During the Wei and Jin dynasties, you see, there was an emphasis on yun (charm/resonance), which was closely linked to qi (vital energy). In Xie He’s Six Principles of Painting, what is the first principle? “气韵生动” (Qiyun Shengdong—vibrant vitality and spiritual resonance). Is it a technique? Is it a state of artistic conception? Of course, it is a state of conception—it is the standard achieved when your entire being empathizes and resonates with the work. Only then can “vibrant vitality” be realized.
Look at “气韵生动” — could you combine qi (vital energy) and fa (method) into “气法生动”? Could that even form a coherent term? By the time of the Sui and Tang dynasties, the emphasis shifted to fa (method/rules), and qi was sidelined. Why? Because that era primarily advocated that only by operating within one’s own disciplined framework could a calligrapher enhance their potential. Take Yan Zhenqing, for example. To be honest, when I was young and saw his regular script in books, I didn’t particularly like it. But when I visited the Forest of Steles in Xi’an and stood before his stele among countless others, I was truly struck by the grandeur of the Tang spirit. That vital energy and spirit—jingqishen—leapt out from his inscriptions. That was the true aura of the Tang dynasty. His technique was rigorous, yet I actually prefer his running and cursive scripts, like the Manuscript of Eulogy for My Nephew, often called the second greatest running script masterpiece in history. When you immerse yourself in the context of his writing in that work, the rules are there, but so is a youthful vigor—a lifeforce that flows freely, creating a sense of holistic harmony.
In contrast, with the Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion, since we only have copies, it’s hard to capture the original energy and spirit conveyed through the act of writing. That makes it relatively more challenging to appreciate. So, you see, the Tang dynasty emphasized fa (method), while the Northern and Southern Song dynasties emphasized yi (concept/idea). I think there was also an emphasis on imagery and artistic conception—almost an expressionist element. Literati painting began to rise during this period, and literati calligraphy became even more prevalent, especially with the Four Masters of the Song Dynasty: Su, Huang, Mi, and Cai.
To be honest, Su Shi’s calligraphy is highly regarded largely because he was a comprehensive cultural icon, ranking at the top. That’s why his Cold Food Observance Poem is considered the third greatest running script work. Honestly, this ranking was done by later enthusiasts—I doubt the calligraphers themselves ever bothered with such classifications. But as learners, we often accept these rankings without reflection and easily think, “Oh, third place? That must be slightly inferior.” This kind of perception is actually quite unhelpful. Ranking works as first, second, or third is merely a makeshift solution—a way to assign scores. But how can you score humanity and culture? AI might have scoring standards today, but how can you quantify the human spirit? The humanities can only be measured by the depth of their conception. This is what we must learn.
Then, by the Ming and Qing dynasties, the emphasis shifted to tai (form/posture). Emphasizing tai meant focusing on playfulness—on who could display the most tricks. Honestly, you can clearly feel that it became difficult to infuse qi into calligraphy from this period onward. How could you incorporate qi into method? Qi is life energy—how can you methodize life energy? You could speak of “气义” (qiyi—righteous energy), as in “he is angry,” which still somewhat makes sense. “气态” (qitai—energy posture) is also possible, but that tends to be external.
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