Beijing Traditional Toy Making

The Fading Tradition of Tang the Toymaker

By Mia Turner International Herald Tribune Friday, January 8, 1999

In his cramped workshop, smelling of glue and littered with wood shavings, Tang Qiliang makes the toys his family has created for four generations. He is China's Geppetto, devoted to his work despite the fact that it brings him little income. But unlike Geppetto, Tang's Pinocchios will never dance on stages or sing for him. Instead, at 80, the Beijing toymaker is struggling to keep his toys from dying.

Tang is one of 50 such craftsmen in Beijing, the oldest of whom is 85. He fears he is among the last. "I would teach anyone for free how to make these toys," he says. But even his son and grandson are not interested. His son, for instance, earns more money working in a Beijing coal factory. And Tang's failing eyesight is a sign that the end of his craft is near. "These are the last of their kind," he says of the carefully made wooden and papier-maché toys that line the shelves in his small home on an old courtyard in central Beijing, which he shares with another family. "Children still love my toys when they see them," he says proudly. computer generations Most children only get to see them once a year, however, at the local temple fairs held during the Chinese New Year when artisans emerge to sell their toys. In an era of video and battery-operated games, the marketability of Tang's toys is limited. Toy shops in the capital won't sell them. And in the toy department of the capital's Scitech Plaza the biggest selling items are Legos. "Parents want toys that make their children think," says Zhang Xihui, an employee at the Scitech mall. He says many parents will pay as much as 1,370 yuan ($167) for a Lego set, no small sum in a city where monthly salaries average 1,000 yuan. They also want toys that are absolutely safe, he adds. Tang's handmade wooden toys, which today are often roughly made because of his poor eyesight, might not be able to provide that guarantee. Liang Zuwang, general secretary of the Beijing Toy Association and an avid toy collector, says that traditional toys still have a role to play in China. "Computer games don't develop the imagination of children no matter how much stores insist that what is new or imported is better," he contends. Chinese kites and paper lanterns have the added advantage of getting children outdoors, unlike toys that have them sitting in front of a screen or slouched in an armchair. His 12-year-old grandson, Liang Zhanzhan, disagrees, however, and prefers playing computer games. "The generations aren't the same, so the toys aren't the same," he says with a shrug. Like Tang, the elder Liang insists that tradition must be preserved. Tang's creations, which are replicas of toys that date from the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912), all have a story to tell. They are meant not only to delight, but also to teach children about their culture's history and values. Tang's colorful horses and carriages are steeped in memories of ancient legends of emperors: "Video games don't tell you anything about history," he says. Like the slow disappearance of his traditional toys, Tang's life reflects the fading history of this city. One of the few Manchus still living here, he recalls when the city had a strong Manchu presence. His forefathers arrived in Beijing in the 17th century as members of the Blue Banner group, a battalion of soldiers who protected the Qing emperor. As a way to supplement a soldier's meager income, his great-grandfather began making toys, a craft that was at one time dominated by toymakers of Manchu origin, Tang asserts. It became a vocation that his father passed on to his descendants. When he was 10, Tang began learning the trade from his father. He also continued his father's practice of getting his toys to markets around the city. But in 1958 private businesses were banned by the government and Tang was forced to abandon his livelihood; he was given a job in a Beijing toy factory, where he worked until his retirement in 1979. Then he returned to his private workshop. - TANG'S life reflects the enormous changes that have taken place in modern China. He proudly tried to preserve his Manchu heritage, but in the chaotic decade of the Cultural Revolution he had to hide his origins to survive, deflecting the bands of fanatical Red Guards wreaking havoc around the country by claiming that he was Han Chinese. ''I burnt our family's genealogical book just in case,'' he remembers with sadness. It was his last monument to his Manchu roots. No tangible proof remains of his family's heritage except his toys, and now even those are condemned to disappear. Before they are gone, however, Liang, of the toy association, is busy collecting them. He has scoured China for toys like Tang's, and already has more than 1,000 pieces from around the country, including contemporary ones. He hopes to open a small museum in his home one day to display his collection. ''They have to be preserved,'' Liang asserts. When he is not making toys, Tang can be found selling them outside his courtyard house on Guozijian Street near Confucius Temple in Beijing. Telephone: (86) 10-6400-2303. Mia Turner works for Time magazine in Beijing.

