Materializing the Buddha Land in Medieval China (3rd–10th Centuries): Liuli Qinglou and the Eurasian Circulation of Jeweled Paradise Motifs

Abstract

This article investigates liuli qinglou (琉璃青樓, blue–green glazed pavilions) of medieval China as architectural manifestations of the trans-Eurasian jeweled paradise ideal. Tracing developments from the Northern and Southern Dynasties (420–589 CE) through the Tang dynasty (618–907 CE), it outlines an evolutionary trajectory in representing sacred space: from the use of genuine gemstones in West Asian traditions, through their imitation in glass and glazed ceramics, with applications before the Tang remaining selective and elite, to the ultimate abstraction into symbolic blue–green palettes in the cave murals of Kucha and Dunhuang, where chromatic choices may at times reflect pictorial convention. Integrating textual, archeological, and visual evidence, the study shows how Chinese rulers appropriated imported glazing technologies, together with painted or coated blue–green finishes that simulated liuli effects, not merely for ornamentation but to materially embody Buddhist cosmology and to legitimize imperial authority by creating a terrestrial Buddha land. The pervasive use of qing (青, blue–green) in religious art thus reflects a profound sensory-theological translation, illustrating how Eurasian flows of materials, techniques, and ideas were adapted to shape localized visions of paradise through innovative processes of material and visual transformation.

1. Introduction

Over the past two decades, the study of religion has seen a pronounced “material turn,” which foregrounds how objects, spaces, and sensory regimes mediate religious practice and theological meaning (Houtman and Meyer 2012; Morgan 2010). Material-religion scholarships treat the sacred as materially enacted—in architecture, color, texture, and light—while theories of sacred space emphasize how sites materialize cosmological order, ritual performance, and political authority (Eliade 1959; Knott 2005). Recent China-focused case studies further show how images, objects, and built environments make deities and sacred places “familiar” to devotees (Naquin 2022). These perspectives have been particularly well developed in Buddhist studies. John Kieschnick’s material-culture perspective situates Buddhism as a formative force in the production, circulation, and consumption of Chinese objects and built environments (Kieschnick 2003). Rambelli’s comparative analysis of Buddhist materiality (Rambelli 2007), while focused mainly on Japan, offers a valuable theoretical language for thinking of objects as mediators of doctrine, authority, and ritual—a vocabulary applied here cautiously to the Chinese case.

These perspectives provide crucial frameworks for understanding the liuli qinglou (琉璃青樓, blue–green glazed pavilions) of medieval China. These elite pavilions, prominent in the Northern and Southern Dynasties (420–589 CE), were distinguished by the use of blue–green liuli (琉璃, glazed-ceramic or glass) in their architectural members and surfaces. Although later literary traditions associated qinglou (青樓, blue–green pavilions) with pleasure quarters, its earlier manifestation signified architectural prestige and religious significance. This study contends that these structures materialized Pure Land ideals, refracted through older Eurasian jeweled paradise traditions transmitted along the Silk Road.

The analysis is guided by three interlinked interpretive strands: (1) material religion—examining liuli qinglou as sensory media that rendered Buddhist cosmology visible and tangible; (2) sacred space—analyzing these towers as political-theological statements that aligned imperial authority with the Buddha; and (3) cross-cultural material translation—tracing the circulation and transformation of the jeweled paradise motif from the ancient Near East, through Buddhist textual traditions, into Chinese built environments. In this context, Karlsson outlines formative visual regimes in early Buddhist imagery (Karlsson 2006), while Tsiang documents cases in which sutra language was materially realized in early medieval Chinese visual practice (Tsiang 2005); together, they help explain how textual descriptions of liuli paradises could be translated into pictorial programs and architectural forms.

Integrating archeological, textual, and artistic evidence, this article argues that liuli qinglou were not merely decorative extravagances but constituted materialized theology. Their form and color reflect deep entanglements of religion, technology, and political power across Eurasia.

2. Origins and Architectural Materiality of Liuli Qinglou

The popularity of the qinglou seems to have begun during the Wei and Jin dynasties when it became a symbol of splendid architecture. This is attested by the poet Cao Zhi (曹植, 192–232 CE), who wrote: “The qinglou stands by the grand road; lofty gates rise, bar on bar.” (Cao 2016, p. 575) When Emperor Wu (r. 483-493 CE) of the Southern Qi built the Xingguang Tower (興光樓) and had it finished with qingqi (青漆, blue–green lacquer), it was popularly called a qinglou. His successor Xiao Baojuan (蕭寶卷, r. 498–501 CE), upon seeing it, scoffed: “The emperor lacks refinement; why not use pure liuli?” (Y. Li 1975, p. 154) Historians recorded this anecdote to criticize Xiao Baojuan’s extravagance and unfitness to rule, yet it also reveals the rarity and splendor of the liuli qinglou, since even an emperor could not readily construct one.

The term liuli is a Chinese transliteration of the Sanskrit vaiḍūrya (Pali veḷuriya). The term originally referred to blue–green gemstones from South Asia, such as beryl or aquamarine, examples of which have been unearthed in Han tombs in southern China (Xiong 2015, plate 71). However, its meaning underwent a significant semantic shift in the Chinese context. From roughly the 3rd to the 10th centuries, liuli came primarily to denote glass and glazed ceramics. This shift largely reflects that these two artificial materials shared the gemstone liuli’s most salient visual qualities, namely luster and a qing hue (Zheng 2021b).

Because the use of luxurious materials like glass or glazed ceramics in architecture was still rare during the Northern and Southern Dynasties, historical texts often recorded such instances. For instance, the Nan Qi shu (南齊書, Book of Southern Qi) records that the Northern Wei (386–534 CE) palace featured “a shrine hall west of the main hall, roofed with liuli tiles.” (Z. Xiao 1972, p. 986) Similarly, the Taiping yulan (太平御覽, Imperial Readings of the Taiping Era) mentions a liuli terrace in the Northern Wei palace, stating “its tiles and roof finials were all made of liuli.” (F. Li 1960, p. 932) Even in the Tang dynasty, liuli architecture was still regarded as a symbol of extravagance. Emperor Gaozu (r. 618–626 CE) was criticized by his ministers for using liuli tiles in his palace, fearing such luxury would lead to a fate similar to the Sui Dynasty’s collapse (X. Liu 1975, p. 2629).

