and the ways of the world, be masters of tricks and devices, and be skilled in making and breaking alliances. Their weakness springs from those very strengths. When they use them for the revolutionary cause, they become the most beautiful and exquisite “revolutionary art,” but unless they are truly great political leaders they are bound to make use of them for their own fame, position, and interest, thus harming the revolution. In this respect we must insist that cat’s claws be used only for catching rats and not for seizing chickens. Here we must distinguish political leaders from artists; and we must be ever on our guard against cats that are good not at catching rats but at taking chickens. The main weaknesses of most artists are pride, narrowness, isolation, inability to unite with others, and mutual suspicion and exclusion. Here we must ask the engineers of the soul to start by making their own souls clean and bright. This is hard and painful, but it is the only way to greatness. . . .
Lu Xun was a fighter all his life, but anyone who understands him will know that at heart he was lonely. He struggled because he recognized the laws of social development and believed that the future was bound to be better than the present; he was lonely because he saw that even in the souls of his own comrades there were filth and darkness. He knew that the task of transforming old China could only be carried out by the sons and daughters of old China, despite their filth and darkness. But his great heart could not help yearning for his comrades to be more lovable.
The revolutionary camp exists in old China, and the revolution’s fighters have grown up in old China, which means that our souls are inevitably stained. The present revolution requires that we ally not only with the peasants and the urban petty bourgeoisie but with even more backward classes and strata, and that we make concessions to them, thus becoming contaminated with yet more filth and darkness. This makes the artist’s task of transforming the soul even more important, difficult, and urgent. To boldly expose and wash away all that is filthy and dark is as important as praising the light, if not more important. Exposing and cleansing are not merely negative, because when darkness is eliminated the light can shine even brighter. Some people think that revolutionary artists must “direct their fire outside” and that if we expose our weakness we give the enemy easy targets. But this is a shortsighted view. Though our camp is now strong enough for us to have no fears about exposing our shortcomings, it is not yet fully consolidated; self-criticism is the best way of consolidating it. . . .
Some who think highly of themselves as political leaders smile sarcastically when they speak of artists. Others who pride themselves on being artists shrug their shoulders when they mention political leaders. But there is always some truth in objective reflections: each would do well to use the other as a mirror. They should not forget that they are both children of old China.
A truly great political leader must have a soul great enough to move the souls of others and cleanse them; thus a great political leader is a great artist. An artist who has a truly great soul is bound to have a part to play in uniting, organizing, and leading the forces of revolution; thus a great artist is also a great political leader.
Finally I would like to appeal warmly to artist comrades: be even more effective in transforming the soul, and aim in the first place at ourselves and our own camp. In China transforming the soul will have an even greater effect on transforming society. It will determine not only how soon but even whether the revolution succeeds.
[Wang Shiwei, “Political Leaders, Artists”]
DING LING: “THOUGHTS ON MARCH 8,1942”
Mao Zedong as a young man had been concerned with the plight of women, and Chinese Communist Party policy professed to bring about equality between men and women. The noted writer Ding Ling, however, took advantage of International Women’s Day to point out the hypocritical attitudes and behavior of male party members and the special pressures on women revolutionaries. The article created much controversy and Ding herself became a target of criticism during the Rectification Campaign and later again in the Anti-Rightist Campaign and Cultural Revolution.
When will it no longer be necessary to attach special weight to the word woman and raise it specially?
Each year this day comes round. Every year on this day, meetings are held all over the world where women muster their forces. Even though things have not been as li
vely these last two years in Yan’an as they were in previous years, it appears that at least a few people are busy at work here. And there will certainly be a congress, speeches, circular telegrams, and articles.
Women in Yan’an are happier than women elsewhere in China. So much so that many people ask enviously, “How come the women comrades get so rosy and fat on millet?” It doesn’t seem to surprise anyone that women make up a big proportion of the staff in the hospitals, sanatoria, and clinics, but they are inevitably the subject of conversation, as a fascinating problem, on every conceivable occasion.
Moreover, all kinds of women comrades are often the target of deserved criticism. In my view these reproaches are serious and justifiable.
People are always interested when women comrades get married, but that is not enough for them. It is virtually impossible for women comrades to get onto friendly terms with a man comrade, and even less likely for them to become friendly with more than one. Cartoonists ridicule them: “A departmental head getting married too?” The poets say, “All the leaders in Yan’an are horsemen, and none of them are artists. In Yan’an it’s impossible for an artist to find a pretty sweetheart.” But in other situations they are lectured: “Damn it, you look down on us old cadres and say we’re country bumpkins. But if it weren’t for us country bumpkins, you wouldn’t be coming to Yan’an to eat millet!” But women invariably want to get married. (It’s even more of a sin not to be married, and single women are more of a target for rumors and slanderous gossip.) So they can’t afford to be choosy; anyone will do, whether he rides horses or wears straw sandals, whether he’s an artist or a supervisor. They inevitably have children. The fate of such children is various. Some are wrapped in soft baby wool and patterned felt and looked after by governesses. Others are wrapped in soiled cloth and left crying in their parents’ beds, while their parents consume much of the child allowance. But for this allowance (twenty-five yuan a month, or just over three pounds of pork), many of them would probably never get a taste of meat. Whoever they marry, the fact is that those women who are compelled to bear children will probably be publicly derided as “Noras who have returned home.” Those women comrades in a position to employ governesses can go out once a week to a prim get-together and dance. Behind their backs there will also be the most incredible gossip and whispering campaigns, but as soon as they go somewhere, they cause a great stir and all eyes are glued to them. This has nothing to do with our theories, our doctrines, and the speeches we make at meetings. We all know this to be a fact, a fact that is right before our eyes, but it is never mentioned.
Sources of Chinese Tradition, Volume 2 Page 67