On Thursday, a friend managed to score tickets to the British Museum exhibit The First Emperor. It's the largest exhibition of terracotta warriors ever to leave China, and includes horses, acrobats, and accountants as well as the exquisitely crafted warriors themselves.
While thousands of the life-sized figures stand guard around the unexcavated Emperor's tomb, only a few have ever left China. Xin would be happy to hear this; he feared the afterlife and wanted to be sure he was well guarded, and well entertained. His tomb, concealed under a vast earthen mound, is said to be surrounded by rivers of mercury, and indeed, high levels of mercury have been detected in the area.
One replica figure in the exhibit reveals how the sculptures were originally painted, vividly and in great detail. Even colored lifeless gray, they are remarkably alive. Each one is an individual—some fat, some slim, some with topknots and some with beards. Each stares ahead with sightless eyes, but you can't help but wonder what they've seen since they were molded over two thousand years ago. The musicians, with their wooden instruments long disintegrated—what music did they play? What was the acrobat holding on top of that finger poised permanently in the air—a basketball?
The exhibit raises more questions than it answers—why haven't archaeologists excavated the tomb? Was Qin a tyrannt, or a genius? Why is it that a culture capable of such exquisite craftsmanship—from slaves and laborers never trained as artists—is now known primarily for its cheap and dangerous exports?
The first figures were discovered accidentally in 1974 by a farmer, digging in his fields, and since then more have been discovered, as recently as the musicians uncovered in 2001. They are each great works of art, yet they were never meant to be viewed by anyone but invaders in the afterlife—archaeologist crusaders, perhaps.
I couldn't help but compare the detail and individuality of the figures made in China with the artwork I saw the next day, at The Queen's House in Greenwich. In one painting the faces of all ages and sexes looked identical, yet they were painted over a thousand years after the terracotta figures were formed in China. Our notions of China as a vast, undistinguished multitude are stood on end, thanks to a guy named Qin.
You can read more about the exhibit here, and find out how to get tickets here. (Every morning they release 500 to the public, if you can't secure them online or by phone.) The exhibit is on until April. You can see a 2-minute video about the exhibit here, which includes images of the ingenious clay diorama illustrating the molding and baking of the figures.
One more thing I learned: Qin is pronounced "chin" and hence, China.
