Bai-Bai, Beijing: A last encounter
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
**Read to the end and find a few of Jenny’s responses, straight from the entrepreneur herself (ohh, and there’s a lovely little link to some of her stunning photography. yep!) !!
In Encounter Beijing’s infancy, I solicited China-born, America-raised Jenny Bai for an interview, not yet knowing that my profiles would evolve and eventually morph into experiential recountings. Within five minutes of finding Jenny on a little Twitter hunt, I found myself following, googling and emailing one of China’s most influential entrepreneurs—actually, I don’t know why I stopped there; might as well have skyped, pinged and friended her too! Anyway, I initiated a correspondence that Jenny graciously carried on, agreeing to answer my (what I now realize was a long, demanding) list of questions and offering whatever other help she could.
I could not invent a better word to describe this virtual (for now) encounter than serendipitous; maybe cuddle up a nice fuzzy adverb next to it (a wonderfully, perhaps?), or a complementary adjective (well-timed?), but even as I write these words they fail to convey just how unexpectedly well this profile will summate my Beijing experience.
Jenny Bai is a creative. Her skilled, culinary handling of life’s ingredients has currently got her cooking up projects in more than just a few kitchens. One creation—one that’s baked and rising quickly—DoubleMarket Group, parents two other ventures: one, an international startup, incubator and investment scene, and the other, a facilitator of U.S. celeb and Chinese fan relations. Girl’s got some serious globalization and simultaneous entertainment on her menu. And, at the risk of carrying on this metaphor painfully far, might I suggest that this offering is just Jenny’s appetizer equivalent? The 27-year-old serial entrepreneur has also taken charge of Girl’s in Tech’s first country chapter, linking China’s female population to an unnecessarily closed-circuit tech scene. GIT’s most recent initiative, Girl 2.0, was a 2010 campaign encouraging women to harness technology and take innovative strides in their careers.
It appears this girl’s got a thing for bridging gaps; unifying, joining, sewing together. Merging her interests—artfully, tastefully, making practicality palatable and powerful. It’s practicality—right?—that urges innovators forward, zealously implementing culturally cultivated (and quietly-demanded) ventures.
For Jenny, who has two cultures tugging at her arms, such a desire to unite them seems only natural. Her mother, motivator and founder of Live Wright Society, Milly Xu (Mianli), is an ambitious entrepreneur in her own right. Milly’s endurance of and emergence from China’s Cultural Revolution undeniably contributes to Jenny’s determined constitution. Acknowledging her mother’s impact, Jenny explains what I believe to be a surprisingly widespread perspective of current generations’ regarding their parents’ pasts:
“I am extremely resilient in mind and spirit, intuition plays a big role in my life, and nothing phases me because I know there is an answer for every problem. These are the gifts my mother has given me. I have lived vicariously through her unbelievable life, and because of her love and insight, she has given me the confidence to be an entrepreneur and a really strong sense of self-love.”
I think it’s a common first generational effect, to have this incredible inspiration transmitted by the success of an immigrant parent. Especially when the immigrant parent goes forth and not only establishes him or herself in America, but does so in the classically idealized way, as an entrepreneur (my own Iranian, entrepreneur father having done so, and apparently having passed on this drive for independence). But this Live Wright Society, for which Jenny also works, serves as a gardenlike platform. It’s where the inspiring go to tell their stories, plant encouraging seeds and help others grow in whatever direction they wish to go—getting around sharp turning points, is what it’s about (in a few, horribly reductive words).
Ai Wan, photographed by Jenny Bai
In the midst of all this productivity though, however inspired one may be, what sustains a Master Crafter? Between managing DMG and looking after the two ventures it owns, running GIT China and keeping up with Live Wright, I’m beyond impressed with Jenny’s ability to not only power through with passion as her fuel, but with her extracurricular commitment. The artist—more specifically, the singer/photographer—has not sacrificed any of her creative interests. She does styling, makeup and model direction for her self-directed photo shoots, and has plans to pursue singing after selling her first company—atta girl!
All while seeking to “dent populations,” the image of which I adore, in a progressive way.
Well, I’m seeking the same, and oddly enough, it’s derived from a similar motivation. Uniting people, building connections, forming relationships, is what enjoy. I love hearing stories, retelling them, making insights and then doing something with them. I knew all of this before completing this fellowship, but the constant cultural excavation and encountering that I’ve engaged in here has confirmed this fondness as fact. I’ve conducted my own qualitative research, developed more than a few conclusions and am ready to travel onward, to the next culture. And the next. And then another. Encountering people and places, making insights that inspire innovation.
