Standardizing Living
Shirley Surya and Li Hua interview Zhang Wei about living in the Fusuijing Building
This oral history was led by Shirley Surya and Li Hua and filmed by Wang Tuo for the exhibition How Modern: Biographies of Architecture in China 1949-1979.
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Li Shan, painter and member of the No Name Painting Association, interviewed in Wang Tuo, Intensity in Ten Cities (2025), co-commissioned by the CCA and M+, Hong Kong for How Modern: Biographies of Architecture in China 1949-1979. © Wang Tuo
- Zhang Wei
- I was quite young when the Fusuijing Building was built in 1958, only six years old. At that time, the Ten Great Buildings in Beijing were under construction. Architects used the best construction materials available in China at the time for these buildings. Still, because the scale of their construction was so large, the estimated quantities of some building materials exceeded the amount needed, resulting in a surplus. Not knowing what to do with these leftover materials, architects used them to construct a residential building—the Fusuijing Building—which was an additional project beyond the Ten Great Buildings.
Some homes were demolished in the process, and the displaced residents were offered the option to move in once the new building was completed. At that time, this new apartment building was very attractive to some people in Beijing who aspired to a more modern lifestyle. Intellectuals, or those with relatively higher social status, were interested in finding ways to move into this building. It was the only residential building in China that had private bathrooms with flush toilets, elevators, and central heating. The government encouraged people to use a large communal kitchen for cooking and dining. That kitchen was spacious, equipped with a long sink with numerous faucets. Some people put tables and chairs there, and they cooked using the water and stoves provided. But not many people wanted to do that because they preferred to cook privately and maintain their household.
Apartment layouts, in Jianzhu sheji ziliao ji [Architectural Design Resource Compilation] (Architectural Engineering Department Beijing Industrial Architecture Design Institute / China Industrial Press, 1964), 390–391
- Shirley Surya and Li Hua
- Were all the apartments equally sized?
- ZW
- They were essentially similar in size and followed a few standard layouts: three-bedroom units, two-bedroom units, and one-bedroom units, probably the same from the first floor to the eighth floor. That made construction easier, as the main structure didn’t change. Probably seven or eight households lived on each floor.
In summer, every family would open their doors to create airflow and keep their homes cool. Unlike modern buildings, which typically have windows on both the north and south sides to encourage ventilation, Fusuijing had an interior corridor that was dark and somewhat scary. But with everyone opening their doors, we could see the neighbours across the corridor, watch what they were eating, chat, and sometimes exchange food. I’d cut some watermelon and share a few pieces with them. If my neighbour didn’t open their door, I’d feel annoyed with them. When we first moved in, it felt very new and exciting. Between 1964 and 1966, those two years before the Cultural Revolution started, life in the building was relatively harmonious and satisfying. It felt warm, especially in the summer when everyone gathered in the open space downstairs. Children played, older folks sat and chatted. The atmosphere was very pleasant.
Standardized design residential blocks, cover of Jianzhu Xuebao 1 (1964). CL.2025.1.92, M+, Hong Kong. © Jianzhu Xuebao
Standardized design residential blocks, cover of Jianzhu Xuebao 2 (1978). CL.2025.1.130, M+, Hong Kong. © Jianzhu Xuebao
- SS & LH
- It seems like socialist housing complexes were initially intended to be public and communal, making family life collective. Yet, when used in practice, people created their own private spaces. A contradictory yet complementary relationship characterizes these spaces: privacy exists, but as you mentioned earlier, when people got along well, the sense of community was strong. Having one’s own space meant dignity and respect. Here, relationships were more urban: closing your door meant privacy, while opening it meant interaction. Living so closely together intensified tensions during politically charged periods because there was no space to ease off.
- ZW
- Exactly, because the residents’ sense of danger and fear was much more intense in those moments. They were also easier targets for surveillance and control. So, that building became associated with fear during the Cultural Revolution. About two years after we moved in, things became terrifying—more terrifying than what you would see on ordinary streets because it was a collective living space.
- SS & LH
- At that time, despite all the turmoil, the building remained densely populated.
