For generations, tin was not only a highly valued metal itself, it also had the added distinction of being a "lucky" substance. These qualities made tin a popular choice for crafted works used and displayed in both public temples and home shrines. No Chinese family of consequence neglected to amass an impressive collection of tinware, for such possessions indicated good taste as much as wealth. This remained a popular predilection in China until the early years of this century.
A Chinese aphorism commonly heard in earlier times held that a family's wealth could be measured by three criteria: "the size of the living rooms or reception halls, the quality of the formal reception chairs, and the presence of the five varieties of tinware on the tables." The latter requirement meant that there should be a family incense kiln flanked by candlesticks, vases, fruit trays, and special "dragon candles"—those formed by a winding dragon figure that wrapped around an inserted candle—all made of finely-crafted tinware. The absence of the "five varieties" would be a self-imposed affront to the dignity of any wealthy family.
Few places on the Chinese mainland, let alone Taiwan, are blessed with rich tin deposits. As a result, today as in ancient times the metal has to be imported, adding to its value. Because of Taiwan's remoteness in generations past, island families needed to be well-off indeed before they could afford to display the "five varieties" on their tables.
Southeast Asia has always been a source of China's raw tin, with Malaysia and Indonesia serving as the major suppliers. Since raw tin today is generally shipped in 40-kilo blocks, tinware craftsmen are forced to sink a substantial amount of capital into obtaining raw materials before production can begin. During one peak year recently, tin was imported to China at US$20 per kilo. The continued high price of the finished product reflects in part this initial investment.
The living standards 100 years ago rarely allowed even the comparatively wealthy families to accumulate much tin ware, and the Japanese occupation from 1895 to 1945 made matters worse. The colonialists were not eager to see Chinese proudly displaying cultural links with their traditional values. A standing Japanese decree forbade any Chinese family to display the "five varieties" of tinware.
But such rules were made to be broken, and the Chinese of Taiwan responded to these dictates by hiding the precious objects, often wrapping and burying them in the ground beneath the family beds. Safe from political forces, the metal faced another serious challenge: nature. Because of its proximity to the ground, and Taiwan's severe humidity, the tinware oxidized and became marred by ugly black spots. When unearthed, the treasured possessions had lost much of their aesthetic appeal. While the colonial decree had pushed the craft of tinworking into a precipitous decline, nature abetted the process by destroying what few artifacts already existed.
Two hundred years ago, the gateway to the island of Taiwan was the port city of Lu Kang, located on the western coast roughly midway between Taipei and the southern tip of the island. Serving as the first stop for immigrants from the mainland, Lu Kang became the route through which development spread throughout the island. A famous adage about the cities of Taiwan of the time gives a ranking of cities much different from today: "First, Tainan is the capital, but next comes Lu Kang, and then Meng Chia in importance." Meng Chia, now called Wan Hua, is the oldest section of Taipei.
During these earlier days of Taiwan 's settlement, Lu Kang was a center of action and enjoyed tremendous prosperity. The northern towns were just "countryside" in comparison. As the residents of Lu Kang prospered and accumulated wealth, traditional arts and handicrafts began to flourish. In response to the needs of wealthy families, large numbers of master craftsmen from the mainland eventually made the island city their permanent home.
Work in progress—called "Rooster on the Rock," it is an auspicious piece, for it sounds like "great luck in the house."
The majority of the original tin craftsmen in Taiwan came from the city of Chuan Chou in Fukien Province, coming to the island by way of Lu Kang. By the beginning of this century, approximately 100 tin shops were scattered throughout Taiwan, and 70 of these were in Lu Kang. Today, however, there are no more than ten shops left in the city. The remainder have long since disappeared, a result more of sweeping changes in modern lifestyles rather than high prices.
Despite a decline in numbers, craftsmen in tin are still active in contemporary Taiwan—and the quality of their work still draws praise from connoisseurs. One modern master of the craft is Chen Wan-neng, owner of the Wan Neng Tin Shop on Chungshan Road in Lu Kang.