Archeological discoveries further corroborate the emergence and special status of the liuli qinglou. Glazed ceramic tiles, identified as liuli, have been found at the Northern Wei palace district in Pingcheng (平城, present-day Datong, Shanxi) (Xu and Lin 2014, plate 1.4), at a royal monastery site (Zhang et al. 2021), and on the roofs of structures above the Yungang Grottoes (Q. Zhang et al. 2016, pp. 551–52). Notably, a single excavation at the Yungang summit uncovered over 300 green-glazed tiles, accounting for more than half of the tiles found there, demonstrating that their use was not sporadic decoration but large-scale application. Similarly, significant finds of high-fired liuli tiles and ornamental ridge components have been unearthed within the palace precinct of Ye (鄴, present-day Handan, Hebei), the Northern Qi (550–577 CE) capital (Hu 2020). In the Tang period, liuli tiles have also been discovered at core buildings in the two capitals, such as various halls of the Daming Palace (大明宮) (An and Li 1997, pp. 378–79; Gong and He 2003, p. 19; Gong et al. 2006), the Ximing Monastery (西明寺) (An 1990, p. 52) in Chang’an, and the Anguo Daoist nunnery (安國道觀, formerly Princess Taiping’s residence) in Luoyang (Luoyang Wangxin 2023). Textual records corroborate that the use of liuli tiles was concentrated in palaces and imperial religious monasteries, with green being the predominant color.

Emperor Xiao Baojuan’s wish for a structure of pure liuli appears to have gone unfulfilled. Instead, like his predecessor, he built a hall finished with qingyou (青油, blue–green oil) and named it Liuli Hall (琉璃殿) (Y. Xiao 2011, p. 350). According to the Ye Zhong Ji (鄴中記, Records of Ye), the Northern Qi (550–577 CE) palaces “applied walnut oil to tiles, making them dazzlingly brilliant.” (Gu 1984, p. 183) At palace and imperial religious sites from the Northern Wei to the Tang, tiles with glossy black or blackish-blue surfaces are often found; these likely correspond to the qingyou or qingqi treatments mentioned in texts. Furthermore, Tang poetry frequently mentions biwa (碧瓦, blue tiles), apparently referring to tiles more common than costly liuli; this relative prevalence suggests that biwa likely designated the more accessible, oil-treated tiles.

Why would ancient texts describe tiles that now appear black as bi (碧, blue)? One hypothesis points to subsequent chemical change. These tiles may have been coated with a copper-bearing blue slip (indeed, blue-gray slipped tiles have been found at Northern Wei palace sites). Over time, as this coating reacted with qingyou (e.g., walnut oil), which is rich in unsaturated fatty acids, it formed dark copper soaps, gradually turning the surface glossy black. If this speculation holds, applying qingyou or qingqi can be seen as a relatively inexpensive attempt to mimic, or even substitute for, the brilliant blue–green luster of a true liuli qinglou.

3. Technological Transmission and Buddhist Ideology in the Emergence of Liuli Qinglou

Why did rulers during the Northern and Southern Dynasties suddenly conceive the idea of building liuli qinglou?

The immediate impetus for utilizing liuli in construction was admiration for imported architectural techniques. Textual and archeological evidence from the previous section indicates that the rise of liuli architecture was initially concentrated in the early Northern Wei period (Pingcheng era, 398–494 CE). Scholars note that, due to technological exchange, liuli production flourished for a time under the Northern Wei (X. Li 2025). According to the Wei shu (魏書, Book of Wei), during the Northern Wei (Pingcheng era, 398–494 CE), a merchant from the Da Yuezhi (大月氏, Kushan) claimed he “could smelt stone into five-colored liuli. He quarried in the mountains and cast the material in the capital. When completed, its luster surpassed imported wares. The emperor ordered him to build a movable palace that could hold more than a hundred people. Its brilliance dazzled all onlookers, who took it to be the work of divine beings. From that point on, liuli in China became cheaper than before and was no longer treasured.” (Wei 1974, p. 2275) The statement that “liuli became less expensive than before” should be understood as relative; the large-scale architectural application of liuli remained both a luxury and a rarity.

A deeper impetus stemmed from the influence of Buddhism. During the Northern and Southern Dynasties, Buddhism developed rapidly in China and had a profound impact on Chinese architectural art. Xiao Baojuan often sought architectural inspiration from Buddhism. For instance, when constructing a palace for his favored consort, Lady Pan, he appropriated caisson ceilings and sculptures from temple pagodas for decoration. He also carved golden lotuses to lay on the floor, instructing Lady Pan to walk upon them, saying: ‘The lotus blossoms were born following every step (步步生蓮, just like the allusion to Lady Mṛgī in Buddhist texts)” (Y. Li 1975, p. 154). Thus, his conception of the liuli qinglou may also have originated in Buddhist scriptures.

Liuli, as one of the Seven Treasures (Saptaratna), features prominently in Buddhist scriptures. Buddhist texts depict Buddha land (buddhakṣetra) and celestial realms (devaloka) as constructed entirely of liuli—featuring liuli ground, trees, ponds, cities, palaces, and stairways. When the Buddha went to the heavenly realm to preach the Dharma, the devas created three stairways of gold, silver, and liuli. The Buddha traversed the central liuli stairway, while celestial beings walked upon the gold and silver ones flanking it. The Medicine Buddha (Bhaiṣajyaguru), designated as “Yaoshi Liuli Guang Rulai” (藥師琉璃光如來, Buddha of Liuli Radiance/Vaiḍūryanirbhāsa), presides over the Eastern Pure Liuli Land (Kumarajiva n.d.b, p. 11b; Fali and Faju n.d., p. 306c; Xuanzang n.d., p. 405a). Thus, within Buddhism, liuli constitutes an essential element of the ideal world and symbolizes the sacred.

