could not stop talking about you. If this letter ever reaches you, stick it to your door so that those who pass by can read it and learn just how great a master lives amongst them. For my sake I beg you to do me this favour. Your admirer and cousin, the humble Shitao.
Bada did not like attracting people’s attention and having his peace disturbed. But he did as the letter-writer wished and stuck Shitao’s letter outside on the door to his home.
And, in fact, some passers-by did stop briefly. But they could not understand how the master this letter talked about could live in such poor circumstances, and so thought the whole thing was the self-glorification of a harmless old man who had gone a little mad.
40 Bada Shanren thought it great serendipity when a fellow traveller from a past he had believed dead and buried turned up out of the blue, as if somewhere a huge eye were looking out for people who belonged together, ensuring that their paths crossed.
He had forgotten the dustiness and sparseness of his lodging; ever more his thoughts took him back to the fisherman’s hut, to the water.
A fine rain was falling, then the sun broke through again. The wet branches and rocks glistened. The mountains shimmered blue, birds flew down onto the hut and sang. He awoke, went outside onto the dewy grass and sang with them.
Still immersed in past pictures, he rolled out the paper on the low table. He filled the hollow of the rubbing stone and rubbed some ink. He blackened the brush and wiped it across the curve of the peach stone until it no longer dripped.
With quick, unerring strokes he made a slender fish appear from the white surface in the upper third of the long rectangle. Five small blobs sufficed to give it fins. He inked in its back and tail fins, leaving the belly white. He painted a dot in a small oval.
That was the fish’s eye.
He filled the bottom third of the paper with the round contours of a rock, the form of which was cut off by the bottom right corner of the paper. With a few broad and firm, slightly curved strokes of the brush, he gave the boulder depth.
On the rock he placed a bird that had turned its head around and was resting its heavy beak on its back feathers. He suggested the two halves of the beak with a line which he drew back, gently curving it upwards beneath the eye, so that the bird appeared to be smiling.
The bird’s eye was no different from that of the fish. But the fish’s gaze was lost somewhere beyond the paper’s margin, where nothing was to be seen, whereas the raven held in its gaze the fish floating above. Or was it a duck? Or was the raven watching the fish swimming below?
Finally he signed the paper with the characters that denoted his name. For this he used the upper left corner of the paper. Lower down, by the edge, he put his seal.
Now the characters ba da shan ren sat directly in the fish’s sights. So something had caught the attention of its eye after all – it was no longer looking into nothingness, but at a man on the mountain of the eight compass points.
Bird, fish, rock
41 One morning Bada Shanren heard a knocking at his door. Opening it, he saw before him a man with fine facial features wearing an expensive robe. The stranger greeted him with exceptional politeness.
‘Master Bada? My name is Fang Shihuan, I’m an art agent from Yangzhou. I have just read the letter on your door written by the great Shitao. I knew, therefore, that I had found my life’s goal!’
Without saying a word, Bada made tea for his guest.
They sat on the cushions on the floor.
Bada did not ask whether his cousin Shitao had sent the man here. In any event it was virtually impossible to ask questions, for Fang spoke like a waterfall.
‘Master,’ he said, ‘so many famous collectors and art-lovers have approached me to enquire about works by your hand. Should I be permitted to represent you as your agent, my greatest wish would come true!’
Bada asked him to
Bada did not like attracting people’s attention and having his peace disturbed. But he did as the letter-writer wished and stuck Shitao’s letter outside on the door to his home.
And, in fact, some passers-by did stop briefly. But they could not understand how the master this letter talked about could live in such poor circumstances, and so thought the whole thing was the self-glorification of a harmless old man who had gone a little mad.
40 Bada Shanren thought it great serendipity when a fellow traveller from a past he had believed dead and buried turned up out of the blue, as if somewhere a huge eye were looking out for people who belonged together, ensuring that their paths crossed.
He had forgotten the dustiness and sparseness of his lodging; ever more his thoughts took him back to the fisherman’s hut, to the water.
A fine rain was falling, then the sun broke through again. The wet branches and rocks glistened. The mountains shimmered blue, birds flew down onto the hut and sang. He awoke, went outside onto the dewy grass and sang with them.
Still immersed in past pictures, he rolled out the paper on the low table. He filled the hollow of the rubbing stone and rubbed some ink. He blackened the brush and wiped it across the curve of the peach stone until it no longer dripped.
With quick, unerring strokes he made a slender fish appear from the white surface in the upper third of the long rectangle. Five small blobs sufficed to give it fins. He inked in its back and tail fins, leaving the belly white. He painted a dot in a small oval.
That was the fish’s eye.
He filled the bottom third of the paper with the round contours of a rock, the form of which was cut off by the bottom right corner of the paper. With a few broad and firm, slightly curved strokes of the brush, he gave the boulder depth.
On the rock he placed a bird that had turned its head around and was resting its heavy beak on its back feathers. He suggested the two halves of the beak with a line which he drew back, gently curving it upwards beneath the eye, so that the bird appeared to be smiling.
The bird’s eye was no different from that of the fish. But the fish’s gaze was lost somewhere beyond the paper’s margin, where nothing was to be seen, whereas the raven held in its gaze the fish floating above. Or was it a duck? Or was the raven watching the fish swimming below?
Finally he signed the paper with the characters that denoted his name. For this he used the upper left corner of the paper. Lower down, by the edge, he put his seal.
Now the characters ba da shan ren sat directly in the fish’s sights. So something had caught the attention of its eye after all – it was no longer looking into nothingness, but at a man on the mountain of the eight compass points.
Bird, fish, rock
41 One morning Bada Shanren heard a knocking at his door. Opening it, he saw before him a man with fine facial features wearing an expensive robe. The stranger greeted him with exceptional politeness.
‘Master Bada? My name is Fang Shihuan, I’m an art agent from Yangzhou. I have just read the letter on your door written by the great Shitao. I knew, therefore, that I had found my life’s goal!’
Without saying a word, Bada made tea for his guest.
They sat on the cushions on the floor.
Bada did not ask whether his cousin Shitao had sent the man here. In any event it was virtually impossible to ask questions, for Fang spoke like a waterfall.
‘Master,’ he said, ‘so many famous collectors and art-lovers have approached me to enquire about works by your hand. Should I be permitted to represent you as your agent, my greatest wish would come true!’
Bada asked him to
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