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From One China to Another *
The picturesque has its origins in war and a refusal to understand the enemy: our
enlightenment about Asia actually came to us first from irritated missionaries and from
soldiers. Later came travellers – traders and tourists – who are soldiers that have cooled
off. Pillaging is called shopping, and rape is practised onerously in specialized shops. But
the basic attitude has not changed: the natives are killed less frequently but they are
scorned collectively, which is the civilized form of massacre; the aristocratic pleasure of
counting the differences is savoured. ‘I cut my hair, he plaits his; I use a fork, he uses
chopsticks; I write with a goose quill, he draws characters with a paintbrush; I have ideas
which are straight, and his are bent: have you noticed that he is horrified by movement in
a straight line, that he is only happy if everything goes sideways?’ This is called the game
of anomalies: if you find another one, if you discover another reason for not
understanding, you will be given a prize for sensitivity in your own country. You must
not be surprised if those who in this way reconstruct those who resemble them, like a
mosaic of irreducible differences, then wonder how anyone can be Chinese.
As a child, I was a victim of the picturesque: everything had been done to make the
Chinese intimidating. I was told about rotten
* Preface to D’une Chine à l’autre, by Henri Cartier-Bresson and Jean-Paul Sartre, Paris, Editions
Robert Delpire, 1954.
eggs – the Chinese were rather partial to these – of men sawn between two planks of
wood, of piping and discordant music. In the world which surrounded me, among all the
things and creatures, there were some which were referred to as Chinese. They were tiny
and terrible, slipped between your fingers, attacked from behind, burst out suddenly in a
ridiculous din, shadows sliding like fishes along the glass of an aquarium, dim lanterns,
incredible and futile refinements, ingenious tortures, jingling hats. There was also the
Chinese soul, which I was simply told was inscrutable. ‘The Orientals, you see …’ The
Negroes did not worry me; I had been taught that they were good dogs. With them, we
were still among mammals. But the Asians frightened me, like those crabs in the rice
fields which dart between two rows, like those locusts which descend on the great plains
and devastate everything. We are lords of the fishes, lions, rats and monkeys; the Chinese
are superior arthropods, they rule over the arthropods.
Then came Michaux who was the first to show the Chinese without a soul or a shell,
China without lotus or Loti.
A quarter of a century later, Cartier-Bresson’s album completes the demystification.
There are photographers who encourage war because they produce literature.
They seek out a Chinese who looks more Chinese than the others; in the end they find
one. They make him adopt a typically Chinese pose and surround him with chinoiseries.
What have they captured on film? One Chinaman? No … the Idea of what is Chinese.