Within this cultural milieu, rulers likely aspired to replicate the liuli architecture described in Buddhist scriptures. The Wei Shu’s description of the liuli palace built by the Yuezhi merchant—“its brilliance penetrated throughout; all who saw it were astonished and believed it to be the work of divine beings” (光色映徹, 觀者見之, 莫不驚駭, 以為神明所作)—directly echoes phrases used in Buddhist texts to describe liuli architecture, such as “inside and outside illuminate one another”(內外相照) and “within and without are translucent’ (表裏映徹)”, as in: “The Buddha emitted radiant light that illuminated all palaces; buildings were entirely made of liuli. Inside and outside were fully penetrable, and all beings saw the true face of Buddha” (佛放光明, 悉照宮室, 城郭舍宅, 悉作琉璃, 內外洞達, 莫不見佛) (Zhu and Kang n.d., p. 461c; Jñānagupta n.d., p. 360c; Anonymous n.d., p. 793c). In the Northern and Southern Dynasties context, liuli primarily denoted glass and glazed ceramics. At that time, glassmaking technology was likely insufficient for large-scale architectural applications, while glazed ceramics may not have possessed the extraordinary radiance described as astonishing viewers. The most plausible explanation is that the historian consciously echoed the language of Buddhist scriptures, employing exaggerated praise. During the Northern and Southern Dynasties, as Buddhism flourished, historians frequently employed Buddhist allusions in their writing. Moreover, liuli had long been a favored motif in literary expression. Thus, their adoption of Buddhist phraseology was not only effortless but also served as subtle flattery, implying that “this is the Buddha’s realm”.

Indeed, rulers who sought to replicate liuli architecture based on scriptural descriptions may have been motivated not only by technical or esthetic aspirations but also by the desire to materialize the message, “this is the Buddha’s realm, and the emperor is the Buddha”. This political-theological claim finds a material base in the archeological record of elite sites, as shown in Section 2 where liuli finds cluster at palatial and imperially sponsored religious complexes. This distribution aligns with the institutional pattern of Buddhist state monasteries (He 2022). A vivid example comes from excavations atop the Yungang Grottoes, which revealed ruins of Northern Wei structures, yielding hundreds of bluish-green and greenish-yellow glazed ceramic tiles. These were likely employed as liuli roof tiles for Buddhist architecture (Q. Zhang et al. 2016). The Yungang Grottoes (雲岡石窟) were developed under Northern Wei patronage as a major Buddhist sanctuary. Historical records indicate that the carving of the five colossal Buddhas was guided by the belief that “the emperor is the Tathagata” (皇帝即如來), and that the statues were deliberately modeled on the Northern Wei emperor’s likeness (Wei 1974, p. 3036).

When devotees gazed upwards, the liuli structures crowning the grotto roofs would sparkle in the sunlight. Their brilliant colors seemed to merge with the azure sky, rendering them simultaneously tangible architecture and visionary heavenly palaces. Below these structures, the grottoes were arranged in rows. In the shifting light, the colossal Buddha figures appeared solemn and majestic, simultaneously embodying Buddhas in the emperor’s likeness and emperors in the Buddha’s image. Blending illusion with reality and merging the visible with the imagined, the entire ensemble powerfully evoked the sense that “this is the Buddha’s realm, and the sovereign is the Buddha”.

The kingdom of Kucha (龜茲, in present-day Xinjiang), a crucial Silk Roads hub, pioneered such atmospheric creation. In 382 CE, General Lü Guang’s expeditionary force, having traversed the desert, reportedly arrived awestruck: the vine-covered royal city featured triple walls, its outermost wall comparable in scale to Chang’an. Within, “palaces, pagodas, and temples stood in dense succession, numbering in the thousands, with towering buildings adorned with brilliant qing langgan (青琅玕), gold, and jade” (Yao 1973, p. 813). Qing langgan, also called cui langgan (翠琅玕), was said to possess a qing (青, a classical Chinese chromatic concept covering blue–green spectra) hue comparable to liuli (Han 2005, p. 354) and is generally understood to denote either turquoise or turquoise-colored manufactured materials (Du 2023). Under the intense Central Asian sun, the dazzling colors of langgan, combined with gold and jade, created an overwhelming sensory experience for the weary travelers, inducing a sensation of arrival in a Buddha land. Even historians from the Central Plains, typically dismissive of the Western Regions (西域) small kingdoms, conceded: “The royal palace of Kucha is magnificent, resplendent like a god’s abode” (Fang 1974, p. 2543).

This effect was likely a deliberate political–esthetic construct. As an oasis state surrounded by larger powers, Kucha leveraged its Buddhist devotion—manifested in cave temples and resplendent architecture—to foster internal cohesion and project external cultural prestige. Its influence extended eastward; artistic traces are evident in Dunhuang (敦煌) and Yungang Grottoes, and it facilitated the eastward transmission of figures like Kumārajīva. Thus, Kucha’s langgan-adorned temples functioned as direct precursors to the liuli qinglou of northern China.

The relationship between the qinglou and religion is further confirmed by mural art. In the murals from the Northern Dynasties at the Dunhuang caves, architectural elements like rooftops and foundations are predominantly painted in qing tones. This distinctive color scheme cannot be dismissed as a mere stylistic convention, especially given its scarcity in contemporaneous tomb murals. It is highly likely that the Dunhuang painters were intentionally representing qinglou constructed from liuli or coated with qingyou—materials connoting luxury and purity—and may have even sought to convey specific religious ideals through this visual language. A case in point is the mural Illustrated Story of the Five Hundred Bandits’ Enlightenment (五百強盜成佛因緣圖) in Mogao Cave 285, which narrates a violent tale: five hundred bandits who committed evil deeds, were blinded and cast into the forest by the king, and in their pain and terror were saved by the Buddha and converted (J. Wu 2006, p. 112). Significantly, the narrative’s brutality is visually mitigated through an esthetic strategy: the bandits are rendered with minimal detail in subdued colors, while the surrounding landscape and architecture are boldly executed in vibrant blues and greens, dominating the composition (Figure 1). This deliberate chromatic hierarchy transforms the scene. At first glance, the mural resembles a serene landscape, potentially evoking a tranquil liuli Buddha land. Within the dim cave environment, the cool blue–green palette fosters tranquility, diminishing the visceral impact of the violence and amplifying the theme of compassionate salvation. This transformative use of color—recasting a violent tale into a vision of a serene liuli Buddha land—exemplifies Eugene Wang’s perspective on the active role of visual programs: they do not merely illustrate texts, but reinterpret them through formal devices such as chromatic hierarchy (E. Y. Wang 2005).

In summary, the rise of liuli qinglou was not solely a product of technological exchange in glazing techniques along the Silk Roads. It was fundamentally propelled by the Buddhist vision of a liuli Buddha land, a concept itself deeply intertwined with earlier Western religious imaginaries of sacred space and rulership. The following sections trace this concept’s origins and its material realization.

