Tang Architecture: Modern Science Illuminates Ancient Craftsmanship (I)

In the first installment of what will be a two-part feature, we’ll talk about the historic quest to rediscover and preserve China’s Tang Dynasty wooden architecture, highlighting key discoveries, early investigations, and the challenges posed by time and restoration.

Transcript

Rediscovering Tang Architecture:  Modern Science Illuminates Ancient Craftsmanship (I)

In the first installment of what will be a two-part feature, we’ll talk about the historic quest to rediscover and preserve China’s Tang Dynasty wooden architecture, highlighting key discoveries, early investigations, and the challenges posed by time and restoration.

In July 1924, famed writer Lu Xun traveled to Xi’an, capital of western China’s Shaanxi Province. It was his only visit to the northwest in his lifetime.

The year before, he had poured his energy into compiling A Brief History of Chinese Fiction. During that time, he had a falling-out with his brother, so he bought property and moved into a new house, but the stress caused him to suffer a relapse of tuberculosis. Physically and financially drained, he accepted an invitation to teach at a summer school run by Northwest University, partly as a change of pace.

But another motivation also drew him there: for two or three years, he had been planning a novel titled Yang Guifei, who was the most prized concubine of Tang Emperor Xuanzong. Having already completed extensive research on the characters, historical background, and details, he felt that visiting Xi’an would spark further inspiration.

Things didn’t go as planned. His 20 days in Xi’an not only failed to inspire him – they extinguished his creative drive. Years later, he wrote to a friend: “Once I arrived, I found even the sky didn’t look like the Tang Dynasty’s. All the painstaking plans I’d conjured up through imagination collapsed. I haven’t written a single word to this day.”

His student Sun Fuyuan, who accompanied him, understood the disappointment best. He recalled that in Xi’an, “not a trace of the Tang people could be seen – only mountains and rivers, likely unchanged.”

The glorious Chang’an of old was long gone. Even before the Tang Dynasty’s final fall, the poet Wei Zhuang had lamented, “The former splendor lies buried; nothing familiar remains in sight.” A millennium later, even less remains. Apart from a few pagodas, stone carvings, and tombs, the architectural wonders of the Tang era have largely vanished. The grand scenes of “music and dance from all nations celebrating peace, palace towers gleaming under the moon” now survive only in texts and paintings – or perhaps in Japan, where echoes of Tang grandeur linger.

It was precisely for this reason that the Japanese scholar Sekino Tadashi once made a firm and sweeping claim: To study Tang Dynasty architecture, one must go to Nara.

His words were not unfounded. As the leading architectural historian to emerge after Japan’s Meiji Restoration, Sekino visited China multiple times. Over the course of more than two decades of fieldwork, he witnessed firsthand that “almost all wooden structures before the Ming Dynasty have disappeared,” repeatedly expressing his astonishment at “the sheer scale of destruction and neglect.”

In numerous writings, he stressed a consistent point: “Japan still preserves 30 to 40 buildings over a thousand years old, and 300 to 400 that are over 500 years old. Yet in China – a vast nation – I found no structures older than 1,000 years, and even those over 500 years are extremely rare.”

Sekino was not alone in this view. In a 1930 lecture, another Japanese scholar, Itō Chūta, similarly noted that when it comes to studying ancient Chinese architecture, “in China, one relies on documents; in Japan, on surviving artifacts.”

Ironically, his audience at the time was the newly founded Society for Research in Chinese Architecture – a group of pioneers in modern Chinese architectural studies, dedicated to the preservation of traditional Chinese buildings. Itō’s remark delivered a sobering blow, but also lit a fire under the society’s mission.

Just a year later, famed architect Liang Sicheng joined the society and quickly began conducting methodical surveys of ancient structures. He was laying the groundwork for what he hoped would become a comprehensive History of Chinese Architecture – a lifelong ambition he had set for himself while still studying in the United States.

Each expedition he launched was driven by one unwavering belief: Tang-era architecture must still exist in China.

From 1932 to 1937, Liang Sicheng and his wife Lin Huiyin, also an architect and their colleagues conducted several architectural surveys across more than 100 counties. They uncovered dozens of precious structures from the Song, Liao, Jin, and Yuan dynasties, significantly expanding the known boundaries of Chinese architectural history. Yet one deep regret remained: they still hadn’t found a single surviving wooden structure from the Tang Dynasty – their ultimate goal.