In formalist tradition, to conclude with some finality, the paralleled similarities between Jenny Bai—my chance virtual encounter—and myself help to reaffirm my current (warning, HUGE general statement!) life direction. She leads a life of vested interest, in both her career and artistic pursuits, hardly distinguishing between the two.
In some sense, she and this blog have reassured that my self-designed Gallatin curriculum has some validity in its combination of “Writing and Innovation,” which caters to both what I enjoy creatively (writing) and what I foresee myself being steeped in career-wise (startups, invention, innovation, new product development). She’s leading a life that I hope to emulate in my own abstract way, perhaps writing my way through foreign cities, making insights and monetizing off metaphors.
Beijing: Encountered.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
Interview, heyyyy:
Hey Jenny, who are ya? (full name, age, personality traits, current career and fun fact, please!)
My full legal name is JINQI BAI (Jinqi pronounced Jin-chee); Jin means everlasting/endless; Qi mbeauty/color/fireworks. I go by Jenny because my mother actually gave me that name first, after the book Jane Eyre. Apparently Jenny is a nickname for Jane (who knew?). Mom wanted me to know the story of Jane Eyre’s pursuit of happiness and love, and be able to appreciate the inner strength that hardship brings.
I’m 27.
The core of my personality revolves around being completely authentic, extremely creative and endlessly grateful. I’m kind of a design snob and I really value good writing skills. I’m currently obsessed with the rich color of aubergines (eggplant is a silly word) and dinosaurs bore me to death.
Current career: I’m an entrepreneur!!! During the day, I am co-founder of DoubleMarket Group (which owns two other ventures: one involving the international startup, incubator and investment scene; the other connecting U.S. celebs to their Chinese fans. During the evening, I am co-founder of Live Wright Society, a serious passion.
My goal is to be financially free by 30, and when I sell my first company, I’m going to pursue singing full-time. Because without singing, my world would be empty. (***LOVE THIS)
Fun fact #1: In college, I was the only non-black girl in a Black Entertainment Sorority, called Diamond Dolls Elite. We did hip hop and step and dance battled other black sororities in Tennessee. Of course, they named me China Doll (sigh).
Fun fact #2: I have three tattoos, and am planning my third and fourth.
I first encountered you on Twitter when initially searching for China-connected people to follow. You popped up with GIT, Girls in Tech China. What’s your role there?
Girls in Tech (www.girlsintech.net) was founded by Adriana Gascoigne in 2007 in Silicon Valley. Adriana and I met during Dave McClure’s (500 Startups) very first Geeks on a Plane in China (www.geeksonaplane.com). I then started Girls in Tech China, GIT’s first country chapter. Though GIT Global focuses on empowering women’s achievements in tech, I wanted the China chapter to use tech and social media to highlight innovative female entrepreneurs, connecting them to the comprehensive tech, social media and startup ecosystem around them. Our most recent project was the Girl 2.0 Campaign (www.girl2.org).
I don’t view technology as an end; it’s a means for achieving deeper innovations that should dent populations beyond just us geeks. (***LOVE THIS TOO)
So you are both CEO of The Red Connect (TRC has recently joined with DoubleMarket Group) and Executive Director of GIT, yet you also manage to blog, maintain a photography portfolio and speak for The Live Wright Society. Not to mention, you’re (most recently?) a co-founder of The Double Market Group. How, how do you do it?
In order to keep my inner peace (aka Sanity) while also feeding my obsession with juggling more than my share, I make sure to choose projects that share common ground. That way, they complement one another, acting like separate limbs of a whole body. My networks, skill sets, learning curves all overlap. Plus – I LOVE what I do! Makes work easy 
I just read the ‘Letter from the founder’—your mother’s note to her Live Wright audience (moving is a gross understatement. We’re currently studying the effects of the Cultural Revolution via PoMo literature in my Chinese Cultural Reformations class at Peking U). How have your mother’s experiences influenced and/or shaped the path that your currently blazing down?
I am extremely resilient in mind and spirit, intuition plays a big role in my life, and nothing phases me because I know there is an answer for every problem. These are the gifts my mother has given me. I have lived vicariously through her unbelievable life, and because of her love and insight, she has given me the confidence to be an entrepreneur and a really strong sense of self-love. In some ways, the success of Live Wright is more important to me than the success of my own company. My mom has sacrificed so much for me; it’s her time to shine now, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen.