4. Conceptual Genesis: The Liuli Buddha Land and Its Western Precedents

The concept of a Buddha land adorned with liuli or the Seven Treasures represents a significant adaptation within Mahāyāna Buddhism, drawing heavily on pre-existing Western notions of a jeweled paradise. This adaptation is evident on two key levels: doctrinal development and semantic-material translation.

First, the notion of a Buddha actively presiding over a salvific paradise diverged fundamentally from early Buddhist orthodoxy. Early Buddhism emphasized the Buddha’s attainment of parinirvāṇa—a state of final cessation beyond cyclical existence (saṃsāra). Within this framework, he could not create or inhabit a celestial realm to receive devotees; liberation (mokṣa) was achieved solely through individual effort in accordance with the Dharma. The Buddha land concept emerged later within Mahāyāna Buddhism, significantly influenced during its transmission through contact with Western salvation religions promising divine realms for the faithful (Sadakata 2021, pp. 11–40; Sadakata 2023, pp. 140–59).

Second, as mentioned earlier, the term liuli originates from the Sanskrit vaiḍūrya. Before it entered China and became the name for glass and glazed ceramics, it originally referred to blue–green gemstones from South Asia, such as beryl or aquamarine. Over time and across regions, it could also refer to lapis lazuli, emerald, sapphire, etc.1 This is why Buddhist sutras describe liuli as a precious qingse bao (青色寶, blue–green jewel) and list it among the Seven Treasures alongside gold, silver, crystal, coral, pearl, and agate. Therefore, the liuli-adorned Buddha land described in Buddhist texts should be understood as jeweled paradise. The jeweled paradise is not an indigenous Indian concept but has deep roots and broad dissemination in the ancient Near East and West Asia.

Western conceptions of paradise, though diverse, coalesced around two primary archetypes: (1) a celestial dwelling place of the gods, characterized by magnificent architecture and furnishings; and (2) an eternal garden of bliss, evoked through imagery of lush vegetation, water sources, and animals. These archetypes resonated, respectively, with the imperial palace and the royal garden. Their defining shared characteristic was the pervasive use of gemstones for construction and adornment, creating a realm of incorruptible, divine splendor (Wright 2000).

Evidence for the divine dwelling constructed of gemstones is remarkably ancient. An Assyrian tablet (early 1st millennium BCE) describes the god Marduk creating three levels of a “pure haven”. Their floors were composed of red-speckled stone, blue stone, and translucent stone. The visible blue sky was understood as the blue gemstone floor of the middle heaven, perceived through the translucent floor of the lower heaven (Horowitz 1998, pp. 8–16). These three gemstones correspond to prized materials of the ancient Near East: red-speckled carnelian, lapis lazuli, and translucent chalcedony.

Lapis lazuli, sourced primarily from Afghanistan, held profound sanctity in the Near East (Jia 2019, pp. 217–34). It was deemed the indispensable material for constructing heaven: celestial temples were fashioned from lapis lazuli; deities possessed lapis lazuli hair and beards; the path to heaven consisted of lapis lazuli stairs traversed by the sun god; the sky itself was envisioned as a vast slab of lapis lazuli upon which stars were fixed. Sumerians even crafted “star disks of pure heaven” from lapis lazuli for divination (Horowitz 1998, pp. 243–67). Egyptians similarly viewed lapis lazuli as fragments of the sky and divine attributes, employing it extensively in offerings and as metaphors for the divine realm. Exodus 24:10 describes the ground beneath Yahweh’s feet on Sinai as “a pavement of sappîr, clear as the sky itself”—where sappîr almost certainly denoted lapis lazuli in its original context (Harrell et al. 2017, pp. 18–20).

The eternal garden tradition centers on gemstone Trees of Life. Sumerian myth described the kiškānu Tree gleaming like lapis lazuli in “the pure place” of Eridu (Langdon 1928). The Epic of Gilgamesh features a garden where “lapis-lazuli trees had lush branches and leaves” (Gong 2021, p. 192). These motifs persisted in later traditions, including descriptions of Eden and Islamic tales of paradise (Dalley 1991, p. 10) The Tree of Life or Sacred Tree also became a recurring motif, frequently associated with patterns based on the number seven (Giovino 2007). The term “paradise” itself encodes this garden ideal. Derived from Old Persian pairidaēza, Persian nobility used it for their enclosed hunting parks, characterized by fences, beautiful flora and fauna, and flowing water (Bremmer 1999, pp. 1–20).

Buddhist descriptions of Buddha land and celestial gardens exhibit striking parallels to these Western “jeweled paradises” in structure, components, and symbolism:

• Garden Structure. The Buddha land resembles a beautiful eternal garden featuring fences, flora and fauna, and flowing water. Amitābha’s Western Pure Land, for instance, is meticulously described: encircled by seven layers of jeweled railings, seven layers of jeweled nets, and seven rows of jeweled trees. Within are pools of the Seven Treasures; their floors paved with golden sand, steps made of four precious materials. Jeweled pavilions stand above the pools. Giant, fragrant lotus flowers bloom within. The ground is gold, celestial mandārava blossoms rain down, and marvelous birds produce harmonious music (Kumarajiva n.d.a, pp. 346–47). The connection between Amitabha’s Pure Land and Western paradise has already been extensively studied by scholars (Sadakata 2023, pp. 140–59).
• Jeweled Trees. Buddha land features Seven-Treasure Trees (Patnavṛkṣa). The celestial palace atop cosmic Mount Sumeru also houses the Pārijāta tree (wish-fulfilling tree, Kalpavṛkṣa). The tree is explicitly composed of the Seven Treasures: gold roots, silver trunk, liuli branches, coral leaves, pearl blossoms, gemstone buds, diamond fruit (Beer 2003, p. 193). Its jeweled composition, location at the cosmic center or within eternal Pure Lands, and emphasis on the number seven directly echo the gemstone Trees of Life and sacred trees of the ancient Near East.
• Specific Liuli Motifs. Buddhist texts describe the Buddha land’s ground as liuli with eight intersecting paths demarcated by golden cords, flanked by Seven Treasure trees. The Buddha possesses liuli hair, eyebrows, and eyes, and ascends/descends between heaven and earth on a liuli staircase. These motifs correlate precisely with Near Eastern concepts: the lapis lazuli heavenly floor, the celestial cords demarcating its eight sectors, the lapis lazuli stairway to the sky and deities with lapis lazuli hair (Zheng 2021a).