Then, unexpectedly, a breakthrough came. In June 1937, Liang, Lin, and two others traveled to Wutai Mountain in Shanxi Province. The trip was unplanned – they had originally intended to go to Dunhuang in Gansu Province, but due to the unstable political situation, had to change course. Their detour into the remote northern part of Shanxi was, however, far from random. In later writings, Liang described their route in detail:

“After reaching the county seat of Wutai, we bypassed Taihuai and turned north, heading straight for the southern outer ridge. We rode mules into the mountains, the steep trails winding dangerously along cliff edges, overlooking the fields below.”

The “Taihuai” mentioned here is what we now know as the Wutai Mountain Scenic Area. Buddhist temples began to appear there as early as the Eastern Han Dynasty, flourishing during the Northern and Southern Dynasties and reaching their peak in the Tang Dynasty. Cave 61 of the Mogao Grottoes in Dunhuang features a mural titled Illustration of Mount Wutai, depicting this golden age with dense temple complexes and throngs of monks.

In 1908, the French Sinologist Paul Pelliot photographed this mural and later published it in Illustrated Catalogue of the Dunhuang Grottoes. By chance, Liang Sicheng came across this volume and was particularly drawn to one temple in the painting: Big Foguang Temple. His journey to Shanxi was undertaken with a singular purpose – to find it.

According to Wang Xiaolong, deputy director of the Shanxi Institute for the Conservation of Ancient Architecture and Polychrome Art, the Illustration of Mount Wutai confirms the historical importance of Foguang Temple – but it doesn’t mean the temple remained prominent throughout history. He told The Context: “After all, it’s far from the core area of Mount Wutai. As time went on, especially by the Qing Dynasty, lasting from 1644 to 1911, Buddhist influence became concentrated in the central plains, and Foguang Temple was no longer as prosperous as it had been in the Tang.” 

Yet this decline turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Because the temple lost its former prestige, it was spared later renovations and embellishments, allowing its original structure to remain intact. As Liang Sicheng observed:

“Taihuai, the center of Wutai, is filled with temples and incense-burning pilgrims. The halls and pagodas have all been lavishly restored, shining with gold and jade, rebuilt with donations from wealthy officials and merchants. Yet in this sacred site of Manjushri Bodhisattva, few buildings from before the Ming and Qing survive.

Outside this core, however, the situation is quite different. Temples are more dispersed, remote, and harder to access. Pilgrims rarely venture out, incense offerings dwindle, and monks live in poverty, making restoration difficult. Paradoxically, such conditions are better suited for the preservation of ancient architecture.”

So, when the team finally arrived at Foguang Temple, although “Buddhism seemed to have faded, as if with the passing of a great monk,” they were still “awed and astonished.” The main hall, imposing and well-preserved, struck them immediately – it bore a strong resemblance to the central buildings depicted in the Pure Land murals at Dunhuang. Inside, they discovered an architectural marvel:

“Four tiers of elegant bracket sets without any horizontal tie beams, supported by rainbow-like curved beams stretching between the front and rear columns – refined, balanced, and unlike anything we had seen among Song or Liao structures in the north.”

The next day, they began their work in earnest. “Climbing at dawn and dusk, crouching into the rafters with bats and wall lice, scaling the internal frame of the hall to take precise measurements,” they documented every detail. Meanwhile, they searched for an inscription typically written on the ridge purlins.

A few days later, they spotted faint ink traces on four beams, though obscured by layers of later paint. Fortunately, Lin Huiyin was farsighted – at a glance, she made out a few crucial characters: “Disciple Ning Gongyu.”

According to legend, Foguang Temple was first built during the Northern Wei Dynasty, lasting from 386 to 535. The name “Foguang” (“Buddha’s Radiance”) came from a moment when the builder, passing by, saw a divine light spreading across the forested mountains. The original temple consisted of a Buddha hall with three bays and living quarters for over 10 monks. By the mid-Tang period, it had become a renowned temple, and the Chan master Faxing added a grand three-story Maitreya Pavilion.

Yet just two decades later, all of it was destroyed. It wasn’t until Emperor Xuanzong of Tang ascended the throne that the temple was rebuilt under the direction of a high-ranking monk named Yuancheng.

The reborn Foguang Temple erected a prayer banner in front of the newly completed main hall, engraved with the name of its benefactor – a female disciple named Ning Gongyu. Since banners were typically set up after the completion of a hall, and since the inscription on the beam matched that on the banner, it was reasonable to conclude that the eleventh year of the Dazhong era (857 CE) marked the completion of the hall.

At last, the long-sought wooden architecture from the Tang Dynasty had been found. And beyond the structure itself, it preserved original Tang-era murals, sculptures, and calligraphy – bringing together four traditional arts in one rare, tangible legacy.

Ecstatic, Liang Sicheng praised it effusively: “This is not only the sole Tang-era wooden hall our society has discovered after years of fieldwork – it is also the finest treasure among all ancient buildings in China.”

