China Is Obsessed With Livestreaming and the Censors Are Racing to Keep Up

This spring, Jin transformed a corner of his three-person Beijing dorm room into a makeshift livestreaming studio. For privacy, the skinny 24-year-old grad student pressed sticky hooks to the ceiling in a semicircle and hung a pale-green shower curtain around his wooden desk. He bought a lamp for backlighting and a plastic stand to hold his iPhone roughly at eye level. He even persuaded his roommates, both fellow biology Ph.D. candidates, to stay away most evenings from 7 p.m. until midnight. That’s when he pulls the curtain to hide the dingy concrete walls, takes out his bags of makeup, and streams live video of himself on the internet.

One typical night, Jin glances between his small lavender mirror and the iPhone while he draws a blush-tipped brush languidly along his cheekbones and pencils in arched eyebrows. As a mellow playlist cycles in the background, he chats with a few dozen viewers—he talks, they type—occasionally turning his head from side to side to show off his profile. He dons a long black wig, then laughs, flipping the locks over his shoulder. “This wig doesn’t suit my outfit,” he says. “I’ll change it.” The next one is red; a fan writes, “So beautiful.”