Mick Hartley

When I used to work near the British Museum I’d regularly pop in during my lunch break. I started out exploring different galleries, with some kind of auto-didactic dream that over the course of the years I’d get to familiarise myself with the whole history of human civilisation, but frankly my enthusiasm for self-improvement didn’t last long. The Egyptian stuff, for instance….too many parties of school children, too many mummies, too much bombast. After a while I developed a routine: through the Great Court and up to Room 33, the Asia Gallery, at the back, on the first floor; then a right turn to the end (it’s a long room)…and there he was.

He’s a luohan, or arhat, from the Liao Dynasty (AD 907–1125). Someone who’s realised the goal of nirvana. The description underneath notes his “sombre dignity and power”, which seems about right to me, though I’d maybe lose the “sombre” – nothing grim about this fellow. He radiates serenity, calm, and yes, power. Here he is in the British Museum catalogue, and here posing – somewhat unflatteringly, I think – against a white background.

This figure was made in the Liao dynasty, following the sculptural traditions developed in the Tang dynasty (AD 618-906). It was found with seven others, in a cave in Yi county, Hebei province, northern China. All but one are now in Western museums.

A luohan (Sanskrit: arhat) was a disciple of the Buddha. The luohans had magical powers and could stay alive indefinitely to preserve the Buddha’s teachings. In China, they were often shown in groups of sixteen.

Sets of luohan figures were placed along the side walls of a temple’s entrance, or in groups of pairs on either side of the main Buddha figure. To show respect for the humanity and compassion in their teachings, they were often made to look like particular individuals, with strongly characterized features. This example, with his calm, serious face, represents the aspiration of the educated man to attain enlightenment.

I went again today. I went to see China Late: Birds, Flowers and Insects, which is one of those wonderful free British Museum exhibitions which count among the joys of living in London. But of course, as I always do when I visit, I had to look in to see my luohan.

He’s still there, looking down the length of the gallery:

Nothing bothers him: not the laughing colleague on his left, nor the streams of visitors who peer at him, or take his picture, or sit on the bench in front of him fiddling with their mobile phones.

I always found him inspiring. Still do. I’m not entirely sure why.