Hello, [ name ]
Calligraphy · joined Jun 2025 · currently L1
Incense, whisked tea, a hanging scroll and flowers, around one long table in a Zhuanta Hutong courtyard. By application, bilingual, for international educators in Beijing.
After a term in Suzhou, Danielle and Bingfei passed the Level One examination. Certificates were issued by the China Floral Art Heritage Association and signed by Zhang Yanya.
Following our visit, the first trip proper: a day at Tianzhen Garden in Wuqing, Tianjin, with the fourth-generation holder of Li-style Taiji.
Our first public lecture-workshop, held at PKU Science Park, led by inlay craftsman Zou Yu. Every participant finished a piece of their own.
A long conversation at Tianzhen Garden with the fourth-generation holder of Li-style Taiji, about how a culture starts happening again in young people.
XENNI was started by students working across different fields and incubated at Peking University. We have no wish to call ourselves protectors. A civilisation does not need protecting; it needs to be understood, continued, and given a meaning that belongs to now.
Eight of us, from Tsinghua and Peking University, brought together by one conviction — that heritage does not belong only in museums. From art history and design to law, management and film, each of us works at it a different way.
Meet the whole team · About XENNI →Twelve seats to a salon; journeys are capped. Pick one, fill in the form or scan, and we confirm on WeChat.
Past work · what we've done →Tea, incense, flowers, painting — the Song made a whole afternoon of four idle things. Twelve seats, four teachers working alongside you. Not a demonstration.
Not coming to China to watch a New Year, but staying up in the mountains and actually keeping one.
Rooted in the Tsinghua and Peking University communities, in the old red-walled hutongs: five crafts practised as an ordinary habit. Workshops weekly, exhibitions monthly, certification yearly.
University tour, workshops and exhibition. September 2026, at Columbia and NYU — a Chinese tradition shown as something still alive.
Not fast, just regular. At your own pace, one check-in at a time.
The first two areSharing— coming counts. The last two areLineage— actually studying under a teacher.
Some of Chinese culture you can see through glass. Some of it you only come to know by sitting down beside someone who actually does it.
We do three things: an afternoon at a table, a few days away, and a long stretch of study under a teacher. Below is what we have done, and what we can build for institutions.
Incense, whisked tea, a hanging scroll, flowers — around one long table. The people who make these things are in the room, and afterwards everyone sits and talks. No background needed.
Not a tour group. A small journey built around particular people, a particular craft and a particular place — you stay, and you live a day or several the way they do.
Genuinely studying under a master. Lin School floral art, Level One, is ten lessons with a certificate from the association; the seven-day intensive is for 14–18s, running each spring and summer from 2027.
Every event is a meeting, and every meeting leaves something behind. What follows is both our past work and the evidence of what we can do.
The same masters and the same method, rearranged around your space, your numbers and your timetable. That is how the projects at Tsinghua Art Museum, PKU Science Park and PKU Centennial Hall were built.
Our gatherings follow the solar terms — one a month, sometimes in the city, sometimes well outside it.
One table a month, following the solar terms.
On the last Saturday of September we set one long table. We make sweets, drink tea, look at flowers, warm some incense — and leave time to sit and talk properly.
Tea, incense, flowers and painting: the Song called them the four idle pursuits. We start there. One afternoon, four old habits, and a day that runs a little slower.
On the last Saturday of September, we're setting a long table. There'll be tea, sweets to make, flowers and incense. And plenty of time to sit around the table and talk.
In the Song, a decent afternoon was built from four things: one censer, one bowl of tea whisked on the spot, one scroll hung for the day, one vase on the table. Together they turn a room into somewhere worth staying.
The sweets are what everyone makes together. Pressed in wooden moulds into lotus, peach and blossom shapes, barely sweet, following the season. The technique borrows from wagashi; the shapes and flavours follow the Song calendar.
No experience needed. Whatever you make is boxed up and goes home with you.
Chinese floral art entered the national heritage register in 2008. The craft itself predates the register by a thousand years and more.
This one is for international educators in Beijing — teachers and heads of department at international schools, admissions and programme staff, counsellors, and anyone running cultural or co-curricular work.
Bilingual throughout. No background in tea, flowers or Chinese is needed. What matters is curiosity — and being someone the person beside you is glad to have met.