How do you view China today, and how does your relationship differ with the country from your mother’s?
I was born in Shanghai, but raised in the States. Because of my mother’s stories of Chairman Mao and his red guards, when I first returned to China, I’d feel alarmed every time I saw a car drive by, touting a red Chinese flag. Later, I gained some sensibility and realized it was just citizens being patriotic, but I know the sentiment I held towards the red flag reflects the level of knowledge most Americans have of China, which is unfortunate.
Here are two articles (a few years old) re: my general perception on what China needs to do to help bridge that gap of misinformation: 1) http://ow.ly/60gNN 2) http://ow.ly/60gSR
I think my mother’s view of China is more in regards to how much the country has changed since she left in 1987, whereas my views are primarily centered on the market opportunity.
Face Space(s) & Place(s)
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
Here lies the bridge dweller, so high above. King of the crossing, feet brown as mud.
Everyday I cross the bridge to class and everyday I visit my Building 4 fruit vendors. Some days a homeless man lies crying on the bridge, other days a woman; and some days a strong young man sells me fruit, other days an older guy. Yesterday, I passed the male bridge dweller and I visited the older fruit seller. As I mentioned in an earlier post, while I’ve trespassed into some intimate moments via my camera lens, I’d yet to work up the nerve to photograph the homeless. I don’t know what finally pinched my nerve into action—perhaps the bridge’s early morning emptiness, or perhaps the fear that this man’s life might go undocumented—but whatever it was pushed me to draw my camera from its case with great immediacy. Though he didn’t notice, and I was thankful no one else did, I still felt a guilty twinge at my satisfaction in capturing the photo. I pacified said guilt with a simple self-reminding that he’s contributed to my Beijing experience, having passed him just about every or every other morning en route to class, and should be remembered. While I have no intention of turning this post into a sentimentalist’s recount, I do intend to highlight the unspoken components that unexpectedly shape one’s day; no matter how far into the periphery a mind may shove them, a quiet haunting is bound to reappear.
I didn’t quite expect the bridge dweller to haunt me in the Building 4 fruit store though. More often than not the Yao Ming-sized young vendor smiles and laughs at my daily pingguo purchase, but occasionally the older man (now somewhat reminiscent of the aforementioned King) assists me in Yao’s absence. Last night, after having recently embarrassed myself with a pitiful Chinese language attempt, I tried to engage the old man in a more meaningful exchange.
Ni ji dian hui jia (What hour will you go home)? I asked.
Hui jia?! Hui jia?!! He waved his hands emphatically and laughed through an enthusiastic smile that I couldn’t quite understand.
Continuing to wave his hands, he directed me to the back of the store, around the corner of fruit shelves that he’d only ever disappeared behind to grab me change. Stepping into the curtained-off space, I found myself in the old man’s bedroom. The space was about my width and maybe ten or so feet long and yet somehow he’d managed to fit a bunk bed—and apparently an entire life—back there. In awe, I could neither control my shocked expression nor my idiotic exclamations, but the kind man didn’t seem the least bit offended. Instead, his laughs continued as I, with the same immediacy as before, reached into my camera case and requested to take a “zhàopiàn” (照片, photograph—but not the right use for the moment). He nodded, strained his neck to see my camera’s screen and laughed some more while I snapped a quick shot. I left the encounter unexpectedly shaken, shocked at having intruded into this man’s living space so many times without having known my offense.Me, arrogant, demanding fruit in the man’s public living room—imagine.
And yet I cross that bridge daily without hesitation, fully informed of the bridge beggar’s situation. So what’s the difference between publically expressed and acknowledged misery and that of my fruit vendor—the one who smiles instead of sobs and yet affects me more deeply? How interchangeable are these two men and what are the distinguishing traits? Should one then admire the fruit vendor and admonish the beggar?
Maybe a hyper-sensitivity to the “jia,” or home, has set in with my anticipated return to America within arms reach, but regardless, I’ve found this confusion of space, place and people just the least bit upsetting.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
Homelessness in Beijing heightened post-Olympics (WSJ)
Beijing gov’t-implemented programs From 2003!!! ayyy…
Emergence of the ipad menu
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
NYU program director, Shiqi Liao, ordering for the group.
