Red reveals, black conceals. And between these two lies the art of lacquer, which has captivated the Chinese imagination for millennia.

Drawing on 80 pieces from the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco, alongside works from Chinese institutions, including Beijing's Palace Museum and the Suzhou Museum collection, the Suzhou Museum in Jiangsu province presents an exhibition spanning the 10th to the early 20th centuries, during which lacquer craftsmanship reached its height and entered everyday life.

In objects both refined and functional, red and black emerge not as mere colors, but as a visual language — one that once illuminated painted scenes of boudoirs and tearooms alike, and continues to gesture toward a world once restrained and richly adorned.

"The long tradition of lacquerware production in East Asia, particularly along the middle and lower reaches of the Yangtze River, is closely tied to the lacquer tree, which thrives in the region's warm, humid climate," says Xi Zhe, the exhibition's curator. He notes that archaeological discoveries indicate that China's earliest use of lacquerware dates back nearly 8,000 years.

"Our ancestors soon discovered that lacquerware, light and seemingly fragile, is remarkably durable. A protective lacquer coating — typically applied over a carefully shaped wooden form — prevents erosion and decay, allowing such objects to endure even when buried as funerary objects.

"Such attributes may explain lacquerware's early adoption in China; yet it was its artistic possibilities, say, the range of expression it affords, that secured its lasting appeal," Xi says.

First is black, which emerges through a process known as curing, during which the lacquer tree's pale, milky sap gradually darkens as it oxidizes. Yet this effect is far from effortless.

Dozens, even hundreds, of layers upon layers must be applied, each drying to a deeper tone under carefully controlled humidity, until the surface acquires its characteristic density and sheen.

"The result is a black that is not flat but saturated, carrying a sense of weight, refinement, and understated authority," Xi says. "For me, it is not simply a color, but a depth achieved through time and process."

According to Clarissa von Spee, curator of Chinese art at the Cleveland Museum of Art in the United States, the dominant aesthetic of China in the Song Dynasty (960–1279) was defined by "understated refinement": an ideal embraced in its own time and later revered, though seldom equaled, by generations that followed. Today, black lacquerware from that period, whether a tea tray, an incense burner with faint traces, or a food container, stands as a quiet testament to an age that valued restraint: a belief that not every effort seeks immediate notice, but is instead reserved for the discerning eye and the receptive mind.

Yet, this was no tyranny of black. Striking patches of red appear on a lacquer-coated wooden bowl dating back some 7,000 years, unearthed at a Neolithic site in Yuyao, in eastern China's Zhejiang province. The pigment, produced by blending natural lacquer with cinnabar, is a testament to the technical sophistication of early Chinese artisans, achieved at a time when the civilization itself was still in its infancy.

If anything, the bowl appears to anticipate the course of Chinese lacquer-making, in which red and black hold equal sway, stand in perfect balance, and lend the other depth and meaning. Other colors, such as green and yellow, were also achieved by mixing natural lacquer with indigo and realgar pigments, yet they never disrupted this delicate duet.

This pairing often unfolds in alternating layers of black and red, built up to a thickness that allows the artisan's blade to cut deep. At times, the upper layers are selectively removed according to the design, revealing the contrasting color beneath and carving the surface into a relief. At others, the blade is angled to slice away a section, exposing the stratified layers in cross-sections, like a finely layered cake.

So distinctive are the black and red that, in paintings of ancient China, their presence readily identifies an object as lacquerware. The current exhibition includes several such works, most notably a 16th-century reinterpretation of the 12th-century handscroll Qingming Shanghe Tu (Along the River During the Qingming Festival), which marks an early spring observance in which families honor their ancestors while celebrating the renewal of life in nature.

While the original is celebrated for its extraordinary detail and narrative breadth, offering a richly observed, almost cinematic depiction of everyday life, commerce, and society in a thriving premodern city, the later version by renowned Ming Dynasty painter Qiu Ying (c. 1498-1552) closely follows its model while extending the composition to nearly 10 meters, almost doubling the length of the original.

Amid this unfolding tableau, where merchants, travelers, officials, and laborers move in a carefully ordered rhythm of daily life, lacquerware appears with a quiet yet unmistakable presence: in a shop selling pastries and fruit, as a lacquered bamboo basket; in a painting and antique store, as a tray for painted scrolls; and in the roofed parlor of a well-to-do household, as an incense box and a red lacquer chair.

There is even a shop marked by a signboard hanging from the eaves, reading "gilt-decorated lacquerware". Here appears a third color, gold, applied not as pigment but as finely prepared metal, either in powder composed of minute particles that may be dusted onto a fresh lacquer surface, or mixed into a binding medium for more controlled application, or in leaf, hammered into ultra-thin sheets and laid onto still-tacky lacquer, where it bonds with the surface as it cures.

Used sparingly and with discernment, gold enters as a bright accent, illuminating the interplay of red and black.

The stories of some lacquerware on display are revealed through inscriptions on their surfaces, typically in red lacquer. In some cases, owners added their names and purchase dates. In other cases, the inscriptions served as advertisements, recording the workshop, location, date of production, and claims of the wares being "very durable".

"Such claims are borne out by the objects themselves: a millennium on, they remain largely intact, still receiving admiration; this time, from our museum visitors," Xi says.

"Compared with porcelain, lacquerware is lighter and less easily broken. Built up in numerous layers to a certain thickness, the lacquered surface of a food container forms an effective insulating barrier, helping to retain the warmth of the food inside."

Quite often, the core of a lacquer object, such as a bowl, is not carved from a single block of wood but constructed through concentric layering in which thin strips of wood or bamboo are bent into rings and built upon each other to form the vessel's shape.

"Why go to such lengths? With a single block of wood, it is difficult to achieve the desired thinness of the vessel wall, which contributes to the lightness of the finished piece," Xi explains."As the wall is worked thinner and thinner, it becomes easy to chisel through. By building the core from thin strips, this problem is avoided."

Such structural ingenuity is hidden underneath the lacquered layers that encase the vessel — once again, with a piece of lacquerware, not all reveals itself at first glance.

All this considered, the finest lacquerware is often old. "Throughout the entire process, each layer is patiently, almost endlessly, polished before the next is applied. Yet no master can rival time in this regard,"Xi concedes. "Time softens the polished sheen, returning in its place a black that absorbs rather than reflecting it — a black that whispers to us from the depths of history."