- ZW
- Yes, whether people wanted to move depended mainly on their ability to find better housing; there was no guarantee they’d find a better place. The residents included high-ranking military officers’ families, families of overseas Chinese, former capitalists and their descendants, professors, teachers, artists, writers, musicians, singers—all sorts of people. They were generally people with somewhat better living conditions and social standing in Beijing than elsewhere.
Meanwhile, people with red armbands sat downstairs every day—people from politically “good” backgrounds who had been assigned to monitor us. The building had a main entrance, plus doors on the east side, west side, and another in the back. Each door had someone watching over it. My mother was a Russian language teacher. Russian was popular in China during the 1950s, but by the 1960s, it had become politically problematic. Despite this, she had no choice but to go to school every day, risking her life. She had to ride her bicycle home alone, exhausted and afraid that when she returned home, those monitoring the building would notice that she’d been badly beaten. Instead, she rode her bicycle to a small entrance on the west side. Usually, that door was guarded, but the guards would leave around dinner. My mother would wait outside to sneak in, carrying her heavy bicycle upstairs without help.
Zhang Kaiji/BIAD, Perspective drawing of an apartment, ca. 1950s. © Yung Ho Chang
- SS & LH
- How was life after 1971 in the Fusuijing Building?
- ZW
- In 1968, I left Beijing to work as a zhiqing [educated youth] in Shanxi Province. I stayed there for three years and returned to Beijing in 1971 due to a foot injury I sustained while doing agricultural labour. When I returned, I found that residents had blocked off the corridor with metal barriers. For instance, only two households remained occupied from the elevator onward, and they completely sealed off the entire corridor, turning it into their private area. The corridor belonged solely to them; no one else could enter anymore.
Once home, I stayed indoors recuperating. I couldn’t go anywhere because of my injured foot, so every day I just read books and started painting. I hadn’t yet met my friends from artistic circles, and I didn’t engage much in society. As my foot healed enough for me to move around, I started going out to draw and began meeting more people. Soon, many friends started visiting my home regularly. My mother was outgoing, fearless, and supportive of what I was doing. When people visited, she saw them as fellow artists coming together and encouraged us. Eventually, my home became a studio.
Zhang Wei, Fusuijing Building, 1975. Oil on paper. 2012.45, M+ Sigg Collection, Hong Kong. © Zhang Wei
Li Shan, Room 305, 1974. Oil on paper. 2016.876, M+, Hong Kong. © Li Shan
- SS & LH
- From what perspective did you paint the interior spaces of Fusuijing?
- ZW
- I painted them as if I were looking out the window. The view was toward the corner where the building curves around. We were always inside the apartment, painting what we saw outside. Through the window, sometimes we saw snow, sometimes sunshine, and other times rainy, gloomy weather. Generally speaking, the world outside felt much harsher and colder compared to our warm interior. The outside world seemed ruthless, so we kept a certain distance and became aware of this difference between inside and outside.
- SS & LH
- How did the idea of holding an exhibition in the apartment for the No Name Painting Association come about? At that time, it wasn’t allowed to hold painting activities like this. The association was more like a private gathering.
- ZW
- By 1974, Chinese society had already become relatively more relaxed. State control over culture, literature, and art was not as severe as before. Although the authorities continued to insist that all cultural and artistic forms must serve the needs of the Party and remain tools for political propaganda, their political slogans were no longer as fierce as they had been during the harshest period of the Cultural Revolution. Things had loosened up slightly, giving those of us who painted more opportunities to gather.
I felt that we needed an opportunity to bring everyone’s work together, view them collectively, and communicate more concretely and consistently. A friend suggested organizing an exhibition. But then we thought, where could we host this? Beijing, the entire country, was under strict control by the central government, and hosting an event like this would have violated cultural policies. It could only have taken place in a private space. Only my home was relatively larger than others’, and only my mother didn’t care—in fact, she even supported it. - SS & LH
- Many of the paintings from the No Name Painting Association are similar and often small, emphasizing a spatial distance between inside and outside. Why was that?
- ZW
- Interiors represent your private space—your personal and intimate feelings. The other space is public, tied to public perception. They’re entirely different. One space you can control, adjust, and manage yourself; the other space is where others can control or manipulate you.