Our gatherings follow the solar terms — one a month, sometimes in the city, sometimes well outside it.
Not a gift box. Each season we choose one Chinese object that belongs to that season, numbered, with a card naming its maker and method — and a short piece of our own writing about why it is worth keeping.
This is a pressed cake of White Peony, made in 2023 in Fuding, Fujian. What makes it particular is not the number on the wrapper. It is that this one cup holds, at the same time, a maker, a place, a craft — and a stretch of time nobody can go back and get again.
Born 1945 in Bailiu village, Diantou, Fuding, into a tea family — his grandfather Mei Bozhen was a pioneer of the Fuding white tea export trade.
In 2011 he was recognised as a provincial holder of the Fuding white tea processing craft; in December 2012 he entered the fourth national batch as a representative holder of white tea processing.
The other thing he has spent these years doing is giving the craft away — training growers through a cooperative, and leaving the industry the picking and withering standards he worked out himself.
Sunlight, humidity, wind, and the different state of the leaf on any given day all have to be felt rather than measured. That is the whole of the craft, and why so much of it is judgement.
Fuding sits in the north-east of Fujian, warm and often under fog, and it is one of the most important places white tea comes from at all.
The white in white tea is the silver down on the surface of the bud. Unlike the teas that are rolled and fired, this one is left as far alone as possible — the leaf changes in time, air and sunlight rather than in a pan.
Because so little is done and so little water is left, white tea keeps. There is an old way of putting it — a year a tea, three years a medicine, seven years a treasure — and what it is really describing is that the tea goes on changing while it sits.
Young, it is fresh and clear. Kept a long time, the scent and the body settle down and turn into another register altogether.
一年茶、三年药、七年宝
This cake became tea in 2023. Every year since, it has gone on changing slowly. That year's weather, that year's leaf, that maker's hands, and all the time since are part of what is now in the cup.
Very deep, very low in saturation, close to indigo. In dim light the box reads almost black; under a lamp the blue comes back, and the gold with it. A colour that has to be looked at twice.
Rinse quickly, then pour short and lengthen each steep as you go. Don't judge it on the first cup — what is interesting about a kept white tea is how it changes from one steep to the next. After several, the spent leaf can go in a pot and be simmered.
This is the first of them — a strand of beads for the wrist, and one plain jade ring the size of a small moon.
We did not want to hand anyone “a Buddhist bracelet.” We wanted an object that lets you walk into something older and quieter: a Chinese way of seeing built on stillness, roundness, incense, and the moon.
我们不想只告诉人「这是一串有佛教意义的手串」。我们想做的是:让人通过一件可以佩戴的东西,进入中国人关于静、圆、香、月的一套审美。
When the water moves, the moon scatters. When the water stills, the moon is whole again — and it was never broken. Nothing was added to it, and nothing had to be repaired. Only the water changed.
水有波时,月影离散;水静下来,月仍自圆。月从未碎过,也没有谁去修补它。变的只是水。
The image is old. Chinese Buddhist writing has long used the moon in water as a figure for things that can be seen clearly and never held — the Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom is one of the texts that puts it plainly.
这个意象很老。中国佛教传统以「水中月」为重要譬喻——看得见,看得清,却拿不到手里;《大智度论》中即有「如水中月」的表达。
Painters later built an entire figure around it: the Water-Moon Guanyin, seated at the edge of water, watching the moon on its surface. Bamboo behind, a disc of light, a vase set on the rock.
Our own photographs fell into that composition without meaning to: a still lake, a figure at the edge of it, a circle of jade. Reflection, body, ring — the same three things the painters kept.
In Chinese, one does not smell incense — one hears it. The verb is the same. It is a small piece of grammar that tells you how the thing was meant to be used: not as a fragrance, but as something to attend to.
中文里,香不是「嗅」的,是「闻」的——与听同字。一个字的用法,已经说明了这件事该怎么对待:它不是气味,是需要被听见的东西。
Doubled on the wrist; held in the hand while you read; left on the desk when you are not wearing it.
Visits, certifications, the room itself. Not press copy — what we went to, learned, and wrote down.
Where we went, what we learned.
Han Danning and Li Bingfei sat the Lin School Level One examination and passed. Ten lessons, four characters, one lotus stem standing straight — this stage is genuinely studying under a teacher.
