Amy Qin

But with the opening in recent years of the Louvre Abu Dhabi and the Pompidou Málaga, the country’s strategy of using “museum diplomacy” to raise its profile overseas is well underway. That effort took a bold step forward Tuesday when the Pompidou, the renowned Parisian museum of modern and contemporary art, unveiled an outpost in China. President Emmanuel Macron of France was in attendance at the ceremony.

Situated along the banks of the Huangpu River on Shanghai’s version of Museum Mile, the new outpost is a collaboration with the West Bund Group, a Chinese state-owned development corporation that together with the local government has reportedly invested more than $3 billion in recent years to transform a former industrial neighborhood into a 7-mile waterfront cultural corridor.

Called the “Centre Pompidou x West Bund Museum Project,” the new outpost is housed in the newly built West Bund Museum. Designed by British architect David Chipperfield and featuring more than 27,000 square feet of exhibition space, the museum consists of three exhibition halls clad in a jade-like glass and linked by a central atrium.

The Pompidou is calling the project the “largest ever cultural exchange” between France and China. Compared to the Louvre Abu Dhabi, which is based on a 30-year agreement between the French and United Arab Emirates governments, the scale of the project is nevertheless modest.

Much like the Pompidou Málaga, which opened in 2015, the Shanghai project is a five-year contract in which the Pompidou Center curates shows specifically for the Chinese outpost using works lent from its vast collection, while also providing educational programming and vocational training for Chinese museum professionals. At the end of the five years, both sides will have the opportunity to end or extend the partnership.

In turn, the West Bund Group will cover the costs of the physical space and also pay the Pompidou a lump sum of about 2.75 million euros each year, excluding transport and insurance, according to a July interview with Serge Lasvignes, president of the Pompidou, in the French magazine Le Point.

But museum officials insist that the main motivation behind the Shanghai project is to foster dialogue, not to make profits.

“If we really wanted to make money, a better idea would be to sell shows one by one to major international museums,” Lasvignes said in an interview Monday at the West Bund Museum.

But in China, even the high-minded mission of promoting dialogue comes with its own challenges. The opening of the Pompidou Shanghai outpost comes at an uncertain time in the West’s relations with China, and the art world is not immune to politics. Censorship and self-censorship are ubiquitous in China’s creative industries and even private museums and galleries must often submit their programs and exhibitions for approval by local authorities.

Pompidou Shanghai has already had its first encounter with censors. In “The Shape of Time,” the first of three planned semi-permanent exhibitions, the Pompidou introduces the history of 20th-century art using 100 works drawn mostly from its collection.

The exhibition features well-known works like Pablo Picasso’s “The Guitar Player” and Vasily Kandinsky’s “Gelb-Rot-Blau” alongside works by Chinese artists like Zhang Huan and Zao Wou-ki. But despite being mostly pedagogical in nature, local officials requested before the project's opening that a few works in “The Shape of Time” be replaced for what Lasvignes called “various” reasons.

“We discussed, we explained, and in most cases they agreed to keep the work,” said Lasvignes. He said fewer than five works were ultimately replaced in the exhibition for reasons that were “not only political,” though he declined to offer specifics.

“I really believe — maybe it’s naive — that as long as you can make interesting things, as long as you can make things without betraying yourself, it’s better to be present than to not be there at all,” he said.

Lasvignes added that the limited scope of the partnership would allow the museum to evaluate the situation as the project progressed.

“For me the question is, ‘Are the rules that are being applied really changing the nature of a project?’” Lasvignes said. “If not, we go on. If yes, we will stop.”

A major reason the Pompidou does not want to see the Shanghai partnership derailed by minor censorship concerns is that the project was nearly two decades in the making. The French museum had been close to opening an outpost in Shanghai about a decade ago, but the deal collapsed at the last minute.

By the time Lasvignes arrived at the Pompidou in 2015 and re-initiated talks with officials in China, the country had become a much greater player in the art world. Buoyed by a booming middle class, China last year was the world’s third-largest market for art, according to the annual Art Basel and UBS art market report. It also boasts a growing network of art enthusiasts and professionals including curators, collectors and artists ranging from well-known names like Ai Weiwei to younger, rising artists like Cao Fei, who recently received a solo exhibition at the Pompidou in Paris.

