would reach for his brush and leave behind a magnificent ink drawing. So long as Bada was sober, any collector after even just a page from an album with a few drawings would not get a thing. They could place a gold bar under Bada’s nose and still have no success. Thus these people tried other ways of acquiring his pictures, such as pretending they were not keen on his work.
When one evening he was invited to what he thought would be a perfectly harmless drinking session, next to his seat Bada found a bucket full of ink and endless rolls of paper. Paintbrushes of all sizes hung down from the ceiling within his reach.
To begin with he ignored the equipment. They drank lots of wine, laughed, slapped their thighs. He forgot himself.
But much later in the evening one of the men present, who was said to be a famous actor, took the largest brush and started caressing it as if he were stroking his lover’s hair. The brush was the size of a broom and he held it upside down, singing to it in a deep, rattling voice.
His short performance received a boisterous round of applause. Then Bada leapt to his feet and grabbed the brush from the actor. He lowered it deep into the tub, stirring the paint as if it were soup. The host, inwardly delighted, at once fetched one of the rolls of paper and, with the help of some other guests, now put four or five lengths of paper beside one another, carpeting the entire floor.
A mixture of singing and shouting struck up when Bada moved to the middle of the room with the heavy, dripping brush. Now he started, slowly at first, then ever faster, turning around so that the ink flowing from the brush formed a fine compass circle. When the brush had finished dripping, Bada stepped out of the black ring and painted the area of the circle as if he were sweeping a small manège with a broom. In the light of the lanterns the wet ink glistened like varnish.
He immediately painted a second round island next to the first, although as he turned around this time he let the brush tip glide over the paper before filling in the shape with black ink. He continued to paint nothing but circles, some large, some small, one after the other, all of them touching but never overlapping. Gradually the white areas of the paper looked like four-pronged shapes made of curved lines only.
When he had covered all the paper with black balls he hung the brush back on the beam and proclaimed, ‘A sky full of stars.’
But no sooner had he uttered these words than he unexpectedly seized the bucket, which was still half full, and poured the rest of the ink over the paper. It was not long before he had smeared and rubbed the remaining white patches black with his sandals, emitting horrible cries all the while. Some of the guests jumped up and grabbed him by the arm and chest, but Bada shook them off and his voice resounded through the throng of hands: ‘Look, look, the black stars in the black sky! The darkness is a universe!’
45 He was astonished when one day he received a reply from his cousin Shitao, in which the latter expressed his gratitude for Bada’s words above the picture of the hermit. The letter was accompanied by a small roll of paper. The picture I have sent you is called A thousand wild dashes of ink, Shitao wrote. They are the traces of my brush, which I let dance over the paper in delight at your words. I really ought to have painted an orchid or bamboo or a heron, but that would have been like trying to hold a candle to the master. These modest dashes, however, are the genesis of all these things, the joy of the brush. Will we ever meet?
Bada unrolled the picture and let it work on his soul. Dots of ink were connected by fine diagonal lines. The overall pattern looked like the traces of bark beetles on bare wood. In between were coral shapes with nodes or a pattern of just ovals. The only larger coherent mass of colour was at the left-hand margin, consisting of lumpy shapes with very fine
When one evening he was invited to what he thought would be a perfectly harmless drinking session, next to his seat Bada found a bucket full of ink and endless rolls of paper. Paintbrushes of all sizes hung down from the ceiling within his reach.
To begin with he ignored the equipment. They drank lots of wine, laughed, slapped their thighs. He forgot himself.
But much later in the evening one of the men present, who was said to be a famous actor, took the largest brush and started caressing it as if he were stroking his lover’s hair. The brush was the size of a broom and he held it upside down, singing to it in a deep, rattling voice.
His short performance received a boisterous round of applause. Then Bada leapt to his feet and grabbed the brush from the actor. He lowered it deep into the tub, stirring the paint as if it were soup. The host, inwardly delighted, at once fetched one of the rolls of paper and, with the help of some other guests, now put four or five lengths of paper beside one another, carpeting the entire floor.
A mixture of singing and shouting struck up when Bada moved to the middle of the room with the heavy, dripping brush. Now he started, slowly at first, then ever faster, turning around so that the ink flowing from the brush formed a fine compass circle. When the brush had finished dripping, Bada stepped out of the black ring and painted the area of the circle as if he were sweeping a small manège with a broom. In the light of the lanterns the wet ink glistened like varnish.
He immediately painted a second round island next to the first, although as he turned around this time he let the brush tip glide over the paper before filling in the shape with black ink. He continued to paint nothing but circles, some large, some small, one after the other, all of them touching but never overlapping. Gradually the white areas of the paper looked like four-pronged shapes made of curved lines only.
When he had covered all the paper with black balls he hung the brush back on the beam and proclaimed, ‘A sky full of stars.’
But no sooner had he uttered these words than he unexpectedly seized the bucket, which was still half full, and poured the rest of the ink over the paper. It was not long before he had smeared and rubbed the remaining white patches black with his sandals, emitting horrible cries all the while. Some of the guests jumped up and grabbed him by the arm and chest, but Bada shook them off and his voice resounded through the throng of hands: ‘Look, look, the black stars in the black sky! The darkness is a universe!’
45 He was astonished when one day he received a reply from his cousin Shitao, in which the latter expressed his gratitude for Bada’s words above the picture of the hermit. The letter was accompanied by a small roll of paper. The picture I have sent you is called A thousand wild dashes of ink, Shitao wrote. They are the traces of my brush, which I let dance over the paper in delight at your words. I really ought to have painted an orchid or bamboo or a heron, but that would have been like trying to hold a candle to the master. These modest dashes, however, are the genesis of all these things, the joy of the brush. Will we ever meet?
Bada unrolled the picture and let it work on his soul. Dots of ink were connected by fine diagonal lines. The overall pattern looked like the traces of bark beetles on bare wood. In between were coral shapes with nodes or a pattern of just ovals. The only larger coherent mass of colour was at the left-hand margin, consisting of lumpy shapes with very fine
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