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Last week in Manhattan's Chinatown, eminent Chinese, art lovers, sympathizers gathered in Lichee Wan's Restaurant to pay respects to an aging and ailing little thin-bearded man with a quick smile, bright eyes and fleet gestures-Chang Shan-tse of Chungking. His mission: to raise money to buy medical supplies for beleaguered China. In a garret studio, from 6 a. m. until nightfall he could be found feverishly painting $$o-up duplicates of water colors whose originals had brought $1,500 in China. Their soft mauves, greens and umbers, their economically limned designs of rocky landscapes...
...Soon Chang was making drawings of their pranks and slithering movements, studying feline anatomy with a keen and youthful eye. Chang's Roman Catholic mother, an informed amateur of her country's art, never sent him to school. Instead, his fresh talent was nourished by observing nature and studying the old Chinese masters. By the time he reached 16, Chang was also writing poems, verse so good that it attracted the attention of distinguished Chinese men of letters. This was an omen not to be taken lightly, for no Chinese artist may hope to succeed unless...
When he grew up Chang moved to Chungking, married, became the "tiger painter" of his people. Even as a young man he was recognized as unsurpassed among China's 20th Century painter-poets. And throughout a 50-year career important breeders never failed to keep him supplied with the finest tigers available. One pet insisted upon acting as a pillow for Chang and his little daughter at night, another made nocturnal excursions to the bedroom for regular handouts of eggs...
...Chang's tigers never hurt anyone, but last year the enemies of Chang's people, the Japanese, flew their planes over...
Chungking and when they flew away they left many of Chang's people dead behind them-and all of Chang's tigers. Chang left Chungking...