As Pompidou officials looked around for locations, the West Bund emerged as a natural choice. Located not far from the former French Concession, the district was already home to several emerging private museums, including the Yuz Museum and the Long Museum, co-founded by a former taxi driver-turned-billionaire and his wife.

The deal received the highest-possible official blessing in January 2018 when Macron came to China on a state visit and personally discussed the matter with China’s leader, Xi Jinping. The project will open to the public Friday.

Experts say China’s motivation in creating the project can be explained partly by its desire to soften its global image, which has been marred recently by revelations about its mass internment of its Uighur Muslim ethnic minority and what many see as the country’s growing assertiveness abroad.

“China is very ambiguous,” said Jean-Philippe Béja, research professor emeritus in Chinese politics at the National Center for Scientific Research in Paris. “On one hand it is becoming more and more totalitarian and closed, and on the other hand it wants to represent itself as a very modern, avant-garde country.”

On Monday morning, the scene at the West Bund Museum was frenetic as a small army of workers scrambled to put the finishing touches on the installations in time for Macron’s arrival. (As if to drive home the point about the need for greater professionalization, one rogue Chinese museum worker was seen napping peacefully amid the frenzy, basking in the soft glow of a video work.)

For Macron, the museum opening will likely be a rare kumbaya moment in what is otherwise expected to be several days of tough discussions with Chinese officials about trade and climate change. The Sino-French relationship has been further strained in recent months by tensions over France’s decision to grant asylum to the Chinese wife of the former Interpol head.

For the Pompidou, Shanghai is just the start of what promises to be a busy international schedule in coming years. Last year, the museum signed on for another five-year commitment with its partner in Málaga. A project in Brussels is also underway and the museum is currently in negotiations for outposts in Seoul and the Czech Republic as well, according to Lasvignes.

Bernard Blistène, director of the National Museum of Modern Art at the Pompidou Center, waved away suggestions that the team was building a global Pompidou empire.

“This is for building something, testing something, experimenting with something,” Blistène said. “Otherwise you just stay inside your big château with your collection, always the same.”

This article originally appeared in

'Museum Diplomacy' as New Pompidou Center Opens in Shanghai

SHANGHAI — When the Pompidou Center first floated the idea of opening a Chinese outpost more than a decade ago, skeptics back home in France were still fiercely debating the question of whether the country’s cherished national museums should have a role in promoting political and commercial interests abroad.

The announcement Tuesday of architecture’s highest award was seen by many as a long overdue honor for this 87-year-old architect, urban designer and theorist, who is credited with fusing East and West, modern and postmodern, and global and local in a visually diverse body of work that symbolized Japan’s global influence. Isozaki’s more than 100 buildings include the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, the Palau Sant Jordi in Barcelona and the Qatar National Convention Center in Doha.

At his modest apartment in Naha, the capital of Okinawa, Isozaki said he was “overjoyed” to receive the prize.

“It’s like a crown on the tombstone,” he joked, flashing his trademark sense of humor.

Dressed in a mud-dyed silk kimono with a folding fan tucked into his obi and his unruly white shoulder-length hair combed back behind his ears, Isozaki reflected on a six-decade long career blending architecture with visual art, poetry, philosophy, theater, writing and design.

“My concept of architecture is that it is invisible,” he said. “It’s intangible. But I believe it can be felt through the five senses.”

Crucial to Isozaki’s avant-garde approach to architecture is the Japanese concept of ma, signifying the merging of time and space, which was the subject of a traveling exhibition in 1978.

“Like the universe, architecture comes out of nothing, becomes something and eventually becomes nothing again,” Isozaki said. “That life cycle from birth to death is a process that I want to showcase.”

His commitment to the “art of space” was in part what led the Pritzker jury to select Isozaki as its 46th laureate and the eighth from Japan. He will receive the award at a ceremony in France in May.

“Possessing a profound knowledge of architectural history and theory, and embracing the avant-garde, he never merely replicated the status quo,” said the Pritzker jury in its citation, which also noted Isozaki’s support for young architects. “But his search for meaningful architecture was reflected in his buildings that to this day, defy stylistic categorizations, are constantly evolving, and always fresh in their approach.”

