Chinese Millionaire Made Millions Selling Canned Air

In 2013, Beijing's air pollution reached apocalyptic levels—30 to 45 times above the World Health Organization's recommended safety limits. People wore masks outdoors, schools canceled recess, and visibility dropped so low that highways shut down. Into this toxic haze stepped Chen Guangbiao, a recycling magnate turned eccentric philanthropist, with an audacious business proposition: canned fresh air.

For just 5 yuan (about $0.80), Chinese citizens could purchase a soft drink-sized can of supposedly pristine air from remote regions. The cans came in varieties like "Pristine Tibet," "Post-Industrial Taiwan," and air from Xinjiang province in China's northwest. According to Chen, the venture generated over $6 million in revenue within 10 months, with sales exploding after particularly bad pollution days.

A Publicity Stunt with a Purpose

Chen freely admitted the enterprise was partly tongue-in-cheek. "I want to tell mayors, county chiefs and heads of big companies: don't just chase GDP growth," he told reporters. The message was clear: don't sacrifice environmental health for economic expansion. The canned air served as a provocative symbol—if people were willing to pay for breathable air, something had gone terribly wrong.

Initially, Chen gave the cans away for free to make his point. But when Beijing experienced a particularly brutal stretch of smog in early 2013, demand skyrocketed. He claimed to have sold 8 million cans in just 10 days during the worst of the crisis.

From Recycling to Radical Philanthropy

Chen Guangbiao built his fortune in the recycling industry, reportedly becoming one of China's wealthiest individuals. But he's better known for his theatrical approach to charity and activism. He's handed out cash to homeless people on the streets, led anti-pollution bicycle rallies, and once demonstrated a "smog-eating" vehicle prototype.

The canned air fit perfectly into his pattern of attention-grabbing stunts designed to spark conversation about social issues. Whether or not customers believed they were getting genuine mountain air in those cans mattered less than the conversation it started.

A Global Phenomenon

Chen wasn't alone in capitalizing on China's air crisis. Other entrepreneurs sold bags and bottles of fresh air, while companies began marketing high-end air purifiers to anxious middle-class families. The phenomenon highlighted a disturbing reality: clean air had become a luxury commodity.

International companies even got in on the action. Canadian startup Vitality Air began shipping bottles of air from the Rocky Mountains to China, selling individual cans for up to $20. What started as Chen's publicity stunt evolved into a legitimate, if bizarre, market sector.

Today, China has made significant progress in reducing air pollution through strict environmental regulations and massive investments in renewable energy. Beijing's air quality, while still concerning by Western standards, has improved dramatically since those dark days of 2013. The canned air craze has faded, but it remains a powerful symbol of how bad things got—and how creative capitalism can get when basic necessities become scarce.