Seventy-year-old ink painter Chen Jialing considers himself as young, energetic and naughty as a little boy. Over the past two decades the veteran artist has continuously developed his style and has always divided the art world.
Amid the deafening noise of electric saws and a repellent smell of lacquer, I found myself among a group of people in their late 30s scrutinizing doors in a small factory in a remote suburban village.
Du Yize and his friends are about to jump off a 3-meter tall building. They wear only T-shirts, jeans, trainers and have no protection at all. None of them hesitate to leap.
The bald-headed feng shui master examined my palms, studied my face, noted my time of birth, stared into my eyes and then slowly shuffled back behind his table in the quiet little Lijiang restaurant. He sipped his tea, leaned across the table and asked: "Do you trust me?"
She put a bib on me but I wasn't drooling yet. I was then told to bite down on a small plastic arm attached to a big machine that spun around my head examining the contents of my cranium. Thankfully, something was found - my teeth.
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