Born in Oita on the island of Kyushu in 1931, Isozaki came of age in a postwar Japan that was “in complete ruins,” with an emperor demoted and social customs in flux.

“Air bombardment had destroyed many of the cities, buildings had vanished and there was only rubble on the ground,” he wrote. “However, Japan had already assimilated western modernization by that time. The only possible choice I had was to start from the ruins — the degree zero where nothing remained.”

After graduating from the architecture department at the University of Tokyo in 1954, Isozaki apprenticed with Kenzo Tange, the 1987 Pritzker Prize winner known as the father of postwar Japanese architecture.

Isozaki has said that because of the political and economic uncertainty of the period, he “could not dwell upon a single style.” As a result, he said: “Change became constant. Paradoxically, this came to be my own style.”

The young architect rode the building wave of postwar Japan, showing the influence of Le Corbusier and Louis I. Kahn as well as that of Tange in works like the Oita Prefectural Library (1962-66), the Museum of Modern Art in Gunma (1971-74) and the Kitakyushu Municipal Museum of Art in Fukuoka (1972-74).

It was during this time that Isozaki honed his ability to blend architectural styles and invent new forms by joining simple geometric shapes in powerful ways, while maintaining an exacting attention to detail and refinement.

“Unlike those American postmodernists who believed that classicism held the key to a usable past, Mr. Isozaki appeared to understand that no amount of historical excavation could uncover a firm foundation on which to build the present,” critic Herbert Muschamp wrote in The Times in 1993. “He perceived that a time that had lost its faith in the future had also lost its grip on the past.”

Another constant was his playful approach to architecture. Seen from above, the cylindrical roof of the Fujimi Country Club (1973-74) in his hometown, Oita, appears in the shape of a giant question mark, a reflection of Isozaki’s befuddlement with his country’s obsession with golf.

“The client didn’t say a word,” Isozaki laughed, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

His first overseas commission came in the 1980s when he was selected to design the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, or MOCA, still the architect’s best known work in the United States.

“At the time, MoMA” — the Museum of Modern Art in New York — “was so popular, I sensed that Los Angeles really wanted to surpass it,” Isozaki said. “So instead of showcasing the artwork in a dark area with artificial light like MoMA did, we destroyed this concept and totally turned it upside down.”

Completed in 1986, the sunken red Indian sandstone-clad museum in downtown Los Angeles features a barrel-vaulted library and a series of glass pyramid skylights that were intended to let natural light stream down into galleries.

“Not since the French architectural visionaries of the 18th century has an architect used solid geometric volumes with such clarity and purity, and never with his sense of playfulness,” critic Joseph Giovannini wrote of the project in The Times in 1986.

The project catapulted Isozaki onto the international stage, paving the way for a stream of global commissions including the Team Disney building in Florida, the China Central Academy of Fine Arts Art Museum in Beijing and the Sant Jordi stadium (designed for the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, Spain).

In 2013, he designed with Anish Kapoor the Ark Nova, an inflatable concert hall that traveled between regions affected by the 2011 tsunami in Japan.

While his best known projects are in cities, Isozaki said last week that he was “more nostalgic about the rural projects.” Asked to pick a favorite, he named the Domus Museum (1993-95) in A Coruña, Spain. Built atop a rocky outcrop by the Bay of Riazor, the museum features a curved slate-clad facade that resembles a sail billowing in the wind.

“Mr. Isozaki’s is an architecture that thrusts aside the shopworn debate between modernism and postmodernism, for it is both modern and postmodern,” critic Paul Goldberger wrote in The Times in 1986. “Modern in its reliance on strong, self-assured abstraction, postmodern in the degree to which it feels connected to the larger stream of history.”

In 2017, Isozaki donated his vast collection of books and quietly moved with his partner, Misa Shin, from Tokyo to Okinawa in search of warmer climes. The couple rented a nondescript apartment with a view of the sea in a peaceful residential neighborhood. The neighbors have no idea that living in the peach-colored walk-up is a bona fide starchitect.

Despite having moved to what might be called the “Florida of Japan,” Isozaki said he has no immediate plans to retire. Recent building booms in the Middle East and Asia — and China, in particular — have allowed the architect to finally realize ideas for urban planning that he first conceptualized in his unbuilt project “City in the Air” (1962), which envisioned a multilayered city hovering above the traditional city. The opportunities were exciting.

