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THE cluster of non-descript, peasant-built brick houses seems an unlikely venue for Beijing's Bohemia.

  But the otherwise unremarkable village near the Yuan Ming Gardens in a pastoral northern suburb of the capital has quietly become a national mecca for the avante-garde and the hip, a haven for young Chinese artists trying to escape what they see as philistinism.

  It is an unusual phenomenon for China, for in this authoritarian state, rarely does any sector of society have the opportunity to live outside the rules and norms of the system.

  The ''artists village'', as the place is known, goes back to the 1980s when a handful of artists moved in, attracted by cheap rents charged by the peasants.

   It took off after 1989 when many artists found themselves suddenly without work as publications were closed down. Others decided to leave the oppression of their work units, where life became heavily politicised after the June 4 pro-democracy crackdown.Still others did not like the job assignments allocated them after graduation, and decided to opt out of the system.

   Today, there are about 50 artists living in the village. Another dozen even more reclusive types have set up a branch further in the countryside amid the lettuce patches and smell of manure.

   In their 20s and 30s, the artists have marked themselves off from the rest of humanity in more ways than one. They shun bath water, and wear their hair either long or short. ''We want to distance ourselves from common people,'' said Lu Lin, a 31-year-old artist from Shandong province.

  ''In their home towns, people think they are crazy,'' said Wang Wang, who moved into the village a few weeks ago. ''But in Beijing, even though they are poor, in spirit they feel comforted and believe they have found value.''    For about 350 yuan (HK$475) a month, an artist can rent a house with a courtyard. With high ceilings and spacious interiors, they make ideal studios. Equally, if not more important for the artists, the setting offers camaraderie. LU, FOR example, gets up early in the mornings to paint. He keeps his evenings open for drinking and talking with the other artists. It is a lifestyle he could never enjoy in Shandong, where he had run a decorating company.

      ''Once you start to do business, you can't put on the brakes . . . I was tormented at that time, because I was still an artist and I didn't want to sacrifice my art for money,'' Lu said.

  ''As an artist, you must emphasise the ego. But under present social preconditions, you aren't allowed to have an ego.

   ''Leaders of the departments in charge will not accept this [abstract painting]. They're stupid. They're idiots. They don't think my pictures can be classified. They gaze all day and they feel the picture doesn't resemble the paintings of anyone else, so they think it's not good.''   One Beijing gallery pays Lu 1,000 yuan a month for a set number of works. This is enough to pay for his rent and paint supplies. Otherwise Lu finds it hard to sell his work.

  ''There is little market for this,'' he said.

   Artists also admit they lack skill and experience in promoting and selling their work.

   Artists stay away from political pop, a form popular among patrons that sells well in Hongkong and elsewhere. To venture into the realm of the political would be to invite trouble from the authorities, Wang said.

  Occasionally, to make money, artists will paint a Cultural Revolution style piece for a Chinese client - perhaps a picture of a red-cheeked, handsome worker in a hard helmet.

   But the more serious art is almost exclusively abstract. The paintings on display express feelings of loneliness, ennui, lack of faith, numbness and failure to communicate - themes which fit in well in a China where ideology has died, except as a tool for authoritarian repression.

   The crucifix and the Buddha figure in numerous paintings. Others are empty expanses of colour reflecting an emptiness of the soul. Or there are grey, naked figures with exaggerated eyes, lips and noses, staring vacantly into space. Or tormented figures painted in thick coats of purple and blood-red paint. Some paintings hint at sex. But politics is avoided.

   For all the drawbacks of the artists' village, 22-year-old Ye You from Hangzhou said he could not think of a better place. His father, also an artist, thinks his son made the right choice in moving to this Bohemia, and Ye's brother sends him money so hedoes not have to worry about making ends meet.

  ''This is a terrific life, because it's based on nature. We don't have money, but we live well.'' 



Perfect picture of Bohemia