Although Chen has remained successful, he sadly laments the overall decline of the trade. His own shop is part of a family heritage stretching back more than four generations. Chen's ancestors founded their business in Chuan Chou, and when only 16 years old he took over the relocated family business on Taiwan. Despite the contemporary challenges to success in tincraft, Chen clings steadfastly to his trade, and prides himself on having transformed the craft into an art, adding a new dimension to the practical side of his business.
A finely crafted tin pitcher, perfect for serving Chinese wine on a special occasion.
Because tin has the distinct quality of neutralizing many poisons, it is an ideal protective layer for the inside of food and drink containers. Thus, besides the sacred use of tin from ancient times, this quality made it a vital material for wine pitchers, fruit trays, and cosmetic boxes. In modern times, tin is still used to coat the surfaces of kettles, tea leaf storage containers, hot pots, and metal wine pitchers.
Practicality is sometimes linked with taste, for according to the Chinese, the famed Shaohsing wine, a mild golden yellow rice liquor best drunk warm, smells especially fragrant if heated in a tin kettle. It is still not uncommon for posh restaurant owners, who are eager to please their customers, to come all the way from Taipei to Chen's shop in Lu Kang just to buy one of his renowned tin kettles.
Despite the popularity of certain practical objects made from tin, Chen still finds that religious items remain his most important product. He receives orders from all over Taiwan and even abroad. Large-size candlesticks, kilns for incense, and of course the "five varieties" of tableware are the most popular. Because such items have been treasured for generations, and must meet the requirements of traditional worship, the crafting of each piece follows strict rules and conventions.
For example, the height and width of incense kilns must be measured by a special instrument called the "Wen Kung ruler." Wen Kung is the patron god of woodcraftsmen, and the ruler bearing his name is divided into seemingly arbitrary lengths that signify qualities such as "bliss," "wealth," "evil," and "loss." One edge of the ruler has measuring units appropriate to temples, while the other edge is designated for items used in family worship.
The "five varieties" of superbly crafted tinware grace a family altar.
Chen's customers, whether temple functionaries or rich families, also have a say about the items they commission. In addition to complying with tradition, such as measuring lengths with the Wen Kung ruler, the tin craftsman must select dimensions that conform as well to the strict needs of his customers, who themselves may have certain traditional conventions they want followed.
Chen explains that the overall shape of kilns, for example, is expected to fall into a predetermined set of patterns. These are normally based upon the eight kua, or eight diagrams, which are recorded and explained in the I Ching, the ancient Book of Changes that is China's major work on divination. The kua depict the fundamental laws of nature, and their forms are frequently integrated into the components of religious objects.
Incense kilns must be round on the top and square at the base, symbolizing the "round" sky and "square" earth according to ancient Chinese cosmology. But kilns are by no means the only tin objects whose creation is subject to these rules; the same strict requirements exist for other types of tinware.
Traditional measurements are but the first step in the tin crafting process. Subsequent steps also follow long-established procedures: First, a tin block is melted in a special cauldron at 160 degrees Celsius-much lower than the melting point for iron. The molten tin is then poured into carved molds made from the same high-quality stone used for family seals (name chops). Because Chen's shop has limited space, the melting and molding is done in the backyard of his home, just a five-minute walk away-and his wife does the actual molding, since his duties at the shop place such heavy demands on his energy and time.
Almost the instant the molten tin is poured, it hardens inside the molds, each of which is usually carved for a single small piece of a larger work. Chen takes great pride in his collection of over 100 molds, most of which were handed down through the generations in his family. Consistent with the skill of his ancestors, Chen has carved some of the molds himself.
The type of stone used, with its distinctive slanting grain, is difficult to secure, for it is available only on the mainland. Because of the value of the raw stone, the use of every square inch must be carefully planned so that the maximum number of molds can be made from each piece. This constraint forces them to be small, meaning that tin figures of lions or dragons need to be assembled from many parts. But care must be taken here as well, for too many decorative tin parts welded on to a basic form will weigh it down excessively and make it difficult to store or display without fear of damage.
Besides molding, another major part of the process involves making tin sheets. Molten tin is spread over the surface of a one-foot-square stone block. It instantly hardens, and is flattened out by pressing another stone block over it. Sheets of varying thickness can be produced this way, and Chen is skilled at producing ones that are extraordinarily thin. Once ready, the sheets are cut into strips, squares, or other desired shapes, then hammered into the proper curves or angles. Finally, they are welded in place.