In conclusion, the liuli Buddha land described in Mahāyāna scriptures exhibits profound conceptual and structural similarities to the significantly older Western traditions of the jeweled paradise. Liuli (as vaiḍūrya) originally denoted a blue gemstone, functionally and chromatically analogous to lapis lazuli within Western cosmologies. Given the significant chronological precedence of the Western models, the Buddhist concept of the liuli Buddha land appears demonstrably inspired by them, subsequently adapted within the framework of Mahāyāna soteriology.

5. Materializing the Vision: Western Traditions of Recreating the Jeweled Paradise

Rulers of the ancient Near East actively sought to materialize these paradises on Earth, asserting their own divine or divinely sanctioned status through architecture. Assyrian kings boasted of constructing temples whose interiors gleamed like the “Middle Heaven” (Budge and King 1902), implying the use of lapis lazuli. Egyptian pharaohs proclaimed: “I built a temple adorned with gold, with a roof of lapis lazuli and walls of silver.” Amenhotep III (c. 1386–1349 BCE) used gold, silver, and “genuine lapis lazuli” for the Karnak pylon gates (Lichtheim 1973, p. 137; Lichtheim 1976, p. 46). The emphasis on “genuine” underscores the material’s rarity and value, necessitating substitutes like glazed ceramic or glass for large-scale applications.

The Neo-Babylonian Empire (626–539 BCE) achieved a landmark realization of the jeweled-paradise ideal through innovative material substitution. The Ishtar Gate was clad in vast quantities of deep blue glazed bricks, meticulously designed to imitate lapis lazuli (Figure 2). These bricks were adorned with gold and silver glazed reliefs depicting dragons (mušḫuššu) and bulls. Cedar doors featured bronze bolts. Crucially, this use of blue-glazed brick extended beyond the gate to encompass city walls, streets, palaces, and the great ziggurat (Etemenanki), creating the effect of an entire city shimmering like the divine realm. Ritual reinforced the symbolism: during the New Year festival, divine statues processed through the Ishtar Gate, along the Processional Way, to the temple of Marduk. This materialized the city’s name, Babylon, meaning “Gate of the Gods” (Bahrani 2017, pp. 278–85). Color and ritual together transformed the urban space into a sacred conduit, embodying the concept of the earthly city as a reflection of the heavenly abode.

Babylon presents a compelling prototype for later Buddhist textual descriptions of liuli cities, such as “a city appears in the distance, pure blue liuli, its color clean and bright” (Huijue n.d., p. 407c), “a jeweled liuli city comes into view once more, dazzling with radiance” (Kang n.d., p. 21b). Within Babylon, the throne room featured glazed brick walls and floors imitating lapis lazuli. Gold-glazed bricks formed decorative bands. Rows of stylized trees were depicted using tiles glazed in turquoise, gold, and red agate hues (Figure 3), directly continuing the sacred tree tradition. The visual schema readily evokes Buddhist descriptions: a liuli ground, golden cord boundaries, and Seven-Treasure trees lining the paths. The compositional and chromatic parallels are striking; the key distinction lies in Babylon’s use of glazed tile imitations versus the Buddhist textual depiction of actual jewels. Babylon demonstrated that the jeweled paradise could be materially evoked on an urban scale using glazed ceramics.

Babylon’s splendor endured in cultural memory. Although conquered by the Achaemenid Persians (539 BCE) and later by Alexander the Great (331 BCE), its splendor remained renowned. Greek authors like Antipater of Sidon (2nd century BCE) listed both its walls and Hanging Gardens among the Seven Wonders. Its ziggurat inspired the biblical Tower of Babel. Critically, Buddhism emerged and spread during Babylon’s zenith and in its aftermath. The vast empires of the Achaemenids and Alexander created unprecedented connectivity stretching from the Mediterranean to South Asia, facilitating the transmission of artistic and religious ideas. It is within this context of intense West–East exchange that concepts like the lapis lazuli divine realm and its Babylonian materialization could plausibly have influenced Indian religious imagination, contributing to the formulation of the liuli Buddha land concept.

The tradition of recreating paradise persisted under subsequent empires, undergoing subtle chromatic shifts. The Achaemenid Persians (c. 550–330 BCE) continued using glazed bricks extensively. Artisans from Babylon were deployed to imperial centers like Susa and Persepolis (Fügert and Gries 2020). At Susa, the palace walls featured blue-glazed brick friezes depicting Persian royal guards amidst sacred plants and geometric patterns (Figure 4). The brilliant colors and symbolic motifs combined to create an atmosphere of imperial sanctity and divine favor. A notable shift occurred in the blue hue: while Babylon favored a deep lapis lazuli blue, Achaemenid glazes often display a bluish-green or yellowish-green tone resembling beryl or turquoise. This shift reflected the empire’s eastward expansion and the rising prestige of turquoise sourced from its eastern provinces. By the Parthian period (247 BCE–224 CE), turquoise had largely supplanted lapis lazuli as the dominant sacred blue–green stone (Moorey 1999, p. 180).

This chromatic shift had lasting consequences. Bluish-green glazed ceramics proliferated from the Near East through Central Asia under Persian cultural influence. Following the Arab conquest of Persia (7th century CE), Islamic art inherited and perpetuated this turquoise-green palette as a sacred color, evident in mosques and palaces to this day. This development directly impacted regions such as Kucha and China. As noted earlier, Kucha’s palaces utilized langgan, likely turquoise or turquoise-glazed tiles, and archeological finds at Kucha’s royal city include turquoise-green glazed ceramics (P. Zhang 2008). Similarly, the Northern Wei liuli tiles unearthed at Yungang are bluish-green and yellowish-green, aligning with this broader Central/West Asian chromatic preference.

