Beyond words: My cross-cultural journey in Chinese art

I started my PhD program in art history at Peking University last September, and now I'm nearly halfway through my second semester. My research currently focuses on the development of Buddhist iconography in China and the art of the great Buddhist grottoes. The intellectual side of things has been quite overwhelming in the best way possible, but the slower and less glamorous process of learning and living in China has shaped me in the past year in ways I hadn't expected.

I had already earned my master's degree at Peking University, so I didn't think I was stepping into something completely new. But a PhD is different from anything that comes before it. It expects a completely different type of presence and commitment to academic requirements. Almost immediately after starting, I noticed a change in the way I related to the people and the spaces around me. During my master's study, I carried this idea of myself and my studies as somewhat isolated from the rest of the university, mostly due to my limited Chinese language skills, but also due to the immense research effort I saw in the students around me, with whom I didn't quite connect. 

After starting my PhD studies, I regularly found myself in long conversations with professors whose works I've been reading since my undergraduate studies, and who actively show interest in my own future work and have expectations about it. Attending seminar classes taught entirely in Chinese didn't become any less exhausting, but being included in such discussions is gratifying enough. At the same time, discussions with classmates about our previous and current research feel like a constant way to improve both my Chinese skills and my knowledge of the subject.

Furthermore, I've joined various research groups that reach well beyond my narrow topic of interest. We read about ancient societies and religious structures, burial practices, historiography, archaeological studies, and the deep ancient connections between China and other civilizations such as the ancient Indian, Iranian, and Hellenistic civilizations. I think it's quite funny, honestly, to be a Brazilian in Beijing studying Buddhist art. It feels like a weird continuity of ancient moments in which distant peoples connected over something shared, such as religion. It makes the ancient world feel less disconnected and more like another presence that continues to shape our current reality.

Interestingly, the hardest but also the most rewarding part of this experience has nothing to do with the academic setting. It's been the language. When I first came to China to seek my master's degree, my Chinese skills were elementary. Simple things such as making a phone call or explaining minor health problems to a doctor would leave me completely drained. The act of simply living in the environment of Peking University is nothing short of amazing for improving your language skills, but my progress has manifested more consistently outside the classroom. It happens thanks to the small moments of patience from my classmates who repeat themselves and correct me without a semblance of judgment; the now-familiar workers around campus who correct my tones in an always warm manner; and the long study sessions where I'm struggling to explain my research and someone promptly offers the word I couldn't find. In the constancy of these moments, I could then perceive a shift. I no longer needed to prepare and train myself on what to say before every big interaction. I was joining more and more complex discussions and, just as importantly, having personal conversations—about my life back home, everyday life complaints, and the stress of writing papers. The first time I realized I had purposefully made someone laugh in Chinese, I felt a fundamental change in the depth of my interactions.

I now understand that, while it's very much possible to study Chinese history and culture in most languages, there's a significant change when you begin to understand those subjects in Chinese itself. The rich use of historical referencing and wordplay that comes so easily to Chinese writers loses its charm through translation. More importantly, though, you become more present for the people around you, and also for yourself, in a way that makes every moment more real. I believe my knowledge of Chinese art and thought is improving well beyond the stipulations of my program's requirements, and it is largely due to my constant effort to hear Chinese people discuss their own traditions among themselves.

None of this makes me unusual. Thousands of international students come to China every year and endure the same tough and messy process of adaptation to a completely new environment. I'm still early in my studies and far from making any significant contribution as a student. All the hours I've spent studying and doing research in the school library feel inconsequential alone and so small compared to everything I still wish to learn. But when I think back to the person who landed in China almost three years ago, unable to string two Chinese sentences together, it's easy to see that something has genuinely changed—and not just my language skills. 

The author is a Brazilian PhD student at Peking University.