A long conversation at Tianzhen Garden with the fourth-generation holder of Li-style Taiji, about how a culture starts happening again in young people.
Our first public lecture-workshop, held at PKU Science Park, led by inlay craftsman Zou Yu. Every participant finished a piece of their own.
An invitation-only gathering: a Song brocade fan made by hand with Zou Zhiyan, a table of flowers, a round of tea, and an afternoon slowed right down.
Three of us went to Suzhou for this term: Han Danning and Li Bingfei for Level One, with Leye, already at Level Two, working at the same table.
Both sat the Level One examination and passed. The certificates were issued on 29 August 2026.
The examination tests only the upright forms. That alone tells you the order of things: first you make a stem stand straight, and only much later are you allowed to let it lean.
Level One is ten lessons: one of theory, eight of technique, one of examination. The eight split evenly — four upright forms, four inclined.
Before you touch the shears you learn four characters. They are not names for positions; they are the whole method, compressed.
Root, and also self-knowledge. It stands first; everything else takes its bearing from it.
One's own nature, one's own mind. Complete in itself.
The gesture of moving water. In a still arrangement, this is what makes it move.
If the root stem is the text, this is the commentary — the stroke that opens the dragon's eye.
Zhang Yanya's hands never stop while she teaches. A eucalyptus stem turns twice between her fingers and the answer is there — this leaf stays, that one goes.
Ask why that stem and she rarely gives a rule. She asks back: how was it growing? Material goes in the direction it grew — up, inward, forward. Never lined up like a fence.
Level One corresponds to our L3 · Refining Your Own Work— the stage where you genuinely study under a teacher. Autumn Flowers on 24 October continues the same line.
— how a culture starts happening again in young people
Everyone approves of heritage work. Very few people actually do it. We have visited a good many places, interviewed a good many masters, and put the question to circle after circle of professors — and one thing never goes away: how does a culture actually come alive in someone young?
Tianzhen Garden sits in the old town of Yongyang, in Wuqing between Beijing and Tianjin — twenty-odd minutes from the city, and somehow in a different century.
Its foundation is Li-style Taiji, drawn together at the turn of the last century by the master Li Ruidong from several martial traditions. It entered the national register in 2014 and, with Taiji as a whole, the UNESCO list in 2020. For more than twenty years Xing Qilin, its fourth-generation holder, and Dr Cui Ailing have worked with their team to refine, verify and preserve it — and built this place around it.
There is a kind of teaching that needs no speaking. You are simply here, and it is comfortable. Open a door and there are fields; people greet each other without being told to; the whole place is warm, orderly and quiet. Walking around it, what struck us was not any particular activity but the place itself — it changes people.
Every day here holds at least four hours of practice, moving and still: Taiji at dawn, classics and setting the house in order through the morning, calligraphy and painting after lunch, and study together at seven.
What moved us was not the timetable but the result. People who have soaked in this are focused, orderly and able to plan — from folding clothes and using a day well, up to running a market stall or organising an event outright. Many of them treat the place as a second home and are reluctant to leave.
Teaching should not turn a person into a tool, he told us. Particular skills will be taken over by machines; the capacity to learn, to notice, to get on with people and to speak well will not. Good teaching opens those. They have a name for what this kind of learning does — it remakes a person — and they mean it plainly: whichever way you come in, within a few days your bearing, your confidence and your state of mind are different.
Two teachers in their seventies have spent decades at this, and their whole working lives on handing it on — waiting, all the while, for a generation willing to come close and take it up. That day they sat down and talked with us for a long time. What we heard was a plain willingness to give everything away.
Heritage is not only craft. It moves from technique to art, from art to study, from study to a way of living. Taiji was never merely a form; it is a picture of the universe and a method for living in it. Its centre is harmony, and harmony turns on how people are taught.
We put our real worry to them: how do you avoid building one more thing people finish and walk away from? Li Shan's answer stayed with us — build a system, not a corridor. With heritage as the entrance and Taiji as the method, you can accompany someone at three depths: a series on living an ordered and effective life; a practical series carried by crafts such as tea and incense; and a series about finding an anchor for one's life inside a culture.
At the end of the conversation he said that meeting this group of young people felt like finding someone to hand the baton to.