Beyond glazed ceramics, the Persians exhibited a strong penchant for incorporating actual gemstones into architecture, though archeological evidence is scarce. Darius I’s foundation inscription at Susa (DSf) lists materials including Bactrian gold, Sogdian lapis lazuli and carnelian, Chorasmian turquoise, Egyptian silver, and Nubian ivory (Avesta-Zoroastrian Archives n.d.). These gemstones were likely used for inlay. Reliefs at Persepolis feature numerous small holes, possibly for inset gems or precious materials (Schmidt 1953, pp. 133, 164, 242). The Sasanian Empire (224–651 CE) reportedly used a massive “Spring of Khosrow” carpet woven with gold, silver, silk, and inlaid with gemstones to depict a paradise garden in the audience hall (Pope 1964, pp. 2274–75). The throne was covered with pearl- and ruby-studded brocade depicting the seasons. Above it hung a canopy of gold and lapis lazuli depicting the sky, stars, climates, and royal scenes. The profusion of gems imbued the space with sanctity, linking it through imagery (garden, seasons, cosmos) to the divine realm. Sasanian kings explicitly termed their audience halls pairidaēza (paradise). Architectural features like star-decorated domes and even mechanisms simulating rain and thunder further enhanced the cosmic symbolism, positioning the king as a cosmic ruler (Panaino 2021, pp. 120–32).

The neighboring Roman/Byzantine worlds shared this jeweled style. Rome made extensive use of diverse colored marbles and stones. Vivid hues were prized for imperial and religious buildings, with gemstones, glass, and glazed ceramics inset into walls, floors, and furnishings to create dazzling patterns. This luxurious, polychromatic esthetic defined Late Antique and early Byzantine religious art. The 6th-century Church of San Vitale in Ravenna exemplifies this. Its mosaics extensively employ colored glass and glazed ceramics to imitate gemstones. The mosaic Emperor Justinian and his retinue, situated beneath the dome mosaic Christ and Angels, employs a gold-glass background signifying heavenly radiance. The borders use mosaic to simulate gems and pearls. Justinian and attendants stand on a vibrant green ground, their stylized, floating figures visually transcending the earthly realm (Figure 5). The combined effect—celestial gold background, jewel-like borders, symbolic green ground, and hieratic figures—creates a powerful sense of the emperor participating in a jeweled paradise.

Ancient Chinese sources demonstrate awareness of these Western traditions. The Jin Shu (晉書, Book of Jin) describes Daqin (大秦, the Roman Empire/Byzantium): “Structures use coral for beams and brackets, liuli for walls, and crystal for the bases of pillars.” (Fang 1974, pp. 2544–45). An anecdote from the Western Jin illustrates the impact of Roman glass technology on Chinese sensibilities: The minister Man Fen (滿奮) suffered from intense fear of drafts. While attending Emperor Wu (r. 266–290 CE), he noticed the north window with a window of liuli screen (i.e., glass) (琉璃屏). Though securely sealed, it appeared completely transparent. Believing a strong wind would blow through, Man Fen displayed visible discomfort. Emperor Wu laughed at his reaction (Y. Liu 2007, p. 97). The liuli screen here clearly denotes transparent window glass, a prestigious Roman innovation still relatively rare even in Rome before the 4th century CE (Velo-Gala and Garriguet Mata 2017, pp. 159–76). Man Fen’s unfamiliarity highlights its novelty in China. Such contact exposed Chinese elites to methods of sacralizing space using gemstones or their imitations.

In summary, Western cultures developed a tradition of recreating jeweled paradises to sacralize royal and sacred space. Buddhist conceptions like the liuli Buddha land likely drew inspiration from both Western religious texts and actual built environments (e.g., Babylon, Persia). Similarly, Chinese liuli qinglou sought to recreate Buddhist sacred architecture, which itself may have been influenced by Western traditions of glazed or glass arts.

6. Media Transformation: From Gemstones to Symbolic Color

The scarcity of gemstones catalyzed an evolution in representation: from literal use, through imitation using glass or glaze, to symbolic color. This transition distilled gemstones’ esthetic, functional, and cultural-symbolic values, crucially impacting Chinese Buddhist sensory theology.

The ancient Near Eastern and Persian predilection for enhancing sacred and royal architecture with gemstones derived from a constellation of intertwined values intrinsic to these rare materials. Their esthetic value resided in unparalleled brilliance, vivid chromaticity, and luminosity, capable of evoking immediate sensory delight and signifying transcendent, non-utilitarian splendor. Functionally, specific physical properties offered tangible benefits. Translucent stones like chalcedony or crystal could diffuse precious light within the often dim interiors of monumental structures (Sarre and Herzfeld 1920, pp. 48, 70; Eichholz 1962, p. 131); their inherent hardness ensured enduring magnificence. Most critically, gemstones accrued dense layers of cultural-symbolic meaning through their rarity, mythical origins, and divine associations. Lapis lazuli, for example, painstakingly sourced from distant Afghanistan and transported across vast networks, became emblematic not only of wealth and power but also of the celestial realm itself, divine authority, purity, and protection. Its use was deeply embedded in ritual practices, apotropaic amulets, and cosmological schemas (Winter 1999).

Confronted by the material impossibility of large-scale gemstone construction, artisans turned to substitutes, achieving a form of material imitation. Glass and glazed ceramics emerged as effective solutions, facilitating a partial transfer of the gemstones’ perceived value. Esthetically, these manufactured materials could meticulously replicate the coveted color, luster, and even translucency of their natural counterparts—deep-blue glaze mimicking the visual impact of lapis lazuli, turquoise, or bluish-green glaze evoking beryl or turquoise. Functionally, these imitations offered practical advantages: glazed ceramics were significantly cheaper, more durable for tiling applications, and amenable to mass production; glass could achieve superior transparency for windows or vessels compared to many natural stones. Crucially, these substitutes also absorbed a measure of the original gemstones’ cultural-symbolic weight. Imitation lapis lazuli was believed to possess the sacredness of the genuine material. The blue-glazed bricks adorning Babylon’s Ishtar Gate powerfully evoked the lapis lazuli heavens described in myth.

Yet, the representational evolution did not halt at material substitution. A further, decisive step emerged: symbolic abstraction, wherein representing the essence of the gemstone, rather than its physical simulacrum, became sufficient to evoke the paradisiacal realm. This abstraction manifested through two key, often overlapping, strategies.