I’d been underwhelmed by technological innovation in China until a recent trip to an on-campus PKU restaurant that’s utilizing the ipad for more efficient ordering. Granted the ipad isn’t a super new innovation in its own right, its subversion—or better yet, its ousting—of the traditional paperback menu is pretty revolutionary. At our last NYU-sponsored “Chinese Table,” a weekly dining experience during which students are encouraged to vocally reflect upon the program, we must’ve ordered thirty or so dishes. But the 服务员 (fúwùyuán, waitress), with Apple on her side, need not stress. The computer logged all of our selections, allowed us a fun, interactive experience and transmitted our orders directly to the kitchen. At the end of our classically Chinese family-style meal, we were easily rung up, with all of our meals accounted for. But what about our fúwùyuán? In China, servers are more like runners, and they aren’t tip-driven. Will conveyor belt highways soon be trafficking food across restaurants, or will waitresses re-establish themselves as necessary pieces of the dining-out puzzle? If not conveyor belts, perhaps sexy bots would be more exciting. Let’s think Jetsons—we all love Rosie. She’s not sexy, per se, but she’s got an automated intrigue to die for; that little lace apron—come on! But in all seriousness, this ipad menu phenomenon—or fad—could be stirring up trouble for this historically hospitable career field. How might fúwùyuán better serve restaurant clientele if not as helpful, happy food providers? And how might the known (and liked) dining experience evolve as a result? Cultural consequences of technological innovation: Inevitable.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
For more innovation and culture-related material:
MenuPad: “MenuPad is an interactive menu. Designed specifically for the restaurant and catering industries, MenuPad uses the Apple iPad, in replacement of a paper-based menu. This allows diners to view images of menu items and customize their order in a simple, intuitive way”
What other scenes are ipads crashing? Preschools’
Sheer Shame: A serious sock situation
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
The sheer sock situation in China, if not soon corrected, will undoubtedly lead to a kankle epidemic. Innocent, slim ankles are being subjected to the sheer cruelty of the panty hose sock fad, suffocating dainty toes and making fatty muffin tops out of healthy skin. The style really bewilders me; what good do nylon footies do for sweaty summer feet? Perhaps this fashion is yet another invented ‘necessary’, fueling a superfluous sock market similar to that of the sun-shielding parasol. Couldn’t a little sprinkle of baby powder protect against whatever slippage one might experience in her sling back heels just as well as a light coat of banana boat could combat those UV rays? We’re living in a state of unfashionable excess here and it’s rather 难看 (nankan, ugly—literally, difficult to look at). In an effort to prevent said epidemic, I’m urging footwear companies to do a little R&D—or just scheme up a profitable marketing ploy—and bring new shoes to market that eradicate the “need” for sheer footies. I’m surprised Dr. Scholls isn’t all over this: “Sweaty soles? Try Dr. Scholls!” There’s a penny-pinching crowd to be catered to, too: “Be smart, save money, smell good—Sense, Cents, Scents!” Even if the shoe doesn’t do it all, lie to the consumers. Make them buy. Just intervene before little veins go a-popping around these sheer socks’ deceptively tight ankle bands.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
A vain insight a day keeps the creative at play.
跳舞 Tiao Wu—Getchyo dance on
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
Monica and myself, post-Sensations, having missed the sunrise due to Beijing's smoggy sky. Time: approx. 5am.
In celebration of our last 周末 (Zhōumò, weekend) in Beijing, the entire NYU crew gathered round for a rowdy “Global Village Pillage” party before a night out in nearby Wǔdàokǒu. We left the Global Village—our beloved Beida residence—with the intention of KTV-ing, but were instead swayed by Sensations, a popular expat dance spot, into a night of some serious tiao-wu-ing. As soon as we walked in, beads of sweat pounded the floor about as emphatically as the old-school beats encouraged swinging hips. But not just swinging hips—pumping fists, some 1, 2 steppin’, some classic dice shakin’…the diversity of bumps and grinds on the floor perfectly fit the mix of people and personalities in the room. And surprisingly, somehow, they all meshed. The lawnmower guy didn’t whack the sprinkler, and the salt-shaker’s booty only lightly brushed up against the butter churner (good lord, I certainly hope you’re catching onto these dance moves’ names). We danced in our own circles, in others’ circles and made some dance-floor friends. I made one particular dance floor friend who I’ve now decided will represent the Chinese male population’s dancing abilities. Granted he was a little taller than the average 男孩子 (nan haizi, boy), which likely intensified his extra-angular movements, he lacked a certain fluidity in his dancing. I know, I know—boys, men, they often lack the confidence—or a necessary vanity—that drives impressive dance performance, but this young man wasn’t suffering from any form of
shyness. Instead, he was enthusiastically mimicking just about every move I pulled. Hands in the air, hands in the air; hip to the side, hip by my side; a little shimmy, some spastic shoulders. His ability to copy my moves was almost there, but just not quite at my level (ego alert!). We were able to still have a great time, of course—I mean, how entertaining is it to dance with someone admirably, shamelessly trying to keep up—but in the end, I tired of having to lead, to conduct, his show and mine.