It landed all at once. Li Ruidong had already carried martial arts as far as the school gate. If it has not yet flowered inside the schools, that is exactly the piece of work left to our generation.
On one side, young people raised inside a tradition. On the other, us, raised between languages. The same age, different tracks — and in Taiji, in this inheritance, a language both can speak. This is only the beginning.
What makes a culture a culture is not that it was once magnificent, but whether it can happen again in one generation after another.
What we saw here is that handing something on is neither sealing the past intact nor repackaging it for sale. It is letting an old intelligence back into the order of a present-day life — into young bodies, habits, taste and judgement.
The cultural life of a people usually continues somewhere quieter than the loud places — somewhere specific, and over a long time. Someone spends twenty years ordering, verifying, teaching and living it. Someone else travels a long way to sit down, listen, stand up, practise, and carry it back into their own decade. The baton is not a grand object. It usually changes hands in one meeting, one conversation, one afternoon of doing the thing.
We do not think this is easy. No culture has ever been revived by a burst of enthusiasm. It takes long patience, an accurate method, and a generation genuinely willing to put itself in. What we saw at Tianzhen Garden that day was that it is possible.
Mother-of-Pearl Inlay — a lecture and workshop
The first of our lecture series opened at PKU Science Park — the first public event of our apprenticeship programme in Beijing. Lecture and workshop ran together, with young people from universities in China and abroad working through one complete piece in a craft that is only now being looked at properly again.
Luodian is inlay made from the inner layer of shell — sliced thin, cut to shape and set into the surface of an object. Mature by the Tang and developed through every dynasty since, it is among the most characteristic techniques in Chinese lacquer and furniture.
A finished piece passes through twelve stages: design, choosing and matching material, sawing, shaping, assembling and numbering, routing the channel, setting the shell, gluing with fish glue, incising the pattern, lacquering, repeated polishing, and finishing.
Both belong to the old system of auspicious images. One turns on a pun and wishes you rank and success; the other sets a horse beside a pine, for strength and long life.
In our teaching these are not decoration. They are living samples of a popular visual language, carrying a whole system of wishes, metaphors and social expectations — and they are exactly the part of this inheritance most worth translating across cultures.
The workshop was led by the inlay craftsman Zou Yu. Participants worked through six stages — selecting shell, transferring and laying out the design, mounting it on the base, cleaning the surface, setting the inlay and sealing it — and each finished a piece of their own.
Once sealed, each participant wrote their own inscription on the accompanying card. Finishing with a brush is how Chinese handwork has always let the object and the person sign for each other.
Make a fan; sit down to flowers and tea. One gathering, and the start of a summer.
Song brocade dates from the dynasty it is named for and is one of China's three great brocades — warm in pattern, restrained in colour, an eastern sense of beauty woven into silk. This Sunday we make it into a fan.
Choose the brocade, match the colours, shape the frame, and make a round fan by hand. The teacher stays with you throughout; no experience needed; it goes home with you.
Choose the brocade, the color, the form — and shape a round fan with your own hands. Guided from start to finish, no experience needed. Finish it, take it home.
One vessel, arranged to the season. Empty space, asymmetry — the eastern way with flowers. Between one stem and one leaf, everything slows.
Arrange a single vessel of seasonal blooms. Negative space, asymmetry — the heart of Eastern floral art.
One round of tea and a seasonal sweet. Over the cups: the craft, the season, and this particular summer.
A round of tea, with sweets made for the current solar term. Over cups, we talk craft, season, and the summer ahead.
Fans, flowers, tea — one pair of hands and a great deal of care. She takes you through all of it.
Elegance is only the way in. Once you have made something and sat with it, the questions arrive by themselves: how does a craft like this get seen today, and how does the rest of the world read it?
This Sunday, students from Peking University and universities abroad sit down to talk about what a craft means to their generation — through anthropology, design and media studies. The same object means different things in each.
Some questions do not finish in an afternoon.
Meeting a craft at a gathering is sharing. Staying on to study under a master is lineage. We do only these two things, and we would rather you came back than finished fast.
Anyone can come; there is no bar and no exam. A salon, a workshop, a visit — you sit down and do one craft properly, once. Checking in just records what you practised today, and one line is enough. It isn't asking you to master anything. It's asking whether you'll come back.
