Beijing Olympics: The Icons

Ancient script, traditional motifs, cuddly cartoon characters—the Beijing Olympics' iconography is carefully calculated. And in China, it's everywhere

by Adam Minter

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On a late afternoon in March, the crowded corridors of Shanghai's largest counterfeit-goods market are buzzing. Tourists and locals browse three stories of stalls overflowing with fake iPods, Samsonite luggage, clothes from "Juicy Couture" and "Donna Karan"—even caps and jerseys for the Minnesota Twins. For all of the brands mimicked here in Shanghai's hub of commercial lawlessness, though, there is one brand that is conspicuous for its absence: the one for the 2008 Beijing Olympic games. "We cannot sell that," explains a vendor of fake Nike and Adidas running socks. "The police say it will destroy the reputation of the Olympics."

The identity he's talking about has two primary elements. One consists of a set of five blandly playful, cartoon-teddy-bear characters called Fuwa (the name translates roughly as "Lucky Kids"), which cavort on posters, banners, and memorabilia. The other component, and most widespread, is the Olympics logo: a stick figure who appears to be frozen in the act of fleeing, atop the words "Beijing 2008." "Chinese Seal, Dancing Beijing," as it's known, is the official emblem for the August games.

The emblem contains two politically charged components, neither of which is immediately recognizable to those not familiar with Chinese characters or the country's art history. The dancing figure at the center of the emblem is based upon the Chinese character 京 (jing), meaning "capital," often used as simple shorthand for Beijing (北京, literally "north capital"); it is rendered in a style evocative of China's ancient seal script. The logo is made to look like a Chinese block seal—a stamp still used to mark official approval on documents. In concert, those two elements strongly imply an official seal designed to the specifications of the propagandistic demands of the Chinese government and its corporate partners.

Ubiquitous throughout China, "Dancing Beijing" is the perfect visual metaphor for three decades' worth of alliances forged among the Chinese Communist Party and the world's largest corporations. Supermarkets have stacks of products that bear the seal, including a leading brand of ramen noodles, at least three kinds of beer, and the multiple varieties of Coca-Cola. On the prosperous avenues where expensive restaurants advertise the fact that they accept Visa, the Olympics logo has been added, as if in official endorsement of the credit card by the Chinese Communist Party. The giants of China's state-owned utility sector, including State Grid (the state electrical company) and China Mobile (the mobile phone operator), send out billing statements that include the "Dancing Beijing" logo "stamped" next to the companies' own symbols.

But the Olympics logo was never intended to be a mere sign of corporate partnership. For several years, it and the Fuwa have been for sale in their own right as part of a mass merchandising campaign unparalleled in modern Olympics history. There are at least three licensed Olympics merchandise shops within a block of each other on the busiest section of Wangfujing Dajie, Beijing's pedestrian-only, 700-year-old shopping boulevard. T-shirts, caps, and stuffed versions of the five cuddly Fuwa are available at all of them. Those shoppers interested in higher-end items can visit the Beijing 2008 Olympic Flagship Store, a long, poorly lit space where customers file past cases stuffed with goods, and a giant inflated Fuwa stands guard over $1,000 bejeweled commemorative plates decorated with more of the cutesy creatures.

It's only a 15-minute walk to Tiananmen Square from the flagship store, and five minutes more to Zhongnanhai, headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party and government. There, shortly after the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre, then-leader Deng Xiaoping ordered the Party apparatus to begin preparations to host an Olympics—any Olympics—to help repair China's battered image.