Ming Garden (1983) | From the Vaults

The first time I came in here, I didn't know what to expect. In the spring of 1980, 21 craftsmen, five engineers, and a chef came to New York from China to build a garden courtyard in the style of the Ming dynasty. They came from the city of Suzhou, which is famous for its gardens and for traditional craftsmanship. The work went on for five months. The courtyard that they built became the first permanent cultural exchange between the People's Republic of China and the United States, the Astor Court. The courtyard had to be made to fit into a space we'd found on the second floor of the museum. The space had a skylight 50 feet above the floor. American workers did the construction work, prepared the site, and helped in any way they could. We got along very well together. We had a lot of respect for each other. In China, gardens are unimaginable without buildings. A garden is not so much planted as built. They used four kinds of wood in the Ming room. The pillars are made of scarce non-NAN non-wood, which is unknown in the West. It was used so much in 19th century China that it's now a protected species. The fir, ginkgo, and camphor wood were no problem, but special dispensation had to be given by the Chinese government for 50 non-trees to be selected and cut in remote valleys of Sichuan province. Pillars stand on bare granite bases without mortar. They had to be aligned with extreme care because in Chinese architecture, the pillars, not the walls, support the entire weight of the finished building. Dowels had to be long enough to fit through several perfectly lined up timbers. The principles of wood joinery in China go back without interruption over 3,000 years, and they're very complicated. Nothing was written down in the engineering drawings about this because the architects themselves didn't know the details. Only the men who do it thoroughly understand it and pass it down. It was the Cultural Relics Bureau in Peking who told us about these special Suzhou craftsmen. Normally, they restore old buildings, make repairs over there in China. Here, for the first time, they had an opportunity to start from the ground up. We gave them hard hats with our flag on one side and their flag on the other. They built the separate parts in China and assembled it all here. But it wasn't like mass-produced units. It wasn't like prefab. Every piece is one of a kind. Each timber had its place. It was done by Chinese craftsmen because Americans couldn't do it. Not this kind of work, anyway. Nor could most Chinese, for that matter. It must be a snug fit, but flexible enough to withstand earthquakes. The duo principles of Yin and Yang describe the juxtaposition of complementary opposites, which can be seen in so much of the work they do. The joints fit together as negative to positive, masculine to feminine. Opposites connecting. In the completed Ming room, dark and light, large and small, empty and full, are opposites. Not necessarily in balance, but in harmony. Inside the building, the design is symmetrical. It will be different outdoors, under the sky. In China, houses, temples, palaces, all are designed around open courtyards, and important buildings face south to catch the sun. Above the Ming room, part of a roof suggests another building lying beyond. It was difficult at first communicating, but we managed to get along. Most of us in our trade are descendants of Marco Polo anyway, so we got along. They like to use the old-fashioned methods. Everything had to be authentic. The rafters or ribs at the back of the Ming room fitted almost perfectly. Only the slightest adjustments were needed. David Chow was an American architect who interpreted for us. Five months of working side by side, we got to know each other's ways very well. The Cold Spring Pavilion. In a small area, you can create the illusion of more space by cutting a pavilion in half and building it against a wall. They gave the apprentices the job of putting up the half pavilion. Sort of like on-the-job training. In their 70s, the youngsters were in their 30s. Generally, the individual who was skilled in that particular phase of the work worked by himself, but when they worked together, the teamwork was terrific. Besides wood and rock, the basic building material used was unglazed terracotta. Several hundred thousand tiles were fired for this project at the old imperial kiln at Lu Mu. The selected ones had to be perfect. Their chef was a teacher at the Culinary Institute of Suzhou. The Suzhou Gardens Administration was right. The workers could adjust to anything and stay happy as long as they had good home cooking. For most of them, it was not only their first trip abroad, it was their first time outside of Suzhou. The older and the younger men ate together like a family. Engineers and artisans, bosses and workers. And the food was superb. Oh. Outdoors, architecture is whimsical. It follows nature. There's informality and endless variety. Each lattice has a different design. We were written up and photographed by all the TV and magazines. And at night, we'd see it on the news. I was the American boss. Standing next to me is their boss, the deputy director of the Suzhou Gardens. It was an important day when they put up the scaffolding to lift the first of two so-called Taihu rocks. In Chinese gardens, rocks are more important than plants. They represent the great mountains of China. Taihu rocks are masses of limestone eroded into exotic shapes by the waves of Lake Tai. The erosion takes a long time, even when it's