DEPARTMENT:

Mr.
Narcissus

by Tamara Moan

Gilman Hu sits at the dining table in his Manoa home, examining several bulbs spread out on newspaper in front of him. Each bulb sports a crop of short, green, tender shoots. They look like garlic on steroids, but they actually are fragrant narcissus plants, symbols of purity and good luck associated with Chinese New Year.

Hu, 76, is a master of the nearly lost art of narcissus carving, which, through delicate sculpting, transforms the plants into magnificent works of art.

Narcissus resembles miniature white and yellow daffodils. Ordinarily, they grow tall and straight, but through carving, they can be manipulated into fanciful shapes mimicking teapots, birds, fish and more.

Above: As Gilman Hu demonstrates, narcissus carving requires the skill, keen eyes and steady hands of a surgeon. Right: Lovely creations by Hu’s students, such as this one, will be displayed at the Academy Art Center in February. Photos courtesy of the Honolulu Academy of Arts.

Hu explains that narcissus lends itself to carving because of its axial growth pattern, meaning the arms of the bulb grow on a single plane. The artist works only on one side of this plane, “scarring” or damaging the edge of the leaves so that as the plant grows, the leaves assume curves suggesting crab claws.

“Each narcissus leaf has two edges, left and right, just like a car’s tires,” Hu explains. “If you accelerate forward, the car will go straight, but if there’s uneven braking pressure on the left side, the car will swerve to the left. Similarly, if we damage the left side of a narcissus leaf, a scab forms, which will keep the left side from growing normally; it will cause it to curl.”

Hu lifts a flat metal tool from his yellow plastic toolbox. One end is a sharp blade; the other looks like a tiny shoehorn that he uses to lift and separate sections of embryonic leaves. This tool is made in China, but others in his chest are castoffs from surgical and dental offices.

First, Hu slices a straight line along the base of the narcissus plant’s main bulb. He then gently peels off layers to expose the leaves’ edges. He now can see how many shoots he has to work with.

As he gently cuts and lifts, the flower pouch slowly is revealed. This is where most beginners make a mistake. “The whole idea is to not damage the flower pouch,” Hu says. “It’s delicate, like the cornea of the eye. Even the back of a knife can damage it.”

Top, above and page 36: A dragon, a bird and a basket carved by artisans in China. Photos courtesy of Gilman Hu. Page 37: This design by one of Hu’s students shows there is beauty in asymmetry. Photo courtesy of the Honolulu Academy of Arts.

The tiny pouch is slightly lumpy—a thin, ivory-colored membrane covering potential blooms. Its yellowish stem can be scarred like the leaves to cause curling. An experienced carver learns exactly how much damage to inflict to achieve the desired effect.

Most of Hu’s new students work with inexpensive, less-than-perfect bulbs. “Some students with money buy the best bulbs,” he says, “but you don’t learn to drive with a new Cadillac, you learn with an old Jeep so if you do any damage, it’s not a big deal.”

Once carved, a bulb is set in water to grow; for optimum results, the water must be changed once or twice a day. In 17 to 20 days, depending on the temperature (bulbs bloom faster in warm weather), beautiful flowers appear. Blooming usually is timed to coincide with the Chinese lunar new year, the 14 days following the second new moon after winter solstice. Part of the appeal of narcissus is practical; it is one of the few flowers that can bloom in winter.

Professionally, Hu is an architect. He got involved with narcissus carving in 1978, after his two daughters left home to attend college and he went through a spell as an orchid grower. Memories of his grandfather carving bulbs piqued his interest in narcissus. No one of his own generation seemed to remember it.

Hu found that narcissus carving had died in Hawaii largely because of World War II, which disrupted shipping of the plants from China. Dating back perhaps 1,000 years, the art endures there, particularly in its birthplace, Zhangzhou in Fujian province on China’s east coast between Hong Kong and Shanghai. Hu and his wife Ruth often go there to learn more about narcissus and to study carving methods.

Since 1985, Hu, in turn, has taught the art to over 900 students in Hawaii and on the Mainland, encouraging them to teach others, too. Students can learn the basic techniques in three hours, but it takes years to refine them.

“Like typing or riding a bicycle, you improve your skills with practice,” notes Hu. “And you can easily pick up narcissus carving again no matter how long you’ve been away from it.”

In addition to the Honolulu Academy of Arts (see sidebar), Hu has taught classes in California, New York, Virginia, Washington, D.C. and Maryland, where he found an ardent following among Vietnamese professionals. One of them dubbed him “Mr. Narcissus.” The man noticed a blooming crab-claw narcissus at a Buddhist temple in Annapolis—an offering from one of Hu’s former students. To reach Hu, the man addressed a letter to “Mr. Narcissus, Honolulu Academy of Arts, Honolulu.” The letter found its way to Hu and the nickname stuck.

When it’s not narcissus season, Hu keeps busy with architectural projects and travels with Ruth; they’ve explored Vietnam, Prague, Budapest, Turkey, Egypt, China’s Silk Road, Thailand, Italy, England, Germany and France. Come December, they usually head to China for a visit to narcissus country. In January, he’s back in Hawaii to teach.

Hu has nurtured an expanding network of narcissus enthusiasts. He receives inquiries from around the world for bulbs, tools that he imports from China, and information about carving and teaching methods. “Now I’m even exporting the tradition,” Hu says with obvious delight. “That’s the fun of it—seeing where the ripples of interest go.”

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