First, pattern functioned as symbol. Two-dimensional representations began to stand in for three-dimensional gems. The mosaic borders framing the Emperor Justinian and his retinue employ colored tesserae to create geometric and floral patterns explicitly signifying gems and pearls (Figure 5). Similarly, textiles, such as a tapestry in the Abegg-Stiftung collection featuring arcades and personifications of the seasons, incorporated woven or embroidered oval motifs distinctly symbolizing emeralds within their borders. Displaying such textiles within sacred spaces effectively translated the gemstone-adorned paradise into a portable, pictorial medium (E. D. Williams 2018), extending its presence beyond the constraints of architecture.

Second, and most radically, color itself became the primary signifier. The chromatic essence of the gemstone, abstracted from its material form, emerged as the core conveyor of meaning and association. Gold tesserae in mosaics transcended mere imitation of gold leaf to signify celestial radiance itself. Deep-blue glass used in vaults and apses evoked the essential quality of the lapis lazuli sky, not its literal substance. Vibrant green pigment in manuscripts or murals could symbolize emerald gardens or the turquoise waters of paradise. Color thus became a potent visual shorthand, encapsulating the esthetic, cultural, and ultimately theological values originally embedded within the physical gemstone. This chromatic coding was remarkably efficient, versatile, and liberated from the material cost and technical limitations of gemstones or even their high-fidelity imitations. It enabled the jeweled paradise to permeate diverse artistic media and resonate within varied cultural frameworks.

The Kucha grottoes exemplify advanced applications of color and materials to convey religious meaning. Their chromatic selections were deliberate, drawing inspiration from the Buddhist concept of the Seven Treasures. Gold and silver—applied as lustrous foil (much regrettably looted in later centuries) to Buddha figures, halos, and canopies—created dynamic, reflective surfaces that captured the flicker of butter lamps. The deep blue pigment, representing vaiḍūrya/liuli, was primarily derived from ground lapis lazuli (Zhou et al. 2023; Su et al. 2000), sourced from Afghan mines. This resonant hue chromatically embodied the celestial realm, manifesting in the sky, the Buddha’s hair, halo, and throne. Its material provenance reinforced its symbolic authenticity and sacrality. Vibrant green, rendered with atacamite or other copper-based minerals, signified turquoise or emerald—known in Buddhist Sanskrit texts as da qingbao (大青寶, marakata), denoting the most precious blue–green gemstone. This green simultaneously evoked the gem-like flora and ponds of paradise gardens, framing the Buddha within a celestial landscape. Accents of red and white, representing coral, pearl, or crystal among the Treasures, completed the symbolic spectrum.

Within the dim, cavernous interiors, the cumulative effect was transformative. As devotees transitioned from the intense Central Asian sunlight into the caves, the pervasive blues and greens emanating from the walls induced immediate tranquility, facilitating contemplative immersion (Figure 6). The interplay of flickering lamplight on metallic foil further animated the sacred atmosphere, rendering the divine presence tangible. Here, color transcended mere decoration; it functioned as an active agent of sensory theology, fostering perception of a numinous space while viscerally heightening receptiveness to the sacred narratives depicted in the murals—advancing the doctrinal objectives of conversion and enlightenment.

At Dunhuang, the use of color to stage and signify a jeweled paradise reached a new apex during the Tang dynasty (618–907 CE), marked by the ascendancy of symbolic color in the narration, visualization, and spatialization of Buddha land visions. Scholars have observed the dramatic rise of blue–green hues in Dunhuang murals from the Tang onward and have explained it in relation to developments in painting technique (Y. Wang 2021). Yet because these caves were fundamentally spaces of religious devotion, this chromatic change was likely more than a matter of technique.

Analysis of early Tang murals (e.g., Mogao Caves 57, 220, 321, 322, and 329) shows that expansive, dominant blue–green fields are concentrated in scenes depicting Pure Lands. In Amitābha (Pure Land) transformation paintings (阿彌陀經變畫), the vivid green ground beneath Amitābha’s lotus throne unequivocally signifies the distinctive liuli pools of Sukhāvatī. Green liuli trees and liuli pavilions ring the pools, while the Seven Treasures adorn bodhisattvas, canopies, ritual implements, and offerings (Figure 7). This pervasive blue–green tonality exceeds landscape description and functions as a precise chromatic code that inherits the symbolic tradition of liuli and gems to materialize the sacred substance and sanctified environment of salvific space. Complementary deep-blue bands articulate the celestial realm, further anchoring the imagery within the visual tradition—ultimately derived from the ancient West—of the lapis-lazuli heaven (Figure 8).

The Tang period was the great age of transformation tableaux (經變畫, jingbian hua), with Buddha land among the most popular subjects (H. Wang 2003). Pools, vegetation, and architecture form the core schema of these paradisiacal visions; the profusion of blue–green follows first from iconographic necessity (Feng 2018, pp. 195–250). Although the forms of these scenes are deeply informed by contemporaneous East Asian gardens, palaces, and monastic architecture (Ho 1995), the more probative questions are why the garden-and-water complex was chosen and why blue–green was privileged. The answers point to the conceptual kernel: the religious idea of a jeweled paradise. The contrast becomes especially clear when these murals are set against contemporaneous tomb paintings of landscape and architecture, which handle color and space quite differently.

Many Dunhuang caves are understood as purpose-built Buddha land environments, supported by studies of transformation tableaux and textual matrices (H. Wu 1992) and case analyses of ritual and patronage (Ning 2004); subsequent work has focused on pictorial programs and their material and optical construction (Feng 2018) and on site-specific spatial organization and viewing conditions (Zhou and Li 2024). This study emphasizes that color itself is a powerful constructive force that merits closer theorization. A visit to the caves makes the point palpable: the interiors are exceptionally dim. Considering that ancient lighting relied on oil or butter lamps (with warm, red–yellow spectra) and that timber forestructures often shaded the entrances, the original luminous environment must have been even darker. This physical setting furnished the crucial physiological basis for the prominence of blue–green: in bright conditions, human vision is cone-dominated (peak sensitivity around 555 nm, maximal for yellow-green), but in darkness, rods take over (peak around 507 nm, maximal for blue–green). The resulting Purkinje shift means that, at equal reflectance, blue–green hues appear relatively brighter under low illumination, whereas long-wavelength reds and oranges lose visual weight (Kremers et al. 2016, pp. 144–46). Once dark-adapted, blue–green passages in the murals are unconsciously elevated by the visual system into luminance anchors, while warm tones recede as textural accents.

