remain sitting.
He opened the sandalwood boxes and took out his collection of loose-leaf albums. He put the pictures on the mat in front of the art dealer, one after the other.
Fang Shihuan’s eyes shone.
Not another word passed his lips.
42 Bada Shanren was sitting beside a blank piece of paper, his brush at the ready, and was about to start – but he was held captive by one thought.
How can it be that, from a dismal sky, this bitter world can suddenly show us that we love it, in spite of everything; and that in spite of everything it will be hard to take our leave of it? We cannot embark on the journey of death by ourselves, but perhaps the sum of the wise man’s learning lies in the decision to go, to set off, to leave.
With determination he dipped the brush into the well of ink and wrote on the paper in one flowing movement : I will go into the mountains, where the trees are old and withered as I am, and the ravines will rise up into the emptiness .
Then, on the piece of paper next to it he drew a mule in simple lines. On its back crouched a man with a broad-brimmed hat.
Bada took a clean brush, dipped it into a bowl of clear water and wet the paper around the figure of the rider.
He returned to the brush with ink. Holding it just above the paper, he squeezed out the ink with two fingers of his left hand. It dripped onto the damp paper, where it quickly spread.
Now he took the brush with the cropped bristles, which was as spiky as a broom. He rubbed it on a tablet of ink that he had moistened lightly. With jittery movements he smeared it across the paper. What appeared were the outlines of a path, a tall tree and some branches.
The mule was leading its rider into a hazy bank of fog. The good beast had turned its head to the side. Its ears were pricked up. It was staring with large wide eyes at Bada, who had painted it. The world is behind us, but what kind of dream are we riding into, O sunken one? When shall I carry you?
Landscape with rider
43 Many months had passed when he was handed a letter by a stranger who said he was a friend of Shitao’s. He read: Cousin Bada, I have kept your letter. I have not answered before now as I’ve been ill. The same goes for letters I’ve received from other people. Today a friend is returning to Nanchang. I have asked him to bring you this letter, with which I’ve enclosed a small picture. The picture shows the Pavilion of Great Clarity on the bank of a river, surrounded by trees. In the upper half sits an old man in the middle of a bare rock. There is still space on the paper. Would you please add a few words? For me the picture would then be – how should I put it? – indispensable. It would be the most valued treasure in my possession.
Bada Shanren unrolled the enclosed picture and studied it for a while. Then he read on: From everything that I’ve heard, it seems as if you are still skipping up mountains, in spite of your seventy-four or seventy-five years. You are like an immortal! As for me, Zhu Da, I am close to sixty and no longer able to undertake any major activity.
Bada put down the letter, reached for the ink and rubbing stone and took hold of his brush.
He completed the picture with a little waterfall and leaves that emphasized the autumnal mood. Then he painted the following words in the remaining blank space: Above the Pavilion of Great Clarity bright clouds are opening, infinitely high, as the new register of immortals is carried from the violet chamber. The sky has already unfurled its wings and nothing of the old dust and muck remains in the world.
When the picture was dry he rolled it up and gave it to a messenger who would be sure to get to Shitao at some point.
44 Nobles and rich men everywhere began to venerate the creations of his brush. He received invitations and was easily persuaded when good wine was promised.
Naturally the hosts anticipated that, once sufficiently lubricated and in the right mood, Bada Shanren
He opened the sandalwood boxes and took out his collection of loose-leaf albums. He put the pictures on the mat in front of the art dealer, one after the other.
Fang Shihuan’s eyes shone.
Not another word passed his lips.
42 Bada Shanren was sitting beside a blank piece of paper, his brush at the ready, and was about to start – but he was held captive by one thought.
How can it be that, from a dismal sky, this bitter world can suddenly show us that we love it, in spite of everything; and that in spite of everything it will be hard to take our leave of it? We cannot embark on the journey of death by ourselves, but perhaps the sum of the wise man’s learning lies in the decision to go, to set off, to leave.
With determination he dipped the brush into the well of ink and wrote on the paper in one flowing movement : I will go into the mountains, where the trees are old and withered as I am, and the ravines will rise up into the emptiness .
Then, on the piece of paper next to it he drew a mule in simple lines. On its back crouched a man with a broad-brimmed hat.
Bada took a clean brush, dipped it into a bowl of clear water and wet the paper around the figure of the rider.
He returned to the brush with ink. Holding it just above the paper, he squeezed out the ink with two fingers of his left hand. It dripped onto the damp paper, where it quickly spread.
Now he took the brush with the cropped bristles, which was as spiky as a broom. He rubbed it on a tablet of ink that he had moistened lightly. With jittery movements he smeared it across the paper. What appeared were the outlines of a path, a tall tree and some branches.
The mule was leading its rider into a hazy bank of fog. The good beast had turned its head to the side. Its ears were pricked up. It was staring with large wide eyes at Bada, who had painted it. The world is behind us, but what kind of dream are we riding into, O sunken one? When shall I carry you?
Landscape with rider
43 Many months had passed when he was handed a letter by a stranger who said he was a friend of Shitao’s. He read: Cousin Bada, I have kept your letter. I have not answered before now as I’ve been ill. The same goes for letters I’ve received from other people. Today a friend is returning to Nanchang. I have asked him to bring you this letter, with which I’ve enclosed a small picture. The picture shows the Pavilion of Great Clarity on the bank of a river, surrounded by trees. In the upper half sits an old man in the middle of a bare rock. There is still space on the paper. Would you please add a few words? For me the picture would then be – how should I put it? – indispensable. It would be the most valued treasure in my possession.
Bada Shanren unrolled the enclosed picture and studied it for a while. Then he read on: From everything that I’ve heard, it seems as if you are still skipping up mountains, in spite of your seventy-four or seventy-five years. You are like an immortal! As for me, Zhu Da, I am close to sixty and no longer able to undertake any major activity.
Bada put down the letter, reached for the ink and rubbing stone and took hold of his brush.
He completed the picture with a little waterfall and leaves that emphasized the autumnal mood. Then he painted the following words in the remaining blank space: Above the Pavilion of Great Clarity bright clouds are opening, infinitely high, as the new register of immortals is carried from the violet chamber. The sky has already unfurled its wings and nothing of the old dust and muck remains in the world.
When the picture was dry he rolled it up and gave it to a messenger who would be sure to get to Shitao at some point.
44 Nobles and rich men everywhere began to venerate the creations of his brush. He received invitations and was easily persuaded when good wine was promised.
Naturally the hosts anticipated that, once sufficiently lubricated and in the right mood, Bada Shanren
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