Photo Essay: The Final Act for China’s Traveling Opera Troupes

The article profiles the struggles and fading tradition of Sichuan opera troupes in rural China, with a focus on the Guiying Troupe led by Wang Guiying. In June, the troupe hurried to Shizizhai village for a three-day temple fair honoring a local deity—the only contract in a long period of dormancy. Fourteen-year-old Deng Lingzhi, Wang’s granddaughter, starred in the performance, a testament to generational training and enduring artistry, earning the admiration of the older audience for her skill and promise. However, the troupe operates with a weakened foundation, as members have mostly left for better city jobs and reassemble only for rare, low-paid gigs, their motivation more passion than profit[para. 1][para. 2][para. 3][para. 4][para. 5].

Wages for grassroots troupes like this one are minimal—lead actors earn 100 yuan per day, supporting roles 70 yuan, and musicians 80 yuan, while family members often forgo pay to support the matriarch’s wishes. These folk troupes, once central to rural life, now languish due to urbanization, changing cultural consumption, and an aging audience. Even as Sichuan opera is recognized as “intangible cultural heritage” by China, its rural heartbeat weakens. Photographer Liu Li, documenting more than a dozen such troupes over 15 years, captures the decline and the resilience of this art form, with her work featured at the Pingyao International Photography Festival[para. 4][para. 5][para. 6].

When Liu first encountered Wang’s troupe 12 years ago, she saw a family-centered enterprise surviving in harsh conditions: makeshift stages, basic props, shared straw mats for sleeping. Crowds, mostly elderly, gathered on stools to watch, while local families cooked for the actors. Hardship was routine—collapsing tents during storms, nighttime vigils to guard equipment, and year-round itinerant performance schedules. By 2019, bookings had largely disappeared, prompting Wang’s husband, sons, and daughters-in-law to take jobs in cities. City work brought greater financial security—restaurant work for 2,800 yuan/month, construction for 8,000–9,000 yuan/month per couple, performance gigs in entertainment companies, and even a new career in pole-dance instruction for Shi Dongmei, earning her about 8,000 yuan/month. Although acknowledging the past’s hardship, some family members return during holidays to support the aging troupe[para. 7][para. 8][para. 9][para. 10][para. 11][para. 12][para. 13][para. 14][para. 15][para. 16][para. 17][para. 18][para. 19][para. 20][para. 21].

The article spotlights unique troupe members like Liao Yong, a blind performer guided by others offstage but moving confidently in the spotlight; he returned to opera after losing his sight, even when other prospects proved more lucrative but emotionally hollow. Another, Li Maoyin (stage name Li Mengying), specializes in female roles and leverages his distinct stage-and-offstage persona to stand out and supplement income through commercial cross-dressing gigs. Both exemplify the tenacious attachment to an art form despite its declining rewards[para. 22][para. 23][para. 24][para. 25][para. 26][para. 27][para. 28][para. 29][para. 30][para. 31].

Liu’s research shows the average age of folk Sichuan opera performers is now 59 and their audiences 65, with more than half the troupes she tracked disbanded or inactive and a significant number of performers having died. The art’s last refuge is in rural temple fairs. Yet a glimmer of continuity appears: granddaughter Deng Lingzhi, despite her mother’s preference for her to pursue a more stable career, has enrolled in a Sichuan opera academy. She now leads performances, embodying both the hope and loneliness of a fading tradition[para. 32][para. 33][para. 34][para. 35].

Liu Li, the article’s author and photographer, has chronicled these transitions, preserving the stories and images of a vanishing artistic world[para. 36].