As I was studying Chinese art history, I suddenly realized something very cruel:

Many of the ancient Chinese painters we remember today share a common identity.
They are not ordinary people.
They are officials, scholars, court painters, or at least people who could enter the upper echelons of society.
Gu Kaizhi, Yan Liben, Wu Daozi, Zhan Ziqian, Dong Yuan, Jing Hao, Mi Fu, Zhao Mengfu, Gu Hongzhong, Li Gonglin...
These names are of course great.
But the question is:
In ancient China, were only officials and scholars the ones who understood art?
Did ordinary people lack aesthetic sense?
Did temples not need murals?
Did taverns not need screens?
Did opera troupes not need stage sets?
Did wealthy families not need decorations?
Were folk weddings, funerals, festivals, temple fairs, shop signs, New Year paintings, door gods, and painted statues all created out of thin air?
Impossible.
Beyond the "famous masters" written into art history, there must have been a huge, unimaginable group of folk artisans.
They are the true backbone of the visual world in ancient times.
They painted temples, gods and Buddhas, screens, stages, walls, facades, and most of the images ordinary people could see in their lives.
Their numbers might far surpass those of the renowned painters who are celebrated in history.
But here’s the problem:
Where are they?
What are their names?
Where are their works?
Who were their masters?
Did they have their own guilds?
Did they have their own aesthetic standards?
Did they possess a folk aesthetic system that was different from scholar-official painting?
We hardly know.
Following this question further, we eventually come to the Dunhuang murals.
The massive art project of Dunhuang, which lasted nearly a thousand years, was supported by not just a few geniuses.
It relied on generation after generation of professional painters, craftsmen, and artisans.
They knelt before walls, painting Buddha images, flying Apsaras, worshippers, mountains, buildings, clothing folds, expressions—brushstroke by brushstroke.
But even at Dunhuang, the personal names we can find are still very few.
More often, we only see vague family clues:
Cao family.
Song family.
Zhai family.
And when we check local records, sometimes we find scattered notes:
Someone, skilled in painting landscapes, made a living selling paintings.
And then that’s it.
How good was he?
What subjects did he prefer?
How did he make a living?
Did he have apprentices?
Did he have pain, ambition, style, and aesthetic preferences?
We don’t know.
History gently passes over him, as if he never truly existed.
What truly shocks me is this:
Chinese history is vast and overwhelming.
Historical books, local gazetteers, steles, archives, family trees—so abundant that we feel we’ve left nothing behind.
But the more we look, the more we realize that what we have left are mostly the records of those who could be documented.
Emperors.
Officials.
Scholars.
Nobles.
Literati.
People who entered the system.
People close to power.
And the vast majority of real society—those who made up everyday life—have disappeared.
The painters are gone.
The carpenters are gone.
The bricklayers are gone.
The opera troupe members are gone.
The chefs in taverns are gone.
Street vendors are gone.
Letter writers are gone.
Statue carvers for temples are gone.
Those who painted door gods, screens, walls for ordinary people have also disappeared.
They are not nonexistent.
They simply lack the qualification to be recorded with solemnity.
So I increasingly feel that what makes Chinese history most poignant is not just its long, glorious past.
It’s that it’s like a huge palace.
The palace is magnificent, with clear plaques, distinct ranks, complete regulations.
But outside the palace, the streets, lanterns, calls, crafts, aesthetics, desires, poverty, joy, failure, trivial lives—most of these are swallowed by the night.
We think we see Chinese history.
But often, what we see is only a tiny part of those whose names were allowed to be recorded.
The real vast China, the lively China, the China supported by ordinary people—these are buried in the gaps of history books.
Perhaps my greatest regret in reading Chinese history is this:
It records too much the rise and fall of officials,
but loses track of too many ordinary lives.
And those who left no names,
also lived earnestly,
also created beauty,
and also etched their craftsmanship, aesthetic, and destiny
bit by bit into the daily life of this country.