When artist and patron are one

The rise or fall of an official career may affect one's sideline or hobby, especially when fame from the avocation is buttressed by the power of the position

Qin Yuhai's photographs were to be removed from subway stations in Beijing and Shanghai. That is unsettling, but probably less so than the reason why they popped up there in the first place.

Qin is no ordinary photographer. He is better known as a senior government official in Henan province who recently has been suspected of serious violations of laws and regulations and is under investigation. There is a direct causal link between the person's fate and that of his art.

And that, in my opinion, is deplorable.

I have seen several of the pictures he took plastered inside Beijing's subway stations. I didn't know the name of the photographer. The photos, used as billboards, were designed to promote tourism for the province. As such they were highly attractive, at least to me. Granted, they did not stand out for artistic originality, but then subway stations are not galleries. The purpose of the photos is purely commercial - to draw the attention of the largest possible number of eyeballs that hopefully will be converted into tourism revenues for the province.

For me, whether Qin as an official is competent or corrupt is not really relevant here. The point is whether his photos are good enough for the purpose of displaying the stunning beauty of the places the Henan Tourism Bureau wants to showcase. Besides, I suppose there should be contractually binding restrictions as to whether one party can terminate an advertising contract and on what conditions.

It is ironic that the public has exerted so much pressure on the subway authorities before the conclusion of the investigation has even been reached. Shouldn't a person be assumed innocent before the guilty verdict is delivered? Let's suppose he is guilty of corruption. Does that automatically translate into a revised assessment of his competency as a photographer?

We seem to have a tradition that those who fall from grace must have all traces of their existence or accomplishments removed. The proverb is, "Beat up the dog that falls into the water." It is a subliminal way to show the moral high ground that we occupy as bystanders. A folksy demonstration is a fellow villager who claims that he knew the person just caught for doing something bad would grow up to be a good-for-nothing or hardened criminal when the latter was barely out of the cradle.

Imagine my shock when I first saw on American television neighbors who were interviewed and said the criminal had always appeared like a nice guy to them. Maybe they didn't know better, but there is no intrinsic contradiction between the good things one does at home or in his community and the bad things he does elsewhere. A person may have many facets.

The simplicity with which some of us tend to categorize a person, when stretched to extremes, could be poisonous for the evaluation of historical figures. History is often rewritten to reflect the version favored by whoever is in charge. We've seen old photographs airbrushed and details revised. A new dynasty does not build on the shoulders of the older one, but rather, smashes the previous one to erect something new, a rule of thumb that applies to inscriptions and other physical marks.

Those who argue for the removal of Qin's photography may have a point, though. Did Qin's work come to be given awards and showcased simply because of its quality? Did he use resources as a senior official to promote his own hobby? I haven't seen evidence for or against the argument, but I admit these are legitimate questions and very relevant to the discussion.

A person may have hobbies or even be a connoisseur in a field totally unrelated to his or her profession, and an official is no exception. But with an official it is no longer a simple affair of enjoying some pastime. Because of the power and clout he carries in his official position, what he prefers to do in his own time may spill over to other areas. His achievements as a lover or connoisseur of that hobby may be exaggerated or receive recognition higher than they otherwise would have.

A local magistrate may be a fan of orchestral music or Peking Opera, but I've often heard complaints from administrators of performing arts organizations that government funding is unfairly distributed because the leader of that jurisdiction personally favors one or the other of the genres. Sometimes a personal preference may also dictate or influence contest results in arts and literature. The person may not even be actively meddling, but a random utterance from him may carry enough weight to determine the fate of an arts organization or competition.

In the case of photography or calligraphy, it may not be the pet projects that are favored, but projects featuring the official's own work. It is in this shady area where over-the-line instructions and corruption may blur. I'm not downplaying the quality of an official's works. Some of them have indeed risen above amateur status and into the realm of professionals. The question is, are they so brilliant they deserve the accolades they get? If they can get the same accolades in blind tests in which their non-arts-related background is temporarily blocked, then I say they are as good as they claim to be.

To be honest, many of them cannot pass muster. Some may be purely amateurs but are deceived by those around them into believing they have become masters. I know of someone who is an official with a provincial-level government agency and who is into poetry. He would send out a couple of lines every week to a circle of acquaintances and friends. In my judgment, they are no more transcendental than limericks, and would have little merit even as limericks. But he has grown to think he is among the best poets in the region.

He has mentioned on many occasions he wants to collect his work as a volume, at which point the air in the room would freeze and nobody would say a word. Then someone would break the silence by saying what wonderful lines he has composed. Obviously he takes to heart these "compliments", which are almost squeezed out of those beholden to him for one reason or another.

Compared with my acquaintance's poetry, Qin's photography is a hundred times better. What should be scrutinized is whether he employed public resources to shoot the photos or scotch candidates with equally good or even better works so he could have such prominent displays like the subway stations.

In recent years, government restrictions have been put in place for some forms of intervention or extracurricular activities. This would be a constraint for someone with true artistic aspirations and would be unfair. But then, Chinese history has no dearth of rulers whose artistic achievements are in sharp contrast to what they did in their official positions. The emperors Huizong (1082-1135) and Li Yu (937-978) come to mind. The former devoted his life to calligraphy and painting, and the latter was one of the most brilliant Chinese poets. As political leaders, they failed miserably.

When one has placed the passion over the vocation, it may not be too much of a sacrifice to give up the day job. But mixing the two may raise eyebrows of suspicion, especially when public resources are involved.

The writer is editor-at-large of China Daily. Contact him at raymondzhou@chinadaily.com.cn