Every teacher we work with was recognised the old way — with a master above them and the right to take apprentices below, their name on a line you can count backwards along. So entering a master's door is not enrolling in a class. There is a fixed teacher, a fixed time, work to hand in, an application and an interview, and you may be told to do it again. In the old language, a lineage is close to a family: once you are inside, what your teacher looks after is not only your craft.
We keep them few. Each craft answers to one master — whose door it is, and where the school comes from, is there behind the name. Tea is now settled too — Wang Xufeng.
No reflections required, no nice photography. Practise, write a line. Five of them and you have a record of your own.
Eleven gatherings since 2024 — salons, workshops, exhibitions and visits. Where we have written one up, the field note is linked. This is also the evidence of what we can build for a school or an institution.
Six teachers. Five hold a named place in a named school, with a master above them and the right to take apprentices below; tea came to us through scholarship instead, and the page says so. Incense still runs as a gathering while we talk to a teacher.
Taiji · fourth-generation holder of Li-style Taiji and founder of Tianzhen Garden. Taiji was inscribed by UNESCO in 2020.
Fourth-generation holder of Li-style Taiji and a registered heritage holder in Wuqing, Tianjin. The style comes from Wuqing, and this is the line he carries — both the man and the form still in the place they grew.
He founded Tianzhen Garden and directs its research institute. Taiji was the first craft we settled here, precisely because it is the least like a class: you get up early, stand, drink tea, talk, and the form itself is only part of the day.
Wuqing district entered Li-style Taiji on its heritage register, and he is one of its listed holders. Not a title he gave himself — one you can look up.
In December 2020 Taiji was inscribed on the UNESCO Representative List.
What the listing recognises is not any one form but how the thing gets taught from one generation to the next. So the condition for teaching Taiji here is that the teacher holds a named place in a named school.
He built the garden, and it is where he teaches and receives people — and where A Day at Tianzhen takes place: morning practice, tea in the afternoon, and nothing scheduled in between.
The garden matters more to us than a classroom. A craft taken out of the place it grew in changes flavour, so we would rather take people there than bring the teacher into a meeting room.
Join A Day at Tianzhen: one morning practice, one session of standing, one table of tea.
See the schedule →A fixed time and a fixed group; once you are in, he sets the schedule. [ length and fees TBC ]
Apply to enter →In the old language a lineage is close to a family. Sit at one table first and let both sides see whether it fits — that is what we suggest to everyone.
Founded by Lin Xiaozhen; the Suzhou branch is run by Zhang Yanya. Our floral teaching, its examinations and its certificates all run through the school's head office and the China Floral Art Heritage Association.
Lin Xiaozhen drew together Chinese tradition with Western and Japanese technique to found a school whose principle is natural growth: a stem goes in the way it grew, rather than being forced into the shape a person wants. For years she has worked to revive both Chinese floral art and the tradition of flowers offered before the Buddha.
Her book was the first in China on the inner life of floral art. She continues to teach through national lecture tours, international exhibitions and cross-strait exchange.
She studied seven years before she was permitted to teach, then built the Suzhou branch from nothing — teaching, examining, certifying, and carrying flowers to the temples as offerings. The head office's gold award came after those seven years, not before.
Our floral classes and examinations across the Yangtze delta run through her branch. Flowers belong to their soil and water; what ends up in your hands in Suzhou is not what ends up in them elsewhere.
Every certificate carries the association's seal, the name of whoever presented it, and a number. We issue none of our own and do not intend to: how far you have got is the school's call, not ours.
Work and classes from Li Bingfei and Han Danning's term with the school. Lotus, cattail, ginger flower — each stem left standing the way it grew. That is what the school means by natural growth. [ tell us which is whose and we'll add the names ]
Arrange once at a gathering, from choosing stems to fixing the shape, and take it home the same day.
See the schedule →Complete the school's course, pass the examination, and the association issues a signed certificate. [ terms, fees and start dates TBC ]
Apply to enter →In the old language a lineage is close to a family. Sit at one table first and let both sides see whether it fits — that is what we suggest to everyone.
Guqin · twelfth-generation holder of the Guangling school and a provincial heritage holder in Jiangsu. The guqin was inscribed by UNESCO in 2003.
