The forms of any written Chinese characters are exquisite - on rusty
signs, tea packets or even just as graffiti. I came across a bamboo
thicket rich in poetic beauty. On closer inspection I was transfixed;
each stem was completely covered in characters, carved into the green
skin to reveal yellow. I was glad not to know what it all meant - to be
able to see it not as defacement but as ornate and intricate
decoration. The hotel elevator takes an age, and I am not yet used to the
gentle pace of life. Luckily there are several paintings on each floor
to help pass the time as I wait. I am told a Chinese painter or calligrapher must grind ink in a stone
following the line of eight hundred figures of eight before marking the
paper. Only then will the mind be fully cleared of thought; allowing
the artist to create dynamic, authentic strokes. The result is a fluid,
bold, fast expression of form. With just a few curves a blossom clings
to a stem or a crane takes flight.
An hour can easily be lost in perusing works of art in the shop
next door. I hear a crackle and a hum as the strip lights are
illuminated. A
Pekinese puppy crouches and attempts to ward me off with a snuffling
grunt that is presumably his best menacing bark. I mimic his stance,
chuckling in appreciation of his boldness, and offer my open hand in
friendship. He coils away in a silken ball, but then lunges forward to
plant a full sneeze in my face. This marks his acceptance of me as a
potential patron, and I am allowed onto the premises. Three groups of
girls are scattered around absorbed in card games and
animated discussion. Two men talk in more serious, muted tones. From a
carved table in a haze of cigarette smoke they slurp tea from wide
ceramic thimbles. Piles upon piles of living masterpieces drape the
walls. A handful of
black strokes link loosely together to shape a wriggling shrimp; a
blotted green stain forms an icy body of water, bursting into torrents
as a waterfall; muscular carp flex between weeds in a carnival of
colour. I am lost in admiration.
I find my shopping trip doubling as useful research on my return to the
hotel. Someone has found for a particular event an enormous scroll
depicting a mountainous winter landscape.
“Can you turn this into a spring scene?” she asks me, “It’s a little bleak.”
I seem to learn more about the Chinese people whilst shut away in
my room than whilst in their company. The eight-foot by four-foot
scroll unfurls to take up all available space and I have no choice but
to be completely immersed in it. There is no grinding of ink eight hundred times as a prelude I must
admit; my preparation consists of a prayer fervent enough to swiftly
clear the mind of thought! Initially I feel a fraud – people spend
decades learning this technique, then along I come to edit a
masterpiece. How ironic. Practising on scrap paper for a while though I realise that
hesitation just doesn’t wash with this style of painting. Conversely,
just about any intelligent, confident stroke cannot look “wrong,” (at
least not to my untrained eye). A metaphor for life perhaps? Further
preparation suddenly seems like procrastination; I look into
the scene and identify with its life and space. In less than an hour
the trees are heavy with open blossom and the water is flowing and
vibrant. Through this priceless experience I understand more of how the
energy
and confidence so evident in China can harness truly authentic creative
freshness.
Sumangali Morhall
December 2004
Next Piece >