So to sum up my dance observations here: lower quality dancing results from a lack of originality and/or creativity on one participant’s part (Might we apply this principle to other aspects of Chinese life–consumerism, perhaps?).
The guys here lack the fratty arrogance that so often fuels that state-side dougie and instead, bust out others’ steps that were so clearly not made in China. But like I said, a sweeping generalization from a singular encounter (but also just about every other evening out in Beijijng).
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
Privacy, Propaganda, Past & Present
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
After realizing China’s blatant disregard for privacy, I no longer feel as though my speculative photographs breach any sort of moral code. The natural eavesdropper, observer, proclaimed ethnographer that I am, I’m free to listen in, stare rudely and even snap a quick photo in Beijing’s exceptionally open public domain. Though I haven’t the nerve to photograph some of the more gruesomely mutilated street beggars, some of whom are likely the victims of beggar gang violence, I have trespassed into some more intimate and otherwise moments.
Today, while lunching in a 500-year-old village of Western Beijing’s Mentougou District, I first spotted a quaint mountainside living space and then spotted its inhabitants. Unbeknownst to the man (the father, I presume) and baby who emerged from the beaded doorway, I digitized their very real, touching terrace time from my admiring perspective below. He looked pensive, cradling his pink-capped baby girl, which got me thinking. What was he worrying, wondering, or dreaming about? Were concerns for their future—his financial preparedness for her life, her education, his ability to parent—silently partaking in this calm, late-morning moment? Or, was it serenity—a look so unfamiliar to the New Yorker that it’s often mistaken for a troubled expression— relaxing his face?
His face, though, and that beautifully constructed home, make for an interesting juxtaposition to the walls that stand behind them, Cultural Revolution remnant propaganda still red on their stones. This particular piece translates to something like, “With Mao Zedong thought, equip your brains.” While I understand these historical characters don’t define the present, or this little village, I can’t help but feel that aftershock of this revolution must still reverberate through such agriculturally driven communities. And with the “vintage” characters lingering on village walls, might we expect youth to fancy the “retro” ideology in some future recycling of history?
Now, I suppose political ages leave their marks all over the world, whether it’s with red paint, once-dividing broken walls, newly erected monuments and museums, in the lives of the present population…but isn’t there a difference between casually living among the remnants and decidedly labeling them as sites? With a label, you can distinguish something as such and move on. But without one, lines blur, things become fuzzy…purported instead of past.
I don’t know—I guess keeping it public doesn’t mean keepin’ it real (in China).
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
*An interesting article on privacy in China via The Economist
A “concept” encounter
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
(Stick with me through the detour—the encounter’s at the end of the road!)
Having taken a recent, belated interest in music artist, Imogen Heap, I’ve found myself looping her 2005 song “Hide and Seek” these last few days in Beijing. As I do with most things I take sudden interest in, I googled her. Turns out she’s a rather dynamic musician who’s organically evolved out of her early self-taught classical style and into the electronic, avant-garde digitized music scene. Her progression from a more traditional sound into this still-emerging experimental world of musical engineering, sampling and the like spookily parallels the trajectory of a course I took at NYU last semester, “Humans, Machines and Aesthetics” with Professor Myles Jackson. This interdisciplinary class addressed over 300 years of musical history, but more specifically focused on the effects of the industrial revolution on music’s sound, production and performance and its relative social ramifications. The aesthetic component of the class was, of course, a highly subjective one, but we examined more so the theoretic behind the aesthetic, even dragging Kant and his definition of “Genius” into conversation.
