middle finger into a bath of ink and let his finger execute the three curved strokes, without being able to see the traces of ink in the darkness.
He continued like this all night long.
When the first light of morning lit up the desk, a shoal of fish appeared which vanished into the depths of the room.
A feeling of great calm flowed through Bada. Slower than ever, he rubbed the ink in the water until he had the right degree of blackness. He dipped the paintbrush and wiped the drops of ink on the peach stone. He closed his eyes and executed the strokes several times over in his mind before putting brush to paper.
Finally, his eyes still half closed in deep concentration , from his wrist he let the brush paint a curve to the left, starting as a broad and watery line because of the pressure he applied, then becoming thinner as he lifted the brush. He went over this curve again, just a touch below, and at the end of the first brushstroke he inserted a dash in the form of a pointed sail and, where the second line ran out, a small crescent whose concave side arched to the left.
From the lower point of the crescent he drew two parallel semicircles, one just below the other, reaching to the end of the higher first line. Finally he shaded the narrow white strip between the two semicircles and planted two fat dots to the right and left of the inner edge of the curve.
It had all happened in a few seconds.
Then he put his brush aside, stuck the picture on the wall, and wandered out of the city, up a mountain.
He recalled the master’s words.
If the hand is supple and agile, the picture will be too, and it will move in various directions. The picture does not only show the movement of your hand, it is a reflection of its dance. If the hand moves with speed, the picture acquires vitality; if it moves slowly, the picture acquires weight and intensity. The brush guided by a hand of great talent creates things that the mind cannot follow, which transcend it. And if the wrist moves with the spirit, the hills and streams reveal their soul.
When he returned that evening from his walk, the catfish on the wall looked at him with its tiny eyes.
Bada saw the water and all of a sudden his hand seemed to be a fin.
Catfish
49 The following day he sat down and wrote a letter to his long-dead master: Today, Master, I, Bada Shanren, sit here trying to ask myself what lesson I still need to learn, a question I have shied away from answering. My answer is: the lesson of the first stroke. For is the whole drawing not contained in the first stroke? It must be considered long in advance, perhaps a whole life long, in order to bring it to the paper in one fluid movement at the right moment, without the need or ability to correct it. The first brushstroke is the foundation; it is the internal law of the external movement. All other strokes take care of themselves, so to speak. The interrupted flow of the black ink, the suspended movement, everything visible and palpable arises from this. Stones and pools, rivers, waterfalls and mountains, lotus flowers, roses, orchids, fuchsias, chrysanthemums and pines, bamboo, cedars, chicks, crows, eagles and fish. Substance, fragrance , vitality, softness, noise, weather, thought and feeling. All this is in the line. But the initial stroke is the most important thing of all. That is my answer. Do you accept it?
50 Bada’s right hand had become so weak and tired that he could barely hold the paintbrush any more. Now he was ready to set off on his final journey, without any luggage. Without brush and without ink.
When the last of his strength was relentlessly vanishing , he reached for his brush once more and opened the little pot containing ready-made ink.
With a clammy hand he dipped the brush.
The brush tip approached the paper.
One final, delicate caress of the paper, so soft as if he were dabbing the wings of a butterfly with ink.
His eyes closed. For a moment he could still see the
He continued like this all night long.
When the first light of morning lit up the desk, a shoal of fish appeared which vanished into the depths of the room.
A feeling of great calm flowed through Bada. Slower than ever, he rubbed the ink in the water until he had the right degree of blackness. He dipped the paintbrush and wiped the drops of ink on the peach stone. He closed his eyes and executed the strokes several times over in his mind before putting brush to paper.
Finally, his eyes still half closed in deep concentration , from his wrist he let the brush paint a curve to the left, starting as a broad and watery line because of the pressure he applied, then becoming thinner as he lifted the brush. He went over this curve again, just a touch below, and at the end of the first brushstroke he inserted a dash in the form of a pointed sail and, where the second line ran out, a small crescent whose concave side arched to the left.
From the lower point of the crescent he drew two parallel semicircles, one just below the other, reaching to the end of the higher first line. Finally he shaded the narrow white strip between the two semicircles and planted two fat dots to the right and left of the inner edge of the curve.
It had all happened in a few seconds.
Then he put his brush aside, stuck the picture on the wall, and wandered out of the city, up a mountain.
He recalled the master’s words.
If the hand is supple and agile, the picture will be too, and it will move in various directions. The picture does not only show the movement of your hand, it is a reflection of its dance. If the hand moves with speed, the picture acquires vitality; if it moves slowly, the picture acquires weight and intensity. The brush guided by a hand of great talent creates things that the mind cannot follow, which transcend it. And if the wrist moves with the spirit, the hills and streams reveal their soul.
When he returned that evening from his walk, the catfish on the wall looked at him with its tiny eyes.
Bada saw the water and all of a sudden his hand seemed to be a fin.
Catfish
49 The following day he sat down and wrote a letter to his long-dead master: Today, Master, I, Bada Shanren, sit here trying to ask myself what lesson I still need to learn, a question I have shied away from answering. My answer is: the lesson of the first stroke. For is the whole drawing not contained in the first stroke? It must be considered long in advance, perhaps a whole life long, in order to bring it to the paper in one fluid movement at the right moment, without the need or ability to correct it. The first brushstroke is the foundation; it is the internal law of the external movement. All other strokes take care of themselves, so to speak. The interrupted flow of the black ink, the suspended movement, everything visible and palpable arises from this. Stones and pools, rivers, waterfalls and mountains, lotus flowers, roses, orchids, fuchsias, chrysanthemums and pines, bamboo, cedars, chicks, crows, eagles and fish. Substance, fragrance , vitality, softness, noise, weather, thought and feeling. All this is in the line. But the initial stroke is the most important thing of all. That is my answer. Do you accept it?
50 Bada’s right hand had become so weak and tired that he could barely hold the paintbrush any more. Now he was ready to set off on his final journey, without any luggage. Without brush and without ink.
When the last of his strength was relentlessly vanishing , he reached for his brush once more and opened the little pot containing ready-made ink.
With a clammy hand he dipped the brush.
The brush tip approached the paper.
One final, delicate caress of the paper, so soft as if he were dabbing the wings of a butterfly with ink.
His eyes closed. For a moment he could still see the
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