He Fa on the Folding-Fan Diplomat

Acid-green fan shoulders open sideways, orange balloon trousers swell into a pear below, and a short black jacket lies between them like a conjunction that has yet to finish its sentence. I am called a diplomat, yet I have already lost the means of entering a room discreetly. Whatever I intend to discuss, my shoulders have submitted a very conspicuous opening statement on my behalf.

A folding fan makes a tempting promise: compact when closed, abundant when open. But worn on the shoulders, opening is more than my freedom; it makes demands on where others stand. People nearby must step back a little to keep my face in view. If an expression depends on others continually giving way to seem complete, it needs to ask whether it has opened communication or merely increased the volume.

He Fa's slightly slow expression makes this diplomacy somewhat funny. The upper body has already become extravagant, while the eyes still seem to be waiting for the other person to finish. I hope to preserve this lack of synchronization: someone can introduce themselves enthusiastically without arranging an overwhelming victory for their own opening remarks. If gaps remain between the fan ribs, another person's sentences have a chance to enter there.

Yet requiring expression to be restrained at all times also favors those who are already easy to hear. Some voices really do need to become brighter first, to avoid being politely ignored. Acid green and orange therefore need not apologize. What they must answer for is whether they can adjust once they have gained attention. Pushing a door open and permanently blocking its entrance are successive but different actions.

I can close the fan shoulders a little without changing the colors to gray. Black boots still extend from beneath the balloon trousers, reminding this diplomat that eventually he must walk up to someone and hear a particular answer. The value of opening out finally depends on whether it has left room for a response.