Thinking that Myles might not be familiar with the contemporary artist—don’t get me wrong; the man’s repertoire of 
music exceeds my own a thousand times over, but he’s not exactly the fondest of more current works—I sent him an email suggesting Imogen might make for an enlightening addition to this Spring’s syllabus. Well, silly me. Myles, one of the most connected and simultaneously diversely brilliant professors I’ve had yet (the social-braniac balance is hard to strike, me thinks), is in fact already familiar with the artist—he met her at the 2009 “Genius Conference,” where he’d been asked to give a lecture. And so, with my musical encounter, Imogen Heap, having already met this past academic encounter of mine, Myles Jackson, worlds collided. It’s no surprise that personal interests overlap with academic pursuits, but this coincidental instance seemed again, too spooky. My sudden interest in Imogen having turned into a more cemented one, I googled her again. This time, her reflection on her most recent release, “Propeller Seeds” popped up:
“Every time I hear a song in a coffee shop or taxi these last few days, it musically merges with the sounds around me. A passing police car siren, tunes into the background music. Someone laughing, clicks into rhythm. The process had me approach the song writing from a very different angle” Imogen Heap.
This “very different angle” that she speaks of resulted in a happening-like project, which she’s designed to take place over a two-week period every three months. During these 14 days, Imogen collects everyday sounds, or “sound seeds,” that she then handles electronically and releases immediately as a singular track. She started the project back in March and has just released the second “Heapsong” this past July 5.
It’s with this longwinded foregrounding that I now move into today’s Beijing encounter: Julia’s changed views.
I’ve found myself, somewhat like Imogen, strung up in the sounds around me. I’m now struggling to separate individual occurrences, events, emotions and insights. They’re all intermingled, mingling without my consent and resulting in concrete conclusions that I have only reached by way of (self-taught) classical observation: steady, continued reflection. But instead of “sirens” and “laughing,” I’m hearing “one-child policy” and “obesity,” “distrust” and “PRC.” The melodiousness of the words isn’t quite as harmonious as Imogen’s background music, but it’s produced the same kind of change in my reflective, writing process. Like this all-encompassing, collective compositional method, I seem to be encountering from a more affected angle. I force my past encounters upon my more recent ones, making them each others’ looking glasses. It feels natural. It feels wholesome. But it also feels somewhat twisted and distorting.
The lyrics overshadowing the “sound seeds” of Imogen’s July 5 “Heapsong2:”
“What’s happening here?
I’m growing roots through my toes
And leaves from my fingertips,”
once more, spookily, capture exactly what I feel this now-just-over-five-weeks has done to me—a little bonsai, sitting back in her garden, deducing the future from an authorial corner. But I feel as though I’m wrestling with afterthoughts prematurely; with more experiences to be had, how can I possibly settle into a garden shrouded by battling branches overhead?
I’ve only just encountered “Hide and Seek.” I don’t know that I’m quite ready to progress to Imogen’s “Heapsongs” so fast. One more week, right?
Encountering the bigger picture.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
*All photos/art from 798 Art District. Felt appropriate…
Le Ballon Rouge. Up, up and away?
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
I took this photo on a boat ride this past weekend at Purple Bamboo Park. Immediately upon seeing the boy, I flashed on Le Ballon Rouge, a 1956 French short directed by Albert Lamorisse. In this 34-minute film, a little schoolboy, Pascal, befriends a remarkably human-like red balloon. They stir up a bit of trouble in the village despite their harmlessness, the boy’s relationship with the balloon having simply heightened an unsatisfied curiosity amongst the townspeople. While the red balloon does not survive the town’s taunting, the short ends with Pascal buoyed by the support of a whole balloon entourage.
I couldn’t help but imagine this Chinese toddler as the French Pascal, his ballon rouge accompanying him on his adventurous boat ride through the lotus-covered pond. And the political implications that the film brings to this modern day Beijing boy and his balloon friend are too great to be ignored. As I mentioned, Lamorisse’s film debuted in 1956, a time shortly after China’s 1949 emergence as the Nationalist People’s Republic of China. The country, bleeding red after the Chinese Civil War ended, underwent Mao Zedong-instigated socialist reforms, which were intended to rectify problematic class divides among other “rightest” issues. The French film’s time period therefore heightens the significance of this little Chinese face that’s so blankly staring out of this photograph, pink balloon in hand. I can’t help but read into the balloon’s color—the pink perhaps representing a watered down red in today’s modern China. It was as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it though, his eyes practically speaking, what’s this 
bother I have to hold onto, and what are you looking at? With China currently ravened between socialism and capitalism, both the balloon’s color and the child’s expression seem all-too appropriate. And, of course, my careful watch of him–the American observer that I am–fits as well.
