The image of form. In the first part of the “Xici” of the Book of Changes, it is said: “In heaven, it forms images; on earth, it forms shapes. Thus, change and transformation are made manifest.” All changes are constituted through the intermingling, transformation, fusion, and creative interplay between form and image. Hence, “change and transformation are made manifest. The completion of images is called Qian (Heaven); the imitation of laws is called Kun (Earth). What is perceived is called image; what takes form is called vessel.” See how clearly this is stated? I think this should resonate with you: “What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called the vessel.” See, it continues exactly like this: “What is above form is called the Dao; what is below form is called the vessel.” Right? It is interconnected, and this interconnection runs through the text. What I want to discuss now is to achieve this interconnection in each of us here—in our understanding, in our creative processes, and in our relationship with things.
Thus, form and image: things themselves do not possess form or image. A tree, for example, only enters into a relationship with you when you, as a human, engage with it and impart understanding to it. Only then can aesthetic appreciation occur. If there is beauty inherent in the tree itself, it is only a beauty you assign from a single dimension—the beauty of rationality, which is the beauty of science. This is one-dimensional, whereas aesthetic appreciation is multidimensional, even radial, and capable of resonating. Aesthetic appreciation holds infinite possibilities, right?
So, when you perceive a thing, your initial aesthetic experience may linger on the physical object—this is the primary stage of aesthetics. In the second stage, “a single flower embodies a world”—you and the flower establish an emotional connection at the level of life, elevating the experience. This is called imagery. Then, when you move away from the physical object and recall it later, it becomes an impression. Further, when it lingers in your mind, becoming an inseparable, lingering entanglement, it transforms into an archetype. The realm constituted by this archetype is the artistic conception. It is as simple as that—far from the definitions found in dictionaries. Once defined, it becomes cold, rigid, inflexible, and lifeless. As long as we understand it in this way, everything becomes filled with connection to you.
Why does something seemingly rigid sometimes move you? Because, in that moment, you have endowed it with life. Take, for example, two lines from Du Fu’s poem: “Grieved by the times, flowers draw tears; / Hatring separation, birds alarm the heart.” What does this mean? This is imagery. Moreover, it is precisely the “incorrect” grammar that creates the imagery. Objectively speaking, when you are moved, how can flowers shed tears? Isn’t that nonsense or madness? This is empathy. In your moment of emotion, the flower—and even what was originally dew—becomes a tearful blossom in your eyes. It transforms. “Hatring separation, birds alarm the heart”: for the ancients, the emotion of parting was profoundly felt. Look at how many literati and scholars have expressed their thoughts on separation.
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