A Chinese silk exhibition sparks journey of discovery

Chinese silk & literature

When I think of Chinese silk, I think of classic Chinese literature. Both are Chinese cultural gems.

As a literature lover, I feel an intimate connection to silk. A couplet by Li Shangyin (813-858) links these two traditions, “The silkworm stops weaving when it is dead. The candle stops weeping when it burns out”.  

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The Passion for Silk exhibition at City University inspired this creative link between these Chinese traditions. The intimate exhibition provides the ambience necessary for unhurried meditation and an occasion for new inspiration.

Sericulture in China

Etched on the right side of the wall in the first section is a statement that I question, “The art of rearing domesticated silkworms (sericulture) first arose in China as early as 8,500 BCE.”

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But the date 8,500 BCE can only be conjecture, as no silk fragments have survived that period.

Instead, ancient artefacts showing cocoons split in half suggest that they were cut rather than opened naturally by an emerging moth.

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This unnatural split has led archaeologists to speculate that knowledge of harvesting silk from moths and cocoons already existed. The earliest silk fragments are much later, from 4,500 BCE.

Historically significant

Recalling the tenacity described in Li’s poem, a silk-producing caterpillar makes a cocoon, which is also its tomb.

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This thought sparks a new poem in me… words can be as delicate as silk threads. As these thoughts coalesce, I wandered into the next section to learn about the historical significance of silk.

Ancient currency usage

The fabric was valued as equivalent to gold between the Zhou (1046-256 BCE) and Ming (1368-1644) dynasties. Even tax bills could be paid with silk, which required standards.

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From the Warring States period (475–221 BCE) onward, the government regulated the quality of silk by establishing set standards for weight, colour and type of weave.

Han Chinese misconceptions

Growing up as a Han Chinese, I held the misconception that nomadic ethnic groups were barbaric and poor, drifting around without a permanent home.

It was a revelation to learn that these very groups were pioneers in wearing silk; this admission not only shattered my cocooned perspective but also moved me to better consider the poetic links between words and silk. 

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Ancient chronicles describe leaders of nomadic tribes at Chinese courts wearing silk garments.

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Regardless of my ignorance, these nomads were not poor. Nomad was a generic term for ethnic groups that roamed the plains between China and Eastern Europe.

Nomadic hunters and warriors

They moved around to find new grasslands for their herds and were not farmers but hunters and warriors. Often, they conquered parts of what is now China.

Descendants of nomadic groups include the Xianbei and Xiongnu empires, and later the Qidan of the Liao dynasty and the Manchu of the Qing dynasty.

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They created sophisticated art and loved gold, which the indigenous Chinese did not yet value. But, of course, only the elite were permitted to wear silk… I think tangentially about how poetic words also used to be confined to the elite.

Inspired by the nomadic groups, the Han elites began making silk clothes during the Tang dynasty (618-907). A silk ceremonial robe from this period is on display. The wide sleeves are an indication of the nomadic influence.

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The ceremonial robes of the Qing dynasty take the show’s central stage. Two robes stand out in terms of richness.

One is a heavily brocaded yellow with shoulder flaps for a first consort or empress, and the other is a light black gauze with a skirt and top. The wearers of these two would be of the highest political status.

Royal Qing dynasty Chinese silk robes

The yellow shows that the robe was for the imperial royal family. The nine dragons, as do the dragons with five claws rather than four, confirm this.

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The embroidery on this full yellow dress demonstrates the artisans’ attention to detail and a skill set that reached a new high.

I imagine an empress wearing this robe with a large collar like the woman in the above scroll painting. I see her wearing a sleeveless vest on top of the robe and putting on jewels and accessories.

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The male version’s provenance is less certain as the light black gauze appears to have been added later.

The ceremonial gown’s style is different from the other dragon robes, which are semi-formal garments.

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This one consists of a skirt and a top joined by a waistband. The collar is part of the design in a quadrilobed pattern.

At first glance, the robe appears to belong to a royal official as there are five claws on its feet and numerous dragons.

However, it is more likely that the owner employed artisans to add the additional claws and dragons. Corruption was rampant during the late Qing, and it was common for affluent families to buy higher officers’ ranks for their sons rather than having them struggle for years to pass gruelling exams.

Sumptuary laws forbid ownership

Someone could have passed the robe on to another whose family was buying their way up the political ladder. By then, the weak administration could no longer enforce the rules about who could wear what, where, when and how.

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With the increasing supply of silk, upper-middle-class people also began to buy and wear it.

In an eighth-century poem on the wall in the second area of the exhibition, a poet complains about the escalation of fashion. Hemp was replaced by cotton, only to be replaced by the latest silk garments.

Only the wealthiest could afford a silk robe. But others might have been able to buy a ribbon or purse made of silk.

Intriguingly, it is precisely for this reason that the emperors instituted rigid sumptuary laws and clothing rules to separate the true aristocracy from the newcomers who had money but were not part of the system.

This still happens today when those with privileged backgrounds restrain the up-and-coming from elite status with hidden and discriminatory fashion rules.

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Fortunately, sumptuary laws about wearing silk have long been forgotten, and poetry is accessible to anyone.

Arriving in Hong Kong at the age of twelve, I lived with my family in a slum that was ironically called Diamond Hill.

Now, I wear designer gowns without fear of reprisal. My favourite is a Vivienne Tam silk qipao-style gown.

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Wearing these luxury garments makes me feel womanly, gorgeous and sensual.

More importantly, it connects with my roots – the Chinese culture.

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While exploring A Passion for Silk, I found inspiration in the tenacious spirit of the silkworm and the evocative imagery in Li Shangyin’s poem.

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Contemplating the parallels between silk production and the creative process led to the following poem…

Be a Silkworm

A caterpillar that produces silk threads,
finer than any human hair,
insignificant to the eye,
has tremendous power,
resilience and elasticity.

A writer works with words
like silk threads,
delicate, slight, flimsy,
easily broken,
but listen, there are robust heartbeats.

Spun protein molecules,
silk threads tightly align
and show remarkable sturdiness.

Letters woven into words,
swirl like gossamer
catching the light.

Silk threads and words
can be woven and spun
and reassembled.

Weight for weight, catty for catty,
silk is stronger than steel.
Letter by letter, breath by breath,
words are stronger than sticks,
stones and swords.

Thread by thread, we get beautiful Qipao.
Word by word, we achieve masterpieces.
A caterpillar keeps producing
silk threads until its death.
A writer keeps writing until her last breath.

Text & photos Sonia Leung

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