Next, we connect the beauty of the Book of Changes with the beauty of our writing and calligraphy—a relationship discussed by calligraphers and theorists throughout history. For example, Cui Yuan’s The Force of Cursive Script from the Eastern Han Dynasty mentions: “The origin of writing began with Cangjie; he observed bird tracks to establish written characters.” Its essential form derives from the Book of Changes. Cai Yong’s Ode to the Brush speaks of “writing the yin and yang of Heaven and Earth, extolling the great achievements of the Three Sovereigns.” Yu Shinan’s Discourse on the Essence of the Brush from the Tang Dynasty, as well as Emperor Taizong and Liu Gongquan, all emphasized “central uprightness” (中正)—a concept drawn from the Tuan Commentary on the Qian hexagram, as we discussed earlier. Sun Guoting’s Treatise on Calligraphy addresses the patterns of heaven and human culture, while Zhang Huaiguan’s Judgments on Calligraphy states: “Hexagram images are the ancestor of writing, the root of all things.” His Theory of Writing notes: “The sun, moon, and stars are the patterns of heaven; the Five Peaks and Four Rivers are the patterns of earth. […] Human culture completes patterns and embodies ceaseless vitality (行健). I have heard: form manifesting is called ‘image’; calligraphy is the embodiment of essential form (法相).”
This last point is profound: all writing manifests as an “essential form.” Here, “essential form” refers to the foundational spirit of each script—seal script, clerical script, regular script, running script, cursive script. We should treat this essential form as the root of writing, avoiding excessive detail, artificial rigidity, or rigid adherence to technique. Technique should transform into spirit and principle—an internal, dynamic force. For instance, when I write running script, an innate guiding principle moves within me. This is valid because it embodies a living spirit. But obsessing over “how a stroke must look”? Observe those two calligraphic pieces we saw while dining last night. Superficially, they resemble the style—yet they lack an inner driving force. What they express remains external, disconnected from vitality. Without spiritual vitality, the work feels inert. And what is art without life?
Consider this: in the 1980s, after rural land reforms replaced communal farming with household contracts and universities resumed admissions, art students often sketched in farmers’ private fields. One farmer discovered a student sitting in his plot, trampling his crops. “What are you doing?” he demanded. The student replied, “I’m painting—creating art. You wouldn’t understand.”
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