Thin as these sheets of tin may look, they exhibit an unexpected hardness which makes them tough to bend. Chen says that to achieve the most flawless workmanship, the sheets must be cut into pieces as small as possible before they can be welded together into any shape. Even a perfect circle or sphere is possible, quite an accomplishment when working with any metal.
Welding leaves ugly marks that must be removed, so sanding and polishing are an indispensable part of the procedure as an entire work is assembled. Chen uses a combination of sandpaper and the stalk of a Chinese herbal plant noted for its tough fibers, which when soaked in water can be used as an abrasive polish. The plant has the advantage of not scratching the surface of the tin.
Masters of the trade have always emphasized the polishing process because the finished product is expected to shine and glitter with an intensity that in fact can surpass silver. A tincraft work is not completed, however, until it is painted. Even though tin work is usually ad mired for its silvery appearance, more sophisticated pieces are judged by their elaborate painting as much as their intricate lines and shapes.
Chen, whose works are especially sought by connoisseurs, is noted for paying great attention to detail. When making a pair of extra large candlesticks, for example, Chen masterfully decorates the bottoms with molds of peonies and the "eight fairies" of Chinese legend. According to a traditional story, these fairies flew over the sea to heaven, and thus attained immortality. They are a symbol to bring luck, as are all the figures painted or welded on the tinwork pieces. To add value, the figures are sometimes plated in gold.
The few tincraft masters left on Taiwan adhere strictly to their traditional methods, but Chen sadly points out that the demand for their work is steadily declining because family altars are used less and less. The shift from an agrarian to industrial lifestyle, and the exodus of population from the countryside into the cities has weakened traditional social impulses that required setting up home shrines for ancestor worship. Oftentimes practical constraints play a role in this shift as well. The rented apartments of most urban residents tend to be small and temporary—not particularly suitable for elaborate family altars. As the tin trade has always relied on such altars, business is hard hit these days. The problem has been compounded by the more practical types of tinware, such as wine pitchers, tea kettles, and other containers, being replaced by cheaper materials like plastic or aluminum.
But the greatest detriment to the continuation of the tin trade, let alone its expansion, is the enormous manual labor involved. An apprentice needs six years of hard, patient training before he can be considered a true craftsman. And the skills are varied, as each step in the tin-crafting process is by hand, from molding to final painting. While tin is less expensive today than it was many years ago, the cost of labor has soared. Yet Chen says there is a bright side to the picture: "Fortunately, as living standards rise, people have more time to appreciate fine arts such as tinwork—and they have more money to buy it!"
Because of more concern about the cultural environment, Chen adds, "People are now digging around and paying attention to old, dying crafts; I have contacted many scholars, art students, and just ordinary people—all of whom express amazement that tinware has been ignored for such a long time."
But the current warming of public interest in tinware cannot last long, Chen says, if craftsmen fail to revitalize their trade. He suspects that if craftsmen continue to concentrate on making ware primarily for temples or family altars, the "art is doomed sooner or later." The field has already stagnated anyway, Chen suggests, because craftsmen are simply repeating what their ancestors did 200 years ago. "If the demand for tinware dedicated to worship disappears, and the demand for practical tinware declines due to high prices, what do you think all these old master craftsmen are going to do?" he asks.
His fears are justified. Many of the older craftsmen seem unable to cope with new lifestyles, and are reluctant to adjust their skills to a changing society. As a result, Chen says, "they may have to abandon a lifetime of skills acquired after many years of apprenticeship. What a shame!"
Chen believes that the only way out for this dying trade is to transform the tradition-bound craft into a modern fine art; the production of traditional religious objects can be replaced by creating original works of art. "I have learned everything about making traditional tinware," Chen says, "but I feel there is much more that can be done."
He has already put his feelings into action. Seven years ago, Chen started creating artistic works of animals, both natural and from Chinese legends. He started with a legendary animal called the chi lin, which is a combination of several animals. It has the head of a dragon, the horns of a deer and ears of an ox, a lion's mane, a lobster's eyes, fish scales, and the hooves of a horse. Chen followed a stylized approach in the creation of his chi lin, since there was obviously no living model, after visiting numerous temples, where the picture of chi lin is often displayed.
