BISU

If, in Journey to the West, the gourds of the Gold-Horned and Silver-Horned Kings could capture all in the universe with a single call—“Answer me!”—then another gourd born in Beijing’s Sanjianfang area holds within it time, craftsmanship, and a lifetime’s devotion.

The sunlight here always feels extraordinarily gentle. Sanjianfang has long been known as a “village of culture”, where such folk arts as hairy monkey figurines, diabolo spinning, Peking Opera masks, Chinese ink painting, and many forms of intangible cultural heritage have lived side by side. Kang Juxiang’s studio lies quietly among them.

Kang Juxiang is a nationally recognized representative inheritor of the intangible cultural heritage of gourd inlay. His ancestors once worked for the imperial court as court craftsmen. The family’s original skill was not gourd work, but furniture-making. During the Ming and Qing Dynasties, the furnishings of wealthy households prized Baibao Qian (Hundred Treasures Inlay), embedding mother-of-pearl and stones into wood so that shifting light and shadow played across the surface.

In 1912, with the abdication of the last Qing emperor, court artisans left the palace. With luxury furniture losing its market, Kang’s ancestors did not abandon their craft; instead, they turned to the gourds growing in their courtyard—humble, inexpensive, found in nearly every household, with hard shells and naturally graceful curves, perfectly suited to bear  inlay work. Thus “gourd  inlay with mother-of-pearl” was born, later evolving into today’s gourd inlay, quietly passed down through four generations of the Kang’s family from the heart of the imperial city into everyday neighborhoods.

As the fourth-generation heir of the name “Hulu Kang” (Grourd Kang), Kang Juxiang began learning the craft at age six from his grandfather. Over the years, his life took many turns—schooling, military service, managerial positions—  yet his hands never left the gourd. In the 1970s and 1980s, while living and working near Beijing’s 798 Art District, he would go to his job by day and return home at night to study gourds. “Even back then,” he recalls, “I felt that if my hands stopped, my heart would feel empty.”

What truly brought the craft into the spotlight was film and television. In the 1980s, production teams for series such as Journey to the West and Dream of the Red Chamber, and others came to Beijing seeking suitable gourd props. Recommended to him, Kang studied the scripts for days, carefully weighing the personalities of the characters. He chose a gourd broad in the middle and narrow at the mouth, first branding cloud patterns, finishing the rim with silver wire, and inlaying a small piece of lapis lazuli into the belly. The crew instantly approved “This is exactly the right feel.” That wordless gourd quietly carried the old craft into millions of homes via television.

After retiring in 2002, Mr. Kang moved to Sanjianfang, converting several single-story houses into a dedicated studio, and devoting himself fully to gourd work. With support from the Sanjianfang Township Party–Mass Service Center in Chaoyang District, an intangible cultural heritage studio gradually took shape. Shelves now displays works from decades: wine pots, Buddhist statues, floral and animal series, and scholar’s desk water droppers. The water droppers reveal the greatest ingenuity: the gourd’s walls must be shaved extremely thin, hand-polished to both hold water and pour steadily. “You must follow the gourd’s nature,” Mr. Kang says. “Force never works.” 

Gourd inlay looks delicate but is in truth a “slow and painstaking craft”. A complex piece can take over twenty days from selecting the gourd to completion. The thin gourd wall cannot tolerate fire; it relies on time and tactile control for materials to set naturally. Silver wire is drawn repeatedly from copper and silver, requiring strength without stiffness. Colors follow ancient recipes: minerals like lapis lazuli are ground to powder and bonded with traditional adhesives, able to endure a hundred years without fading. Mr. Kang often says, “This work takes more than ten years to master.” Today, few if any other places in China continue this particular style of gourd inlay.

Yet preserving this craft is not enough—Kang Juxiang also adapts to the changing times. He runs his own gourd plantation, intervening from the seed stage: during growth, he shapes the gourds with ropes, wooden boards, and customed molds so that they develop into different shapes naturally. Nezha, Bing Dwen Dwen (the Olympic mascot), and other auspicious symbols have been  “grown” into the gourds. Drawing on experience, he can even judge future size and shape from a seed. Being herbaceous, gourds have a long growing cycle; whether large or small, they need about three months to mature — “ Do not rush them.”

More important than the craft itself is its transmission. Over the years, Mr. Kang has taken on more than ten apprentices across three generations. On weekends, the studio brims with life: university students, retired elders, and neighborhood children gather around a table, learning stroke by stroke from pyrography to inlay. He frequently teaches in communities and schools, sets up booths at temple fairs, and introduces his work to foreign visitors.

“Skills are never burdens” is a phrase he often repeats. As a Party member of more than fifty years, he prefers to describe himself simply as “someone putting remaining warmth to use.” He has also supported gourd growers in Dacheng Village, Hebei Province, helping form a specialized village—grain grows on the ground, gourds hang above. A humble plant has been given higher economic and cultural value.

Now 75, Mr. Kang is known among acquaintances as true and generous. He enjoys exchanging ideas with younger generation and remains open to learning—sharing techniques with artisans from places like Liaocheng, Shandong—so that the craft endures through movement and connection.

At dusk, sunlight streams through the window, bathing the gourds in the room with a warm glow. Mr. Kang places the day’s finished a small gourd craft Fu Lu (Fu for blessing, Lu for prosperity) by the window. A breeze sets the gourd swaying gently, releasing soft rustling sounds. Outside, children’s laughter blends with the indoor tones. And the stories hidden inside the gourds gradually travel from one studio into the wider world. Silent but not lifeless, they store meaning in form; subtle but not sparse, their lingering charm spans time. In this flow and spread, the old craft is no longer mere preserved memory, but a living culture—received by generation after generation, and echoed again and again by the world.