Isozaki cited a poem he wrote early in his career called “Incubation Process” (1962), describing it as his first architectural work. The poem was raw and unrefined, he said, but after 60 years, he still holds onto its essential ideas.

“Urban planning which doesn’t include the idea of destruction,” the poem reads in part, “should be carried out in nursing homes.”

This article originally appeared in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/05/arts/design/pritzker-architecture-prize-arata-isozaki.html" id="0c43e52b-ce1a-3d5a-add1-b58e7026d98e">The New York Times</a>.

Pritzker Prize Goes to Arata Isozaki, Designer for a Postwar World

NAHA, Japan — He has been called the “emperor of Japanese architecture” by his peers and “visionary” by critics. Now, the internationally renowned architect Arata Isozaki can add yet another tribute: the 2019 Pritzker Architecture Prize.

Isozaki reflected on a six-decade long career blending architecture with visual art, poetry, philosophy, theater, writing and design.

The police confirmed Lam’s death. The cause was unknown but police said they found no reason to suspect foul play. Local news media said Lam had recently come down with a cold and his wife had found him unresponsive in his bed.

Following the unexpected success of his fourth feature film, the action-comedy “Aces Go Places IV,” in 1986, Lam was offered a rare opportunity: a chance to write and shoot any film he wanted to make so long as the budget was under 4 million Hong Kong dollars, the equivalent of about $1.1 million today.

“I was puzzled, and at first I didn’t know what to film,” said Lam in a 2015 interview. “Eventually I decided that I enjoyed the realistic aspects of ‘The French Connection'” — the 1971 American production directed by William Friedkin — “and that I wanted to create a film containing similar grit.”

The result was the 1987 film “City on Fire,” starring Chow Yun-fat as an undercover police officer who penetrates a gang of thieves, becomes chummy with one of the robbers (played by Danny Lee) and gets caught up when a planned heist of a jewelry store goes wrong.

The film, which plays heavily on the themes of brotherhood and honor among thieves, became an instant hit, earning Lam the title of best director at the Hong Kong Film Awards in 1988. Today, it is widely regarded as a pillar of Hong Kong’s well-known gangster film genre, along with other classics like John Woo’s “A Better Tomorrow” (1986) and Johnnie To’s “The Mission” (1999).

Riding on the success of “City on Fire,” Lam quickly churned out two more films in the “Fire” series, “Prison on Fire” (1987) and “School on Fire” (1988).

“His tales of weary policemen and jumpy criminals have a depth, and a romanticism, that come from characterization and attention to quotidian detail rather than sheer visual polish,” Mike Hale, a critic for The New York Times, wrote in 2015.

“City on Fire” was famously a major source of inspiration for Quentin Tarantino, whose cult feature “Reservoir Dogs” (1992) so closely resembled Lam’s movie in certain plot points and staging elements that it raised questions about plagiarism.

“It’s a really cool movie,” Tarantino told the Baltimore Sun in 1995, referring to “City on Fire.” “It influenced me a lot. I got some stuff from it.”

The question of what Lam thought about suggestions that Tarantino plagiarized his work followed the Hong Kong filmmaker throughout his own career as well.

“I have been asked this question so many times,” Lam told an interviewer in 1996. “I don’t think about it.”

Ringo Lam was born Lam Ling-tung on Dec. 8, 1955, in Hong Kong, then a British crown colony. After graduating from St. Peter’s Secondary School in Hong Kong in 1973, he enrolled in performing arts classes organized by the local broadcaster TVB.

After studying and working at TVB, Lam moved to Toronto, where he studied filmmaking at York University. In 1982, he returned to Hong Kong where, with the help of the Hong Kong director Tsui Hark, he got a job at Cinema City production company, which later backed “City on Fire.”

From 1983 to 2003, Lam made films at a rapid-fire pace, releasing a movie nearly every year — sometimes two in one year — including several direct-to-DVD collaborations with the action star Jean-Claude Van Damme.

In 1996, Lam made his directorial debut in the United States with “Maximum Risk,” an action thriller starring Van Damme. The next year, “Full Alert,” a blood-spattered Hong Kong action movie directed and co-written by Lam, won critical acclaim.

