“Look,” my father points to an oversized fan hanging on the wall. On it are the names and faces of the Eight Eccentrics, those infamous painters from the same town as him who broke with tradition to show the world in all its absurdity. Across the top of the fan are four characters:
难得糊涂
“Nan de hutu. Difficult to be confused,” he translates. “It’s easy to be clever, but difficult to be confused. The Eight Eccentrics knew this. You of all people need to know this.”
I am confused.
“Hutu is an important stage of life. If you can, declare yourself stupid!”