Lin Huiyin, more poetic than Liang, proposed they celebrate. After finishing the survey, she suggested they lay mats in front of the hall and have a picnic. The golden evening sun poured over them, bathing the ancient hall in warm light – as if the divine radiance from over 1,000 years ago had returned.

In fact, before discovering Foguang Temple, Liang had already encountered another structure that might date back to the Tang Dynasty. That was in April 1933, when he and his student Mo Zongjiang surveyed the Kaiyuan Temple in Zhengding, Hebei Province, and discovered a bell tower within its grounds.

The bell tower is divided into two levels. While the upper eaves were renovated in later times and reflect a Qing Dynasty style, the lower level and interior are distinctly different. Structurally, they closely resemble Liao and Song designs, with simplified and sturdy dougong (bracket sets) that suggest considerable antiquity. Liang Sicheng believed it was likely from the early Song – or even earlier – remarking, “If someone claimed it was a Tang structure, I couldn’t deny it.”

The temple’s bell record also identified the bell tower as dating from the Tang, though the inscription on the bell itself had been completely worn away, making verification impossible. Still, this “unexpected discovery” left a deep impression on Liang. Even in his 1944 History of Chinese Architecture, he recalled it vividly:

“The four interior columns are massive; the dougong above is imposing, and the curved beams are short but thick. Judging from its form, it is very likely a surviving structure from the Tang Dynasty.”

Today, this bell tower is often referred to as “half” a Tang-era building. The term “half” suggests two things: that only part of the original structure remains intact, and that – without more definitive evidence – the conclusion must remain provisional. As Professor Wang Guixiang of Tsinghua University’s School of Architecture put it: “We can’t say for certain that it isn’t from the Tang, but we also don’t have enough evidence to confidently say that it is.”

In 1979, Wang accompanied his mentor Mo Zongjiang back to revisit the bell tower, and still felt it carried a strong “Tang flavor.”

This “Tang flavor” comes from the structure’s overall form and specific details – a visual and intuitive method of dating. Wang explained to The Context that Tang wooden architecture can be distinguished by its beams, bracket sets, lan’e (decorative beam panels), and timber proportions – all of which differ markedly from later styles. Even structures built just decades apart often show subtle differences.

“One basic reference point for identifying buildings from the Tang, Song, Liao, and Jin dynasties,” Wang noted, “is the Yingzao Fashi (Treatise on Architectural Methods).”

In the professional field, identifying ancient architectural styles involves meticulous, multi-dimensional analysis. But in simpler terms, two of the most visible markers are the dougong (bracket sets) and the roof structure. In Tang-era wooden architecture, as Liang Sicheng and Lin Huiyin experienced upon first seeing the main hall of Foguang Temple, the defining features are “grand bracket sets, gently sloping roofs, and wide overhanging eaves.”

This style primarily arose from technical and structural needs. As critical load-bearing components in Tang architecture, the dougong had to be large and sturdy to ensure stability. Their height could reach up to half the height of the columns. To protect these protruding brackets from rain and wind, the roof eaves had to extend further outward. The roof’s shallow slope was partly due to construction constraints and also made it easier to hang roof tiles.

As construction techniques evolved and structural designs improved, these features began to change. For example, bracket sets became smaller over time – by the Ming and Qing dynasties, they were often just one-fifth the height of the columns or even less, serving more as decoration than structure.

Yet even while serving functional purposes, the overall design also emphasized aesthetic harmony. The result was a style that embodied a dignified, monumental power – one that reflected not only architectural ingenuity but also the aesthetics, culture, and worldview of the Tang era. Professor Ding Yao of Tianjin University’s School of Architecture said “Tang architecture is vibrant and full of life. It was the peak of Mahayana Buddhism.” He added that “By the Liao and Jin periods, that energy had faded. The sense of space and design had already shifted dramatically within just a few decades. After the Song and Yuan, with the revival of Confucianism, architecture became solemn, serene, and less expressive.”

That’s why Liang Sicheng divided ancient Chinese architecture into three stylistic periods: the “bold and vigorous” period of the Tang and Liao, the “harmonious and refined” period of the Song and Yuan, and the “constrained and formal” period of the Ming and Qing.

Well, that’s the end of part one of our podcast on Tang Dynasty architecture. And we hope you’ll tune in next time for part 2. Our theme music is by the famous film score composer Roc Chen. We want to thank our writer Xu Pengyuan, translator Wang Yuyan, and copy editor Pu Ren. And thank you for listening. We hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, please tell a friend so they, too, can understand The Context.