“I believed that I had killed too many people onscreen in my previous films, and when I looked back at all the violence, it sometimes made me shudder,” Lam said in 2015, referring to “Full Alert.” “Yet because reality is brutal and full of violence, I felt compelled to show it.”

Complete information on survivors was not immediately available.

In his later life, Lam stepped back from filmmaking, with a few exceptions, citing a desire to focus on his personal life. At the time of his death, Lam was said to have been working with other Hong Kong luminaries like Johnnie To, Ann Hui and John Woo on “Eight and a Half,” a long-planned, eight-part film exploring Hong Kong’s history from the 1940s to the present day.

“I am at an age where I have something to say about life,” he told the South China Morning Post in a 2016 interview about “Sky on Fire,” a movie that he began shooting after his mother’s death.

“What is life? There’s nothing that I can do to decide when it ends. I am powerless and I am very angry, so I put that all onto the screen.”

This article originally appeared in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/04/obituaries/ringo-lam-dead.html" id="d8f8779c-8606-3d18-a340-339a86b30e0c">The New York Times</a>.

HONG KONG — Ringo Lam, a Hong Kong film director best known for gritty crime thrillers like the 1987 classic “City on Fire,” died Saturday at his home in Hong Kong. He was 63.

Ringo Lam, Hong Kong Director of 'City on Fire,' Dies at 63

These might seem to be natural topics of interest in a country determined to be the world’s leader in science and technology. But in China, where censors are known to take a heavy hand, several artworks that look closely at these breakthroughs have been deemed taboo by local cultural officials.

The works, which raise questions about the social and ethical implications of artificial intelligence and biotechnology, were abruptly pulled last weekend from the coming Guangzhou Triennial on the orders of cultural authorities in the southern Chinese province of Guangdong.

The artists, from Europe, Australia and the United States, were not given an official reason why their works were rejected for the show, which opens on Dec. 21 at the Guangdong Museum of Art. The pieces did not touch on the Tiananmen democracy crackdown of 1989, independence for Taiwan or Tibet or the private wealth of Chinese Communist Party leaders — topics that are widely known to be off-limits for public discussion in China.

As a result, some of the show’s curators and the affected artists have been left guessing as to why the works were banned. Their conclusion? The works were perhaps too timely, too relevant and therefore too discomforting for Chinese officials.

“The news is really filled with concern about the gene editing of babies,” said Heather Dewey-Hagborg, an American artist whose work “T3511” was among those pulled from the show. “It definitely seems like a moment where I can imagine that art or any kind of content that deals with biotechnological futures and some of the vulnerabilities and the dark side of those futures might seem to be dangerous.”

Dewey-Hagborg was referring to the explosive revelation last month that Chinese scientist He Jiankui said he had created the world’s first genetically edited babies. After the announcement, scientists in China and abroad condemned He’s conduct, calling it reckless and unethical.

Against that background, a work like “T3511” by Dewey-Hagborg with Toshiaki Ozawa would seem to be especially timely. The four-channel video tells the fictional story of a biohacker who becomes obsessed with an anonymous donor whose saliva she purchases online. By analyzing the DNA in the saliva and using a genealogy website, the biohacker is able to identify the anonymous donor. According to Dewey-Hagborg, the video is intended to raise questions about biological commodification, privacy and bioethics.

But in China, where officials are often incentivized to err on the side of caution and prioritize social stability above all else, stirring up public debate with hard-hitting questions about ethics is not always a welcome endeavor.

Angelique Spaninks, director of MU, an independent art space in the Netherlands and one of the curators of the Guangzhou Triennial, said, “The privacy stuff even makes me uncomfortable and of course the work is a very strong piece because of that.” But anything that creates discomfort, she said, “makes officials here nervous.”

The other banned works include “The Modular Body,” an online science fiction story about using human cells and artificial organs to create a living organism. Created by a Dutch artist, Floris Kaayk, the work is intended to raise questions about the potential for 3D printing of human organs, about extending life with the help of technology and about the desire to design life from scratch.

Also pulled from the show was “im here to learn so :))))))” by Zach Blas and Jemima Wyman, a four-channel video that resurrects Tay, an artificial intelligence bot created by Microsoft in 2016 that was shut down in less than a day after users trained it to be a bigot. According to Blas, museum officials in China had initially asked to cut two lines in the video (an obscenity and a reference to Adolf Hitler) before cultural authorities decided ultimately to reject the entire work, which also deals with issues of feminism.

