"Mao made us," says Sui. "When I was growing up, there were only Socialist ideals. Now, suddenly, the economy and pragmatism and fashion are the most important things. As a person, you could literally split apart. I'm trying to find the meaning of the past forty years of my life. Can I find it? I don't know."

The average Chinese worker is ex- periencing similar culture shock. Raised in a prudish Socialist environment, many don't get experimental art, nor do they like it. At Factory 798, Wang, a former manager of the old diode factory, has worked in this complex for thirty years and now oversees the galleries and studios. I bumped into him in a dank hallway one Saturday morning, and we talked about the changes. He told me that some of the three-thousand-odd unemployed workers find it "interesting" to see art in their former workshops, but others are outraged. "For them, nudity is very hard to accept," says Wang. "They think it is an insult to their dignity." Hanging on the wall beside him was a series of enormous acrylic paintings, male and female nudes with lightbulbs painted where the genitals should be.

Indeed, the art world still faces some lingering political challenges, hangovers from the time when abstract shows were banned. But these days there are usually ways around them. Brian Wallace, an Australian who owns Red Gate, one of the leading contemporary art galleries in Beijing, ran into trouble when he wanted to show some graphic nudes last October, during Beijing's first Biennale show. Wallace has been in China for almost two decades, first as a student in the 1980s, when he got to know many of the young artists testing the limits of political freedom.

Beijing—whose museums were, until recently, dusty, minimally maintained places—is scrambling to modernize. But you will find the most exciting new art in the galleries scattered around town. Wallace's gallery is worth a visit for the location alone: It's a huge drafty space inside one of the watchtowers of the old city walls, most of which were torn down by Mao right after the revolution.

Before the Biennale, the building managers watched with dismay as assistants carried huge nudes by Shen Ling, a rising woman artist, up to the gallery. They allowed Wallace to exhibit the paintings if he posted a sign saying that it was a private show. They called ahead to warn him each time officials planned to come by, and he would turn the paintings over while the inspectors walked through. "A year ago, that wouldn't have been allowed," he said.

If you go to Wallace's gallery, he might just take you out to an artists' community he is helping to nurture. On the day of my visit, he was hosting a barbecue at a compound named the Pickle Factory, after its former incarnation, where a number of artists have made camp in basic spaces. It was a farewell party for an Australian sculptor who had joined Wallace's artists-in-residence program. He started bringing foreign artists in for monthlong residencies, and he has just begun a program to get artists from around China. We raced to pick up wine and cheese at Jennie Lou's grocery store, a chain that caters to foreigners with gourmet tastes. By the time we got to the Pickle Factory, the artists had set up a grill in one of the concrete lofts. Chicken and bananas were sizzling. Rock music played on the boom box.