Born in Yangzhou in 1957. His grandfather Liu Shaochun was the tenth-generation holder of the Guangling school, and he learned from him and from his mother Liu Rongzhen as a child. In 1982 he formally took Mei Yueqiang, his grandfather's student, as his master, and studied twenty-eight Guangling pieces in sequence.
Grandfather to mother, then finished by an elder of the same school: this is exactly what the old word for lineage means. It is the line we look for when we choose a teacher.
The guqin is close to unteachable from a book. Fingering, breath and phrasing all pass by one person putting their hand onto another's. That is why, for three hundred years, it has survived only through lineage.
Guangling is Yangzhou. Xu Changyu founded the school there in the early Qing; three of its handbooks survive.
It has one of the most complete surviving repertoires and an unbroken line of transmission. In 2008 the Guangling school entered China's national heritage register.
Hear one piece, put your hands on the strings once, and find out where the difficulty actually is.
See the schedule →By interview; whether he takes you is his decision. [ hours, fees and instrument TBC ]
Apply to enter →In the old language a lineage is close to a family. Sit at one table first and let both sides see whether it fits — that is what we suggest to everyone.
Tea at XENNI is taught by someone who has spent a working life on it two ways at once: at the China Tea Museum, and at a desk, writing the novels that put the leaf at the centre of a Chinese century.
Wang Xufeng read history at Zhejiang University and graduated in 1982, then went to work at the China Tea Museum. She had published her first fiction two years earlier, in 1980.
Her Tea Trilogy won the fifth Mao Dun Literature Prize — the highest award for the novel in China — together with the national Five-One Project award and the Eighth Five-Year Plan prize for long fiction. In 2019 the trilogy was chosen for the canon of seventy novels marking seventy years of the People's Republic.
She is a first-class writer, vice-chair of the Zhejiang Writers Association, and a professor at Zhejiang A&F University — where tea is a subject, not a hobby.
A boy from a mountain village who renamed himself 越洋 — across the ocean — because he wanted to see a larger world. He crossed it, studied ikebana in Japan for a decade, and came back to build a practice here.
Five years reading Chinese literature at Peking University, then Japan: language, design school, and long study under Nishiyama Kōsha of the Sogetsu School — the most restless of the Japanese schools, the one that lets you use any material and any vessel.
Ikebana is sculpture that breathes; sculpture is ikebana held still. Where a work and a room answer each other, the whole space becomes the experience — which is where 花道 parts company with 花艺: it refuses a fixed vocabulary of what each flower is supposed to mean, and it refuses to be decoration.
In China incense is something you listen to with your nose, not something you scent a room with. This table starts with a seal: powder pressed into a stencil, one thin line of smoke, burning stroke by stroke. It was how time was kept — and how people settled into a seat.
Then warming rather than burning: a silver leaf between coal and material, so nothing catches and the scent comes off in layers. At the end everyone blends a winter incense of their own and takes it home. [ master and venue TBC ]
Powder pressed into a stencil, one thin thread of smoke. They kept time by it; we open the afternoon with it.
A silver leaf over the coal, no flame anywhere. The same material at a different temperature is a completely different smell.
Blend a winter scent to your own nose, press it, seal it, take it home the same day.
The venue and the master for 21 November are still being settled. Leave your name and we'll tell you on WeChat the moment applications open.
The winter solstice is China's own day for gathering — as big as New Year, the saying goes. This year it falls beside Christmas: two days about coming together, landing at once. A good reason to set one table where both sides can sit.
One long table, twelve people, four crafts running at once: tea, incense, flowers, writing. You make, then you eat, then you keep talking. No programme, no head of the table. [ menu and venue TBC ]
Twelve at one long table, with no seat of honour. This is how the Song sat down to eat.
Tea, incense, flowers and writing each take a stretch of the afternoon. Start wherever you like.
A meal cooked to the season, by the same people who then eat it.
The menu and venue for 19 December are still being settled. Leave your name and we'll tell you on WeChat the moment applications open.
Not coming to China to watch a New Year, but keeping one, properly, on Mount Tiantai.
Customs, crafts, food, ceremony and people coming together — these are the only days in the year when all of it happens at once. So we don't run a New-Year-themed event. We keep New Year.
For the 2027 New Year we go to Mount Tiantai with KAI Tiantai, Hoshino Resorts: four days, three nights, strictly limited. You are not watching a Chinese New Year. You are part of one.
