Lijiang is home to the Naxi people, who value the life of the mind so much that the masculine ideal is to cultivate oneself to be able to host guests with conversation, poetry, and art; the chiefs, called the Dongba, are revered for their learning and the hieroglyphic written language only they understand. Among other things, this sounds like a more generous interpretation of the idea that only the women of this people do physical work. Around Lijiang, you can find an occasional storefront where a man dressed in Dongba finery—brightly colored robes under armor-like plates and yards-long feathers draping dramatically from headgear—might be sitting, their invariably weathered bronze faces looking sternly into the crowd. They are impressive; the sight of one will stop you in your tracks. I don’t know what these men are doing, if they are selling their images for photoseekers, if they’re ambassadors for their culture. The entire Naxi population is about 300,000; the Dongba number 2,000. In a China and a world that is seemingly headed inexorably towards cultural sameness, I wonder if these men see themselves as keepers of the flame or as fossils.
Under Adong’s biography was a framed invitation for him to participate in a show at the University of Washington, one with an academy-by-numbers title of “Icon and Transformation: (Re)Imaginings in Dongba Art.” As I looked at it, I wondered about how he positioned himself, as an artist working very much in the present moment, in relation to the Dongba who dress up and sit facing the street. I left him to work in peace. We never said hello.
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