While fellow boat riders weren’t taunting the little one—if anything they were cooing over him, obnoxiously taking pictures, as I was—the balloon still popped, facing the same end that Pascal’s ballon rouge ultimately met. At the sound of the latex’s snap, the chatty voices aboard unnecessarily silenced in anticipation of the child’s cry that never came. Again, I couldn’t help but imagine a swarm of balloons swooping in to save the day, quelling whatever sadness this little boy apparently wasn’t feeling. But I suppose he’s no longer in Pascal’s 1956 era and, consequently, he’s no longer so dependent on a singular rouge or rose balloon for happiness. What color to go for now?
I’m choosing to think of the confetti-like cloud of balloons at the film’s end as a symbolic entourage of opportunity for a modern China. There’s no need to stay in a ravine when there are so many balloons to grab hold of and float up, up and away with. Perhaps China’s youth—like this little one—already sees that.
I hate to leave you with such a vague parallel between my contemporary photograph and this 50′s French short, but go ahead and make your own connections (or don’t!). Implications are by far the most satisfying analytical digestifs.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
“Blessed are the coffee-lovers”
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
Stumbled upon this little cafe in HouHai <3
At long last, a post on China’s (budding) coffee culture. Back in New York, I’m accustomed to my one, two, maybe three cups of unparalleled Third Rail Coffee daily. I’d decided though that this trip to China might be a little bit of a habit rehab; not a proclaimed detox of any kind, but merely a break from the bean in favor of this Eastern culture’s ways. I’d been fairing pretty well without the joe until I came upon it at our campus café and realized that it is in fact available on this side of the world. Some inexplicable gut instinct struck upon my encountering it and immediately the coffee craving kicked in—no longer out of sight or out of mind that lure came back with a vengeance. Now, of course it’s assumed that I ordered the coffee, but did I enjoy it? Who knows. Honestly, I think my body was just overcome by its first pound of caffeine in a pathetically short and simultaneously excruciatingly long period of time. So with my pleasure threshold lowered, yes, I suppose the coffee experience was wonderful, but the taste left something to be desired. Sure, sip away at that plastic top, but only do it for the momentary transport back to your favorite NY coffee spot, eyes closed and head dipping back. If you’re expecting any nutty, fruity, or naturally flavored coffee, forget it. Things are still pretty Folger’s-style over here.
But I don’t mean for snootiness to detract from a major cultural realization here, that coffee is indeed available. There’s a market for it here! And it’s growing. I’m not talking about the pre-packaged, sugary, watered down Nestle products that currently stock Bodega shelves, but am rather seriously talking about sophisticated drip coffee providers and specialty shops. Beijing is catering to its expat crowd, capitalizing on their preferences and opening targeted coffee houses and “Western” grocery stores. It’s not too too difficult to order a regular drip coffee, an espresso, a latte, or even a frappe here, but be prepared to pay more than 3 RMB for your drink of choice. While beverages (water, soda, milk drinks) here typically range from 2-4 RMB, a coffee could put you out 20-40 RMB. And it still might not be worth it.
Creative coffee to-go carrier.
In the same way that the Chinese glam up their grocery packaging (Yogurt Culture(s))—and seem to do with many of their other (sub-par) consumer products—drinks are often presented rather ornately; they’re impressive-looking. Whether you’re provided with a fun, curly-q straw, or a happy face of cocoa powder has been sprinkled into your foam, you’re meant to fawn over your purchase, showing it off to your friends and looking super cute with it. Coffee, in fewer words, is one of the grander status symbols here. If you’ve got a mermaid-clad cup in your hand, you’re choosing the Western way, and paying for it too. It screams indulgent and is actually representative of Beijing’s current youth generation, a more privileged one than those preceding it. I speak rather conclusively here, I know, but with such a closed-circle coffee crowd, it’s not too hard to understand its ins and outs. The expats drive the fad, the hip Beijingren—and the sophisticates, like Le Fromagier de Pekin—follow suit and suddenly, a market is made. I’d heard something or other about bean prices rising, but if that affects this Eastern market, it’ll only be comparable to how it affects every other.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
Forbe’s article on coffee in China
Yayyy Reuter’s Reports! (More reading 
)
Anddd a little more…(China.org)
Fancy that–Fromage in Beijing!
While a singular, first encounter may set the tone for an experience, it’s a series of encounters that ultimately composes a symphony of revelation.