In his cramped workshop, smelling of glue and littered with wood shavings, Tang Qiliang makes the toys his family has created for four generations. He is China's Geppetto, devoted to his work despite the fact that it brings him little income. But unlike Geppetto, Tang's Pinocchios will never dance on stages or sing for him. Instead, at 80, the Beijing toymaker is struggling to keep his toys from dying. Tang is one of 50 such craftsmen in Beijing, the oldest of whom is 85. He fears he is among the last. "I would teach anyone for free how to make these toys," he says. But even his son and grandson are not interested. His son, for instance, earns more money working in a Beijing coal factory. And Tang's failing eyesight is a sign that the end of his craft is near. "These are the last of their kind," he says of the carefully made wooden and papier-maché toys that line the shelves in his small home on an old courtyard in central Beijing, which he shares with another family. "Children still love my toys when they see them," he says proudly. computer generations Most children only get to see them once a year, however, at the local temple fairs held during the Chinese New Year when artisans emerge to sell their toys. In an era of video and battery-operated games, the marketability of Tang's toys is limited. Toy shops in the capital won't sell them. And in the toy department of the capital's Scitech Plaza the biggest selling items are Legos. "Parents want toys that make their children think," says Zhang Xihui, an employee at the Scitech mall. He says many parents will pay as much as 1,370 yuan ($167) for a Lego set, no small sum in a city where monthly salaries average 1,000 yuan. They also want toys that are absolutely safe, he adds. Tang's handmade wooden toys, which today are often roughly made because of his poor eyesight, might not be able to provide that guarantee. Liang Zuwang, general secretary of the Beijing Toy Association and an avid toy collector, says that traditional toys still have a role to play in China. "Computer games don't develop the imagination of children no matter how much stores insist that what is new or imported is better," he contends. Chinese kites and paper lanterns have the added advantage of getting children outdoors, unlike toys that have them sitting in front of a screen or slouched in an armchair. His 12-year-old grandson, Liang Zhanzhan, disagrees, however, and prefers playing computer games. "The generations aren't the same, so the toys aren't the same," he says with a shrug. Like Tang, the elder Liang insists that tradition must be preserved. Tang's creations, which are replicas of toys that date from the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912), all have a story to tell. They are meant not only to delight, but also to teach children about their culture's history and values. Tang's colorful horses and carriages are steeped in memories of ancient legends of emperors: "Video games don't tell you anything about history," he says. Like the slow disappearance of his traditional toys, Tang's life reflects the fading history of this city. One of the few Manchus still living here, he recalls when the city had a strong Manchu presence. His forefathers arrived in Beijing in the 17th century as members of the Blue Banner group, a battalion of soldiers who protected the Qing emperor. As a way to supplement a soldier's meager income, his great-grandfather began making toys, a craft that was at one time dominated by toymakers of Manchu origin, Tang asserts. It became a vocation that his father passed on to his descendants. When he was 10, Tang began learning the trade from his father. He also continued his father's practice of getting his toys to markets around the city. But in 1958 private businesses were banned by the government and Tang was forced to abandon his livelihood; he was given a job in a Beijing toy factory, where he worked until his retirement in 1979. Then he returned to his private workshop. - TANG'S life reflects the enormous changes that have taken place in modern China. He proudly tried to preserve his Manchu heritage, but in the chaotic decade of the Cultural Revolution he had to hide his origins to survive, deflecting the bands of fanatical Red Guards wreaking havoc around the country by claiming that he was Han Chinese. ''I burnt our family's genealogical book just in case,'' he remembers with sadness. It was his last monument to his Manchu roots. No tangible proof remains of his family's heritage except his toys, and now even those are condemned to disappear. Before they are gone, however, Liang, of the toy association, is busy collecting them. He has scoured China for toys like Tang's, and already has more than 1,000 pieces from around the country, including contemporary ones. He hopes to open a small museum in his home one day to display his collection. ''They have to be preserved,'' Liang asserts. When he is not making toys, Tang can be found selling them outside his courtyard house on Guozijian Street near Confucius Temple in Beijing. Telephone: (86) 10-6400-2303. Mia Turner works for Time magazine in Beijing.