The mineral pigments favored at Dunhuang align closely with this physiology. Malachite greens and copper-green hues, together with azurite and lapis blues (J. Wang 2003), exhibit reflectance peaks within the rod-sensitive blue–green band. Under lamplight, these pigments show superior effective visibility and stability relative to other colors, so broad blue–green fields naturally dominate vision in low light. Moreover, at low luminance, human sensitivity shifts toward middle-to-low spatial frequencies (i.e., large, even color masses and clear contours). The Pure Land schema deploys exactly such broad, flatly painted blue–green zones for Seven-Treasure pools, liuli ground, and sacred groves, forming continuous low-frequency fields that the viewer’s peripheral vision readily captures and that seize pre-attentive focus in the gloom. In the Dunhuang triad of low illumination, warm light sources, and broad blue–green planes, visual physiology and artistic materiality act in tandem to propel blue–green to the perceptual foreground. Without further pictorial emphasis, the visual system itself “selects” these zones as the brightest, most structurally central elements, forming a luminance scaffold that organizes the entire paradisiacal image and sets the sacred tonality of the space.

Accordingly, upon entry, the devotee encounters an enveloping blue–green atmosphere that precedes motif recognition, immersing the viewer in a chromatic field engineered by large blue–green masses. Cross-disciplinary studies indicate that color can shape affect, cognition, and behavior; in many interior and environmental contexts, blue/green—relative to red—are often associated with lower physiological arousal and a greater sense of calm. Research on attention–restoration likewise suggests that exposure to blue- or green-toned natural settings tends to aid stress relief and cognitive recovery (Elliot and Maier 2014; Elliot et al. 2015, pp. 659–75). With these caveats in view, the Dunhuang blue–greens can be understood to go beyond mimetic depiction or displays of technique: they constitute a deliberate chromatic engineering designed to induce a tranquil, sacred psychological field consonant with meditative goals. To a devotee stepping from Dunhuang’s arid landscape into the cave’s gloom, the enveloping blue–green fields of the Pure Land murals were not merely seen but felt—a sudden immersion in a cool, chromatic realm that viscerally displaced the outer world of dust and ochre. This engineered sensory transition illustrates Birgit Meyer’s claim that religious experience is actively “made” through media that strategically shape perception (Meyer 2008).

Existing reconstructions of viewing practice at Dunhuang are valuable (Zhou and Li 2024). However, by projecting the habits of modern standing visitors onto ancient devotees, they risk obscuring historical bodily postures and devotional acts. Before the Tang dynasty, domestic furniture was generally low, and people commonly sat or knelt close to the ground (Kieschnick 2003, pp. 222–49). This spatial convention placed significant objects at low heights, conditioning a habitual downward gaze for the body and eyes. Crucially, Dunhuang manuscripts show that devotees came to perform ritual sequences—prostration, seated meditation, and visualization—rather than to “tour” or appreciate art in a modern sense (Ning 2004; P. Williams 2005; Schmid 2006; Hao 2022). In such contexts, the body was often bent or cross-legged, with eye level at roughly 0.9–1.2 m. From this height, what first enters the field of view is not the Buddha’s face but the expanse at his feet—the broad planes of blue–green liuli ground and the Seven-Treasure pools. By contrast, apprehending the full figures of the Buddha, bodhisattvas, and devas demands an upward gaze, which is a challenge in low light.

When placed back into its native devotional context, this seemingly paradoxical design proves coherent. Devotees already knew Pure Land images from hanging paintings, embroideries, and temple murals; there was no need, nor was there any intention, to scrutinize every detail. Here, the cave murals operate as visual triggers and spatial anchors of the sacred. When the familiar blue–green field, made especially salient by visual physiology, comes into view at a lowered eye line and in half-light, the complete Pure Land arises almost instantaneously in the mind’s eye. If the cave floor featured lotus motifs or green bricks, the three-dimensional interior could link seamlessly with the two-dimensional pictorial illusion, forming a single mandala. In this way, the blue–green pools, terraces, and trees become more than depicted scenery: they are the sanctified threshold for guided visualization. Through them, the devotee’s intention “enters” the painting, proceeding from foreground to distance, from earth to the Buddha’s dais, thereby completing a spiritual pilgrimage.

7. Conclusions

This article traced the Eurasian circulation of the jeweled paradise motif and its subsequent transformations in medieval China, culminating in the phenomenon of the liuli qinglou. The central thread of this narrative is the sequential evolution of the media used to depict these paradisiacal realms: from precious stones to imitative materials like glass and glazed ceramics, and then to the symbolic use of color in mural art. This process represents not merely a series of technical or artistic innovations, but a profound reflection of the localization and translation of religious concepts.

In ancient West Asia, the tradition of constructing sacred spaces with gemstones like lapis lazuli, constrained by material limitations, gave rise to the use of glazed bricks to mimic these precious materials. This enabled the translation of the jeweled paradise from text into architecture. Buddhism absorbed this tradition, employing vaiḍūrya/liuli as a core image for its Pure Lands. As this concept traveled eastward with Buddhism, the term liuli itself underwent a semantic shift in China, evolving from denoting specific gemstones to encompassing glass and glazed ceramics. This material transference is epitomized by rulers of the Northern Dynasties who used glazed tiles and other components to materialize the scriptural Liuli Buddha land as the architectural form of the liuli qinglou, thereby creating a spatial symbol that fused religious sanctity with imperial authority.

The evolution of media did not stop at architectural imitation. When material resources remained constrained, Chinese Buddhist art moved further toward symbolic expression through color. In the cave murals of Dunhuang and Kucha, expansive fields of blue–green (qing) no longer merely depicted scenery but became direct visual signifiers for liuli and the Seven Treasures. Within dimly lit cave environments, these cool hues, enhanced by their physiological advantages in low light, became particularly salient. They effectively fostered a tranquil and sacred psychological atmosphere, guiding devotees into an immersive experience of the Pure Land. Thus, material imitation ultimately gave way to an internalized, spiritual construction centered on contemplation and mental visualization.

The history of the liuli qinglou and its artistic representations demonstrates that the cross-cultural transmission of sacred concepts is often accompanied by adaptive transformations in their media of expression. The chain from gemstone to glaze to symbolic color illustrates a creative process wherein religious ideals continuously transcended material limitations, seeking localized, widely legible, and internalized forms of expression.