The mountain is part of the journey. Forest, winter, temples and quiet — enough to take you out of the rhythm of a city for a while.
The setting suits the New Year we want to hold: restrained, quiet, and leaving real room between people and the landscape. Staying four days in one place, you see the mountain from morning fog through to a winter night.
We follow New Year customs, a mountain feast, tea and incense, ceremony, handwork and the local culture of Tiantai — with craftspeople, heritage holders and fellow travellers all taking part.
Making the food and objects a New Year needs, and learning the crafts still used to make them.
One table in the mountains, and a real New Year's Eve dinner at it.
Tea and warmed incense by the fire, seeing the year out together.
Local New Year customs and ceremony, done alongside the people who keep them.
Temples, forest and winter light — a few hours of walking each day.
Enough time to walk, to talk, and actually to live alongside each other.
Among mountains and water, back into what reunion, the turning year, nature and renewal have always meant here.
4–7 February 2027, four days and three nights, limited places. Once you apply we confirm the itinerary and payment with you on WeChat.
Apply for a place →A group of young people walking into China's living heritage, recording the crafts and memories that are going quiet.
The historian Qian Mu wrote that a people's culture survives only so long as its spirit refuses to die. Nowhere is that truer than in intangible heritage, which is not a display of objects but a civilisation still breathing — the gesture a potter spent forty years refining, the landscape an old singer can summon in a single phrase, the rites of the seasons passed from hand to hand and never written down.
A civilisation continues not through its records but through what one person hands directly to another. Break that chain and the libraries remain, but they are shells. What cannot be copied — the transmission from person to person — is the whole of it.
China holds 1,557 items on its national heritage register, more than 3,600 at provincial level, and over forty inscribed by UNESCO — more than any other country. These are not statistics. They are a living archive, several thousand years deep, still held in ordinary hands.
Every civilisation is tested by time. Under industrialisation, urbanisation and now artificial intelligence, makers grow scarce and apprentices scarcer. There is a deep tension between the long patience a traditional craft demands and the immediacy of modern life. Masters take their craft with them not for want of willingness to teach, but for want of anyone to learn — not because the skill is obsolete, but because the ground it grows in has thinned.
When Qian Mu wrote about cultural decline he put the cause in one phrase: people turning away. A people that stops valuing what is its own is already half collapsed before any outside pressure arrives. The difficulty here is the same. The crafts have not lost their vitality; they have lost the conditions in which they are seen, valued and passed on.
XENNI was started by students working across different fields and incubated at Peking University. We have no wish to call ourselves protectors. A civilisation does not need protecting; it needs to be understood, continued, and given a meaning that belongs to now.
What we build is a bridge: heritage out of the museum case and into the way young people actually live. Through immersive study and residential programmes, aimed at teenagers and students growing up in international settings, we want them not to hear about this inheritance but to meet it — with their hands, their senses and real work.
Qian Mu asked for two things in the face of one's own history: warmth, and respect. Without both, nothing is truly handed on. That is the standard we hold ourselves to.
Eight of us, from Tsinghua and Peking University, brought together by one conviction — that heritage does not belong only in museums. From art history and design to law, management and film, each of us works at it a different way.
Calligraphy · joined Jun 2025 · currently L1
Not a crash course, not exam prep. We think anyone can find, at their own pace, one craft worth keeping for life.
Not fast, just regular. The first two levels are sharing; the last two are lineage.
Rooted in the Tsinghua and Peking University communities, in the old red-walled hutongs: five crafts practised as an ordinary habit.
September 2026, at Columbia and NYU — a Chinese tradition shown as something still alive.
applications, status pendinghttps://v.wjx.cn/vm/OiVW83q.aspxhttps://u.wechat.com/kD_zpmhYyS0zaR7LtDeVZ10One change only: body text in pattern grey #7A6A50 sits at 4.45:1 on xuan white, just short of AA. Small body text now uses #6B5C44(5.5:1); pattern grey is kept for captions and labels at 12px and above. Small gold text on dark sections uses #C9A85C。
Incense, whisked tea, a hanging scroll and flowers, around one long table in a hutong courtyard. Seats are limited and given by application — fill this in and we'll come back to you quickly.
Thank you. Larisa will reply on WeChat within two working days to confirm your seat.