encouraged by, for example, placing a rock under a waterfall. They were prized collector's items as early as the 10th century, and a family might own one for generations. They were already scarce by the Ming Dynasty in the 16th century. A good rock should look lean and bony and heavier at the top than at the bottom. It should have a rugged look. Rocks encourage traveling in the imagination. Gates to Ming gardens often have fanciful shapes. The moon gate is round, like the full moon. Garden gates are designed to be narrow, to make you slow down. If you're walking with a friend, only one person can pass through at a time. Pauses are important. They help you to make a gentle transition from the real world into the peaceful world of the garden. The roof tiles guide the rainwater into streams, which run off the pointed ends of the so-called drip tiles. It creates an effect like a beaded curtain. The drip tiles are decorated with symbols for good fortune, wealth, and long life. The tiles are laid in without cement. They are made of the same terracotta as the floor and ceiling tiles. They get the gray color by throwing water into the kiln at a certain point in the firing of the clay. To be sure the design would work, they made a prototype of the garden first and photographed it. The prototype still stands in East Park in Suzhou. Piling rocks to evoke memories of great mountains is a skilled art, like painting a scroll in three dimensions. The mountain range unfolds to culminate in a host peak with smaller guest peaks beside it. The men were generalists as well as specialists. The woodworkers knew tile, the tile workers knew rock. They worked with old tools by choice, like playing ancient music on original instruments. Rough and smooth. The floor tiles had to be plain for exact fit and rough to accept cement. The cement they use is a blend of lime and tongue oil and bamboo fiber. It can be used thin or thick, depending on how sticky you want it. Add ink and it becomes a decorative plaster. Decoration is subdued in color. It mustn't compete with nature, but blend in with it. The floor is taken from a garden manual dated 1631. Surrounded by walls within a busy city, these were urban gardens where they didn't have a lot of space. The designers tried to work in as much variety as they could, even to the differences of pattern and feeling underfoot. The granite blocks are from Mount Jin near Suzhou. We call this boasting the granite. Not to make it smooth, you understand, but to give it a nice surface. Every man has his own style of boasting, sort of like a handwriting style. The owners of gardens in Suzhou were usually retired officials of the imperial government. These officials were also scholars who appreciated contemplative life. They often designed the gardens themselves. He's making a stylized bat. The word bat in Chinese sounds like the word for good fortune. It's up too high for most visitors to see this detail, but the work is done with as much care as if it were to be seen at ground level. The Chinese word for landscape is shanshui, literally mountains and water. Water gives the garden life and motion. Unyielding rock is yang. Water, soft and nurturing, is yin. Overhanging rocks suggest that the water flows on below. Not seeing where the water ends is more mysterious. Rocks really look their best when you throw water on them. The Astor Court was designed by Chinese and American scholars who modeled their work on one courtyard of a small and beautiful garden in Suzhou called the Garden of the Master of the Nets. It's not a copy, but it's like it. Yin and yang, complementary opposites. They are only rarely in balance. Outdoors, symmetry is not the natural order of things. Dark with light, motion with stillness, sound with silence. The designer seeks as many contrasts and opposites as possible. Some bold and obvious, some subtle and only dimly understood. Ming Hall. Ming means bright. It also means enlightenment. The Ming Hall floats as if between two outdoor spaces. Beyond the windows, the hint of other courtyards. The little scroll table on the couch is carved from a single piece of Indian rosewood. Sophisticated craftsmanship passed down from a period when there was time to evolve a style slowly. Carpentry and cabinet making is one craft. The same skills and methods are applied to large wood, meaning building, and small wood, meaning furniture. The distinction between outdoors and indoors is blurred in the Chinese garden. Rooms are seldom heated, so the weather is more or less the same everywhere if it isn't raining. If a certain tree is in bloom, you might move your bed into the courtyard to enjoy the delicate blossoms through the night. Whether it is rocks, or trees, or furniture, everything is a part of the garden. Images of nature are everywhere. These are scrolling vines and flowers. This is an altar table, but there is nothing solemn about it. The laughing benevolent dragon. Playfulness is a part of garden design, and dragons are everywhere. The Chinese word for fish sounds like the word for plenty. Fish are beloved because they are so at home in their element. Never saw a job go better. A fourth century poet describes the state of mind that can exist within a garden. I built my hut beside a traveled road, yet hear no noise of passing carts and horses. Would you like to know how it is done? With the mind detached, one's place becomes remote. Encouraged by the way their work was received in New York, the Chinese craftsmen have set up the first formal school to teach the traditional crafts of Suzhou.