In the 1980s, rural China implemented the household responsibility system, distributing communally owned farmland to individual households. Universities also resumed enrollment. Some art students would venture into farmers’ privately contracted fields to sketch and paint en plein air, raising questions about artistic judgment.
One farmer discovered a student sitting in his field, trampling his crops. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. The student replied, “I’m painting—it’s art. You wouldn’t understand.”
To this, the farmer retorted: “My tree is alive and thriving—why do you need to ‘sketch its life’ (写生)? What you’re doing isn’t capturing life; you’re cursing my tree to die.”
This exchange reveals a profound secret about vitality. Today, “plein air painting” (写生课) is a dedicated course, yet students often return with paintings devoid of life—stagnant canvases. As the farmer insightfully observed: “My tree lives fully, yet your painting feels like a curse.” This incident became a defining controversy (公案) in art circles, challenging how we perceive life and death in art.
True art must channel one’s innermost free will and authentic emotion. We once mocked poets who wrote lines like: “Oh! The Great Wall— / you are truly so long.” Such emptiness misses the mark entirely.
Art must touch this deeper realm: observing form (观形) to capture its essence (取象). Thus, calligraphy seeks the essential form (法相)—not mere replication. Copying models is the first stage, which you’ve long transcended. When you absorb Wang Xizhi’s brushwork or another master’s technique, you integrate them within your inner creative crucible (书写的圆洞). Only through such synthesis does your work become truly commendable.
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