A work by the artist Lawrence Lek, from London, was also pulled from the show, as was part of a multichannel video work by Harun Farocki, a filmmaker who died in 2014, according to curators.

Huang Yaqun, the deputy director of academic affairs at the Guangdong Museum of Art, a state-backed museum and the host of the triennial, said that the decision to cut the works was based in part on their “incompatibility with the Guangdong people’s taste and cultural habits.”

Though some were caught off-guard by the last-minute decision to pull works from the triennial, such setbacks are a frequent occurrence for many in China’s art circles when dealing with the country’s often unpredictable censorship review process.

Contrary to the notion of China’s censorship apparatus as an all-powerful monolith, the effort to get an exhibition past cultural officials is often a constant negotiation and balancing act that can depend on factors including which authorities are in charge and what the local situation is. Exhibition organizers are often forced to come up with clever strategies to circumvent or assuage censors by, for example, showing a work without explanatory text or putting age restrictions on access to a show.

“Usually, they reject work mentioning political or internal affairs or nudity,” said Victoria Jonathan, art director of Jimei x Arles International Photo Festival, which is held every year in the southern Chinese city of Xiamen and is a partner of the annual Rencontres de la Photographie d’Arles. “Sometimes they object to something because it’s related to the news. And sometimes their decision just doesn’t make sense at all.”

China is not alone in pulling images that it deems potentially disturbing. Last year, the Guggenheim Museum removed three works by Chinese artists from a highly anticipated exhibition — including one featuring pit bulls on treadmills — after pressure from animal-rights supporters and others over the show, “Art and China After 1989: Theater of the World.” Some critics said the Guggenheim should have used the controversy as a moment to engage the public about difficult art.

Though Spaninks, the Guangzhou Triennial’s curator, said she was disappointed with the decision to pull the current works, she was hopeful that the remaining pieces in the show, which is titled “As We May Think: Feedforward,” could still trigger debate about the future of science and technology. Assuming no further cuts are made to the show, the exhibition, which runs until March 10, will feature more than 40 artists including Lynn Hershman Leeson, Wang Yuyang and Tega Brain.

Still, Kaayk, who said he had spent months preparing “The Modular Body” for the show only to find out at the last minute that it had been banned, said in an email that he felt “very frustrated.”

“Isn’t contemporary art meant to raise questions, and start discussions about important subjects in actuality and those of our near future?” he wrote. “What are China’s reasons for organizing all these big expensive ‘contemporary art’ manifestations if these questions, the core of contemporary art, freedom of speech, freedom of mind, are ignored and undermined?”

This article originally appeared in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/14/arts/china-art-censorship.html" id="e0af5a9b-3ea9-3962-a18b-bbb9b3de1eee">The New York Times</a>.

Their Art Raised Questions About Technology. Chinese Censors Had Their Own Answer.

HONG KONG — Artificial intelligence bots. 3D printed human organs. Genomic sequencing.

<h1>NAHA, Japan — He has been called the “emperor of Japanese architecture” by his peers and “visionary” by critics. Now, the internationally renowned architect Arata Isozaki can add yet another tribute: the 2019 Pritzker Architecture Prize.</h1>

This article originally appeared in <a id="dded6398-ca0d-45c5-a2a3-f7a55dd152cc" href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/05/arts/design/pritzker-architecture-prize-arata-isozaki.html">The New York Times</a>.

At his modest apartment in Naha, the capital of Okinawa, Isozaki said he was “overjoyed” to receive the prize.

Pritzker Prize goes to Arata Isozaki, designer for a postwar world

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Amy Qin

Articles written by the author

'Museum Diplomacy' as New Pompidou Center Opens in Shanghai

Pritzker Prize Goes to Arata Isozaki, Designer for a Postwar World

Pritzker Prize Goes to Arata Isozaki, Designer for a Postwar World

Ringo Lam, Hong Kong Director of 'City on Fire,' Dies at 63

Their Art Raised Questions About Technology. Chinese Censors Had Their Own Answer.

Pritzker Prize goes to Arata Isozaki, designer for a postwar world