By Lisa Carducci

Belonging to the sixth generation of embroiderers, Ajiahan has become a symbol of this art. She learned embroidery from her mother at the age of 13. When I arrived at her place in Shazaojing, a village of Kumul ("Hami" in Chinese), the sun penetrated the smallest crevices, and anything that could shine shined in the large room where Ajiahan assembled her works and trophies.

In this village of 1,818 inhabitants, 98 percent are Uyghur. Ajiahan was born in 1952 to an agricultural family. She attended compulsory school – primary and middle school. She understood Chinese better than she spoke it, but we needed an interpreter – a young woman who also practices embroidery.

Ajiahan(L) and Lisa(R) [Foreign Languages Press]

Ajiahan's mother was also a famous embroiderer, but her daughter surpassed her, especially by marketing her work. Since 1985, Ajiahan has often been invited to give demonstrations or to teach in various places around the country. "I don't like to move," she said, "and I don't even have time." Ajiahan is a wife and a mother, and she has made a point of continuing her career without neglecting these aspects of her life. Even during the great Sino-Japanese Exhibition of farmer paintings held in Beijing in 1988, "my works went there, but not me," said Ajiahan, who also paints, in a burst of laughter. Her absence didn't prevent her from winning first prize with Spring Labor, which is an homage to the abolition of the agricultural commune system and to the privatization of the land.

I politely asked to see this work of about one sq m. She didn't have it anymore; not even a photograph. It remained in Beijing. She could only show me its draft and the trophy it won. Ajiahan has accumulated eight prizes up to now.

Self-taught like the majority of the peasant painters, Ajiahan also practices the art of paper-cutting. However, for her, paper-cutting is only one of the preparatory stages of her embroidery, as models to be transferred on fabric before stitching. She creates her exclusive models which require several starts, because correction is impossible. "If I make a mistake, I must throw the piece out and start over again," she said.

Ajiahan drew from between the pages of a large book her best paper-cut models, 20 or 25. Some were ruffled, others folded. She thought of publishing them in a catalogue for posterity. While I was spreading them out to take a photo, Ajiahan confided in me that she usually didn‘t show them to journalists. For me, she had made an exception. That was what it meant to come from afar!

On this subject, I would like to relate an anecdote. In Beijing where I have been living for more than 16 years, I very often pass for a Uyghur. The most astonishing thing is that the Uyghurs themselves think I am one of theirs. When I say jokingly to the Han that I am Uyghur, no one ever doubts me. In Xinjiang, for two weeks, I travelled in the company of the Han; however, it is I that the Uyghur police officer addressed, in "our" language, to explain why the traffic was blocked. Another day, when my Han driver asked for the way, the Uyghur passer-by who didn't speak Chinese fluently changed languages as soon as he saw me in the car and addressed his explanation to me.

Another Ajiahan's work that won a prize is the Cockfight, a favourite entertainment of the Uyghur people. The artist surprised me by her perspicacity and especially her audacity in a painting done in 1992. The Back Door is a multidimensional work showing a man bribing for favours, and is also a critic of piracy and fraud. At that time, the local authorities believed it preferable not to expose such a critical painting, but, today, China is opened and citizens can express themselves more freely. To paint the Mosque, the artist had to return to the spot 15 times because then, women could not enter mosques and there were always missing details that she had not sufficiently observed.

Among Ajiahan's collection was a large, silk crepe shawl that she kept despite the rips, and another one that she planned to do again, she said, because the silk was not of good enough quality. There was also a very old doppa embroidered by one of her ancestors, but she didn't know who wore it. I found the doppas on the rack very attractive, and I decided that it was time for me to get one, since it was my third visit to Xinjiang. Doppa means "daily life necessity." Ajiahan showed me the differences between those for men and those for women, and, as she wanted to offer me a gift, she invited me to choose one I liked.