''I'm lucky to be living in Lu "Kang. The city is full of Chinese heritage and history. The material here helps me enormously when I need examples. There are so many ancient—and fascinating—temples here. In addition, many of the old masters and experts on traditional folk arts live in Lu Kang. It's as if everything is my own personal endowment," Chen says.
On-site research of forms constitutes only part of the preparation for new creations in tin. Chen relies on various texts and traditions that will promote a cultural resonance between prospective customers and the works themselves. One way to achieve this is to integrate popular symbols for good luck, drawing on ancient proverbs recorded in the books in his personal library. One particular volume he frequently uses also contains illustrations. These are usually of either animals or symbols for animals.
This deer, standing in a flexed position, signifies a lucky Chinese phrase: "Crowned and Promoted."
For example, the pronunciation of the Chinese character for "deer" is the same as "promotion" in both Mandarin and Taiwanese. The phrase "fu lu shou", meaning luck, promotion, and longevity, is thus best represented by the figure of a deer, Chen says. One of his works was intended as a present for the chairman of the Council for Cultural Planning & Development, Chen Chi-lu. The chairman's name includes the character "lu," so the tinwork features a standing deer, and is entitled "Crowned and Promoted".
"The reason I chose to make an erect, stationary deer rather than a running or walking one was that the pronunciation of running deer sounds exactly like 'promotion, go away' in Chinese," Chen says. He visited the zoo to examine exactly how a deer's muscles look while it stands still, and for a more natural look, he scraped the tinwork with a sharp knife to give it the appearance of having hair.
By the lunar calendar, this is the Year of the Dragon. In China, dragons have long been a popular motif, and are found in almost every form of artistic creation. Chen has extended this predilection to creations in tin. Recently he completed two splendidly-colored flying dragons. To give viewers the impression that the pair are soaring through the clouds, he devised some special tin ringlets and welded them together to add to the piece. "These ringlets are the best I can come up with to conquer the hard texture of tin," he says.
Chen's experimentation has paid off. He now enjoys large numbers of special artistic orders both locally and from abroad. And, of course, his traditional work is also in demand. For example, the Temple of Confucius in Nagasaki, Japan, displays the "five varieties" of tinware—all from Chen's masterfully skilled hands.
His reputation received an added boost in July, when the Cultural Center in Chang Hua County organized an exhibition of his works. The show included 20 of his artistic "experiments" and another 40 more traditional pieces. The show is now touring cultural centers in other parts of the island.
If anyone can reverse the decline in tin craftsmanship, Chen seems to be a prime candidate, based upon his enthusiastic spirit and boundless energy. His efforts have already garnered public support, but the true test will be the expansion of the pool of craftsmen who can make a success of the form-and who can attract both customers and new apprentices to the field. Chen can at least count on one devoted apprentice: his own third son, who will someday inherit the business.
The boy is now in high school, and already demonstrates exceptional talent, especially in painting. Chen is training him in both traditional craft and the more creative, experimental directions he has pioneered. Currently an art design student, the son already helps paint some of his father's pieces, and shows originality despite his youth. When painting a traditional tin candle-stick, for instance, he departs from the convention of using bold colors by putting more subtle shades of blue on a rather flat dragon's neck, giving it a three-dimensional appearance.
Chen looks on proudly: "Innovation will provide us with the alternatives needed to save the trade." True. Yet survival rests squarely on the foundation of skills that cover a broad area of abilities, including sketching, carving, molding, painting, and others. Such a complex set of skills demands talent and patience few people possess. The very difficulty in mastering the craft of tinworking presents serious obstacles to its popularization.
After 32 years of hard toil, Chen, now 48, has finally been able to shift his energies to original artistic expression. The freedom to "experiment" has come thanks to his large number of satisfied customers. Now that Taiwan has become a more affluent society, Chen says "there is a fertile ground for the revival of tincraft," and even a single glance at his work provides convincing proof of the aesthetic appeal of the ancient craft of tinworking—whether rendered in traditional or "experimental" forms.