Liu Yang’s breakfast often consists of Greek yogurt, honey, ricotta cheese—or another type— perhaps some bread and, of course, coffee or tea depending on the day. He’s got a taste for sweeter things, he says, but I think that’s just him speaking modestly for his gourmet palate. If he doesn’t fit in a bit cheese before noon, it’s likely that this artisanal cheese maker, Fromagier Liu, will enjoy one of his thirteen specialty cheeses before the day’s end. I would certainly make a point of it if I were he.
With my Lyons-native, French-speaking friend, Rachel and my West Virginia native, Chinese-speaking RA, Todd, I ventured into Northern Beijing to visit Liu Yang’s humble (and humbling) gourmet cheese headquarters. We arrived in his quieter part of the city without much hassle at all—a short taxi ride, fifteen minutes on the subway and just a ten-minute walk—and were absolutely ecstatic as
the Fromagier de Pekin’s French signage emerged from the sea of Chinese characters.
Suddenly, I found myself inexplicably giddy walking through the storefront and into Liu’s office. The fromagier’s location is multi-functioning, serving as his office and retail space, as well as his place of production. Within just a few minutes of our introduction, Rachel, Todd and myself were treated to a generous cheese sampling, complete with glorious French pressed coffee and blue cheese muffins. Liu popped a folding table into place, doled out a few stools, invited us to sit and made himself available for conversation.
I, eagerly wanting to hear of his entrepreneurial startup experience, began rattling off questions. Liu had initially been in the tech sales sector, selling point of sales (POS) devices before heading off to France for an education in business management. He fell under Western Europe’s charm, how
ever, and soon had a change of heart; choosing to pursue fragrant fromage instead of whatever managerial career he’d anticipated, Liu decided to attend agricultural school in Corsica. His neighbor at the time served as a tutor of sorts, complementing his school studies with first-hand at-home cheese-making lessons and molding Liu into the perfectly aged entrepreneur that he is today. It’s clear he’s got a profound sensibility about him, one that could only be cultivated in a French countryside that puts extreme emphasis on quality.
With these French values instilled in him and his agricultural training complete, Liu returned to China, tapped into his savings and opened Le Fromagier de Pekin. When I asked if his business management education has been helpful in establishing his own shop, he smiled as if not wanting to admit its irrelevance, but then admitted that it’d helped him better understand and survey the market. He’d seen opportunity to offer a new product in a non-exist
ent market—he would essentially be the market.
Liu’s position as a fromagier in Beijing is therefore an interesting one; yes, he has the market to himself, but he also faces the challenge of educating dairy-doubting consumers on the pleasure of cheese and introducing them to unfamiliar quality products. Due to repeat episodes of melamine contamination, milk’s been both physically tainted and extensively slandered here. Fortunately though for Liu, this weariness is less directed at his quality-controlled shop and more so at the mass grocery providers. Besides, Liu has Huaxia Dairy (Wondermilk) on his side. The farm handles over 6,000 cows, boasts its transparency and is registered with just about every dairy-certifying alliance possible.
And so with Wondermilk as his contamination watchdog, his duty is mainly to tenderly sew a Chinese cheese culture into this fertile market’s soil. He’s alread
y rung in the expat crowd, but the natives are yet to be enthralled. This niche, however—these expats—afford Liu some great business. He’s a beloved resource for the American, Belgian, French and Italian embassies, provides for a few hotels including the Westin and many restaurants in Beijing’s posh(er) spots, and you can of course submit a cheese order form online. His team of four has four production days a week, two delivery days and one day of much-deserved rest.
While I believe that Liu has hopes to expand, he commented that he wouldn’t be able to produce enough in his current location—there simply isn’t the time or the means—to legitimize expansion. But if he continues to gain exposure, earning him such judging positions like the one he had at France’s Agricultural Competition and frequent reviews (such 
at this one!), perhaps he’ll reconsider scaling up. Especially since he’s now attracting a following on Weibo, which is essentially the Chinese version of Twitter. He’s sharing foodie tips, taking his artisanal trade into China’s new age.
I left the encounter entirely contented, a Brocciu round in my bag along with some Strawberry-Banana jam made by Laetitia, a friend of Le Fromagier de Pekin. Rachel and Todd made their own selections and then Liu kindly led us down the block and into the wine shop that he knew might sell some satisfactory (though not French) wine to round out our purchases. The storeowner treated us to hunks of cantaloupe, Todd found some reasonable wine and we bid each other farewell.
Au revoir, Monsieur Fromagier. J’étais absolument enchantée.
Encounter. Engage. Experience.
Check out these articles on Le Fromagier de Pekin for further enlightening on his cheese business and the fromage market in China:
