The George Lindemann Journal by George Lindemann

Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden

Ai Weiwei will probably be regarded as the most important artist of the past decade. He is certainly its most newsworthy and arguably its most inspiring. Over the repressions of Chinese authorities, he has used a wide range of resources to broadcast a message of freedom.

Through his art, he has spoken with a voice that also includes those who have been silenced. A dissident under a capricious regime, he has endured trials that have captivated world attention while galvanizing an underground culture at home.

The arrival this week of Mr. Ai's first North American retrospective, "Ai Weiwei: According to What?"—which begins at the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington and travels to three other cities, concluding at the Brooklyn Museum in 2014—is itself newsworthy. That this exhibition largely fails to inspire not only speaks to Mr. Ai's own limitations but also to the challenges and missteps in exhibiting this increasingly multifaceted artist.

It bears remembering that following his youth in a Chinese labor camp and his punk bohemian immersion in 1980s New York, for several years Mr. Ai, now 55, was a member of Beijing's cultural elite. A sly thinker and adept designer, he emerged in the late 1990s along with the booming market for contemporary Chinese art to become a sanctioned and profitable ambassador of the modernized socialist state. In 2008, he even served as the artistic consultant on National Stadium, the "Bird's Nest" centerpiece of the Beijing summer Olympics.

It was the Sichuan earthquake in May of that year that turned Mr. Ai from cultural purveyor to iconoclast. He rightly believed that the tragedy of this event, a thousand miles from Beijing in the heart of rural China, was magnified by the state's refusal to investigate its particularly tragic circumstances: the death of more than 5,000 children due to shoddy school construction.

In the years that followed, Mr. Ai put this belief into action. He visited the devastation, documenting the sites in photos and videos, and organized what he called a "citizens' investigation" to identify and memorialize each child killed in this disaster.

As he pursued this project, Mr. Ai increasingly faced off with the Communist state. He came under surveillance and sustained a beating at the hands of local police, a life-threatening brain injury, the destruction of his studio in Shanghai, 81 days of imprisonment and psychological torture, a state-driven campaign of intimidation, multimillion-dollar charges and fines, and the stripping of his freedom to leave the country—including his plans to attend this North American retrospective.

The Hirshhorn show is an update of the one at Tokyo's Mori Art Museum in 2009, which was organized largely before Mr. Ai's dissident chapter. While the current exhibition brings in some important new pieces, it still feels weighted toward the state-sanctioned years. Even the recent selection largely follows the earlier formula.

Much of this work falls under what I call the Salon style of contemporary Chinese art: Oriental idioms, passed through Pop-art sensibilities, processed into large works with a factorylike finish. Mr. Ai can be particularly taken with Western art's historical references. Several examples here are minimalist-inspired sculptures with flourishes of Chinoiserie. "Cube in Ebony" (2009), carved with a traditional rusticated surface, recalls Tony Smith's "Die." "Moon Chest" (2008), created through traditional cabinet-making techniques, riffs off Donald Judd's "specific objects." "Cube Light" (2008), which is a recent acquisition by the Hirshhorn and also the most oversized, underwhelming piece in the show, is minimalism transformed into a kitschy chandelier.

Too much real estate gets taken up by these large works. The Mori's Mami Kataoka, who also curated this show, calls the art a "warm" minimalism for existing "between formalist and contextual methodologies"—in other words, Western work with an Eastern twist.

It is true that Mr. Ai includes personal, social and political references in his sculptures. At times they can seem like the coded messages of a prisoner tapping on his cell wall. "Surveillance Camera" (2010), a marble sculpture that turns an object of oppression into a work of art, is ominous and poignant. But often the sculpture, outsourced to inexpensive Chinese artisans, is a lot of effort for not much return. Sculptures that require lengthy explanations—that one was inspired by a small wooden box left by the artist's dissident poet father, Ai Qing, or that one was inspired by the shaking of the chandelier in Sergei Eisenstein's 1928 film "October"—are not so much "warm" as warmed over. One exception is "Straight" (2008-2012), a new floor installation made up of 38 tons of rebar recovered from Sichuan after the earthquake that is a rough and powerful work regardless of what else we know about it.

Mr. Ai has always been a conceptual artist. The challenge of a conventional museum exhibition is that his output has become more and more immaterial. It could be that Mr. Ai is now best reflected in other ways—for example in Alison Klayman's inspiring documentary "Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry." Blogging, Twitter and the Internet itself, to which Mr. Ai devotes eight hours a day, have become his genuine new media and his most consequential work. Unfortunately, this traditionally mounted show tells us little about that. Walls of photographs—with both wonderful snapshots from his New York years and thousands of digital images from his Internet feed—could offer extra context, but they are so poorly labeled and hung so high that they serve as little more than decoration.

For a retrospective, there is also regrettably little about his involvement in the Beijing avant-garde of the late 1970s—he was part of the "Stars" group during a brief thaw known as the "Beijing Spring." Nor are there examples of his underground books published in the mid-1990s.

A deep humanity runs through Mr. Ai's best work. "I've experienced dramatic changes in my living and working conditions over the past few years," he says in an interview with Hirshhorn curator Kerry Brougher reproduced in the exhibition catalog. But he resists being taken in by his own politics. "Maybe I'm just an undercover artist in the disguise of a dissident," he says. Believing in "freedom of speech, free expression, the value of life, and individual rights," he tempers his politics with empathy.

That's why his work on the "citizens' investigation" is so affecting and stands apart from the more ornamental aspects of this show. Alongside a wall-size spreadsheet listing all the child victims of the Sichuan quake, including their birthdays and schools, he presents a recording that reads off their names. In this stripped-down piece, we sense the full extent of the loss, a tragedy that is magnified for the victims' parents by China's one-child policy: "These people have cried a lifetime's worth of tears," says Mr. Ai. "In their hearts, they know that the precious lives they gave everything to protect are no longer." Beyond politics, the work strikes at the heart of death and remembrance. It also shows us how present this artist can be even in his absence—and just what is missing in so much else of this exhibition.

-By James Panero

By LEE LAWRENCE

New York

The most exciting shows are often those that break new ground or introduce the unfamiliar. “Chinese Gardens: Pavilions, Studios, Retreats” does neither. We expect to see water swirling amid craggy rocks, mountains dissolving into mist, robed figures lingering under gnarled pine trees, birds perched on a flowering branch—and we do. And if we take the time, we really do. By limiting the selection to a single theme, the head of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Asian department, Maxwell Hearn, offers us an irresistible opportunity to explore ways of seeing Chinese art and to do so with almost 100 works from a premier collection: the Met’s own.

The texts and audio prove effective allies in understanding context and ferreting out political, social and religious references. Take the 10th- to early 12th-century “Palace Banquet,” the oldest painting in the show. It depicts the imperial women’s quarters as a harmonious setting for an outdoor celebration. But why is a woman standing by a slumbering form, clapping her hands? And why are attendants about to open the gate? The allusion, the label tells us, is to an eighth-century consort famous for sleeping all day and burning the midnight oil with her lover, the emperor. When an uprising threatened the empire, courtiers thought the emperor ought to reserve his energies for governing and forced him to execute his consort. This happy palace scene thus doubles as a warning against rulers placing affairs of the heart above those of state.

Yet there is the danger of getting so carried away deciphering content that we forget to experience these works as art. Indeed, one of the show’s greatest pleasures is its variety of forms, each inviting a distinct approach. The verticality of hanging scrolls like “Palace Banquet” guides the eye from bottom up. We stand outside looking in, slowly piecing the scene and story together. It is similar to the way we approach “Returning Home Through the Snow” (c. 1455), except that in Dai Jin’s hanging scroll we enter the picture through a single figure. We take in his downcast eyes and furrowed brow and, in the artist’s quick brushstrokes, we feel the winter wind whipping his thin robe. As our eye moves up to tree branches outlined in snow, to an expanse of empty sky and distant bare mountains, the chill of this man’s lonely walk engulfs us.

By contrast, other hanging scrolls feature tiny, anonymous figures that draw us inside the scene. We climb the mountain path that stretches before them, glide along the twisting river, brush against low-hanging branches, feel our heart rate slow as we marvel at the scenery. This is similar to the way we experience horizontal handscrolls. One of the oldest forms of painting in China, they are meant to be unfurled from right to left. Short scrolls can be viewed in their entirety, but the long ones—of which the show offers fine examples—invite us to journey through them in stages, each about an arm’s length.

Since no museum could ever allow us to actually do that, we have to emulate the experience by blocking our view (hands up like blinders on a horse works—don’t worry, nobody is looking). When we experience Zhao Cangyun’s “Liu Chen and Ruan Zhao Entering the Tiantai Mountains” (late 13th-early 14th century) this way, we discover just how clever Zhao’s composition is. Like all handscrolls, his begins with an expanse of beautiful silk. This is the “moat,” whose purpose is akin to that of sorbet between courses—it cleanses our mind of whatever occupied it before. First comes a block of text, which a label beneath helpfully translates. It relates the tale of two men who set off to gather medicinal herbs; we next see two elderly gentlemen, a basket to the ready. For two more scenes, text precedes image, priming us for the sight of “green peaks, lofty and contorted” and a stream in need of crossing. We watch the men wade in—then, suddenly, in the next scene, two beautiful women appear on the opposite bank. This time, Zhao has delayed the explanatory text, so we share the men’s surprise.

This way of engaging handscrolls also brings out the beauty and power of nonnarrative paintings. A seemingly repetitive composition like Wang Yuanqi’s 1711 “Wangchuan Villa” morphs into discrete scenes of startling variety. Meanwhile Fang Congyi’s 14th-century “Cloudy Mountains” begins with a geology so vibrant it seems to still be shifting. Yet as we move forward, diagonal lines propel us on a journey that paradoxically builds in intensity even as the landscape’s details dissolve into mist. By the time we reach the expanse of space at the end of the painting, some deep part of us registers what our eyes can’t see: that there is form in this emptiness.

On a lighter note, we can’t help but imagine how the rhythmic waving of a fan might animate trees and birds painted on its surface. Or visualize how the play of light might bring alive deep carvings on a wood brush-holder or ivory table screen. Or contemplate how revealing the album format can be. Wen Zhengming’s ostensibly modest “Garden of the Inept Administrator” (1551) forces viewers to savor, page by page, his poetry, calligraphy and painting. The Met even provides the perfect setting for such musings: the adjoining Astor Court, modeled after a 17th-century Chinese garden, complete with mock pavilion, greenery and evocative rocks.

BEIJING—Chinese artist Ai Weiwei vowed to keep fighting a $2.4 million tax bill after a local court rejected his challenge, an indication that the outspoken dissident has little intention of standing down in his continuing conflict with Beijing. Mr. Ai said on Friday that he plans to press his case in court over the claim. The Beijing tax bureau says the company that markets his work owes 15.22 million yuan in back taxes and fines. "We will keep appealing until the day comes that we have nothing to lose," Mr. Ai wrote on his Twitter account, adding that authorities kept him from attending the hearing. Attempts to reach Mr. Ai through his cellphone Friday were unsuccessful. The Chaoyang District Court on Friday rejected the suit after finding that the tax bureau had acted legally and properly in the investigation into Mr. Ai's company, said Mr. Ai's lawyer, Pu Zhiqiang. In an interview, Mr. Pu dismissed the decision as "shameless." Mr. Ai has said that local tax authorities have acted illegally, limiting his access to his company's financial records and to the employees who oversaw them. Repeated calls to the Chaoyang court rang unanswered on Friday. Tax charges against Mr. Ai date back to June 2011, when the artist was released following nearly three months in detention. Though Mr. Ai was detained without charge, state media said he had confessed to tax evasion and had been released after agreeing to pay back what he owed. Despite being warned by authorities to stay quiet after being let go, Mr. Ai has publicly challenged the tax case on numerous occasions. In November, after the artist announced the size of the tax bill, his supporters caused a stir by donating more than five million yuan to help him pay it, in some cases folding 100-yuan notes into paper airplanes and launching them over the wall of his home in Beijing. Many observers were surprised in May when the Chaoyang District Court agreed to hear Mr. Ai's lawsuit, which described the tax-evasion case as having been marred by numerous violations of law and procedure. Enlarge Image Reuters Authorities say Chinese dissident artist Ai Weiwei owes $2.4 million. While it is rare for a Chinese court to accept a case from a dissident, Mr. Pu on Friday rejected the notion that the mere acceptance of the case represented progress for the rule of law in the country. "I'm not willing to say this is a victory," the lawyer said. "I think this case demonstrates to the masses that the government needs to be restrained. It shows once again the shamelessness" of the authorities. Mr. Pu conceded that chances of an appeal succeeding were slim, but he said they were "not zero." The artist recently established a website, fakecase.com, where he posts materials related to the case, including a timeline. Under July 20, the timeline reads: "The verdict is in. The courts didn't accept a single argument." Reacting to the rejection of the lawsuit on Twitter, Mr. Ai appeared unsurprised by what some said was the court's failure to offer adequate justification. "This country has moved beyond needing to give reasons—it's not used to giving them and can't give them," he wrote. Write to Josh Chin at josh.chin@wsj.com A version of this article appeared July 21, 2012, on page A9 in the U.S. edition of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Chinese Artist Vows to Fight Latest Tax Ruling.

On the outskirts of Beijing in a private club house called Paradise, there is a large, windowless room where Yang Bin displays his collection of modern and contemporary art.

"Sit down and get ready," Mr. Yang recently told a few friends visiting from Taiwan. Grabbing a remote control, he turned to a set of wall panels that, with a click, began to slide apart. Each panel revealed a few of his recent acquisitions, from Chairman Mao-era portraits of revolutionaries to brightly colored abstracts by China's rising stars. As his friends applauded the slide-show, Mr. Yang grinned and lit a cigar.

The art market is being transformed by Chinese collectors willing to pay top dollar for everything from Ming vases to contemporary Chinese abstracts. In some cases, these works are outstripping prices paid for blue-chip Western artists like René Magritte and Clyfford Still...