Baihua, Zong - The Birth of Artistic Conception in China

Art in Translation
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The Birth of Artistic Conception in China
Zong Baihua
To cite this article: Zong Baihua (2017) The Birth of Artistic Conception in China, Art in
Translation, 9:3, 367-396, DOI: 10.1080/17561310.2017.1353291
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The Birth of Artistic

Conception in
Zong Baihua China
Translated by Abstract
Jan De Meyer
Zong Baihua has been called “the father of modern Chinese aesthetics”:
Published in Chinese as “Zhongguo
yishu yijing zhi dansheng,” in Zong his essay is a work of great erudition, quoting widely from the writings of
Baihua, Meixue sanbu [Strolls in classical Chinese poets, philosophers, and painters from the Daoist adept
Aesthetics] (Shanghai: Renmin
chubanshe, 1981), 58–74. Originally Wang Xizhi (303–61), via the High Tang (712–61) and Northern Song
published in March 1943 in the first (960–1127) dynasties, to the Qing dynasty (1644–1911). The breadth
issue of the periodical Shi yu chao
wenyi [Time and Tide—Literature of his knowledge is extraordinary and embraces Daoism, Confucianism,
and Art]. the Chan Buddhism that was dominant in the Tang and Song dynasties,
and even the poetry of Hölderlin, Goethe, and William Blake. This rich
collection of sources is used to explore universal questions such as the
368 Zong Baihua
essential nature of poetry and art; artistic creation and the artistic realm;
the meditative state and human emotions; music and rhythm; dance and
order; and the techniques of Chinese painting.
KEYWORDS: Zong Baihua, Chinese painting, Chinese philosophy,

Daoism, Confucianism, Chan Buddhism, yijing [artistic conception]
Introduction by Jan De Meyer (Department of Sinology,

University of Leuven)
“The Birth of Artistic Conception in China” is a seminal article on Chinese

aesthetics. Its author, poet and philosopher Zong Baihua (1897–1986),
has been called “the father of modern Chinese aesthetics.” Zong Baihua
belonged to the generation of Chinese intellectuals who were firmly root-
ed in traditional Chinese culture, yet witnessed the final collapse of the
Chinese empire and China’s subsequent attempts at becoming a modern
nation. The aim of the article is ambitious: to discover and describe the el-
ement which makes art into art in China. The key concept here is “artistic
conception.”
“Artistic conception” is the standard translation of the elusive term
yijing 意境, literally “the realm (boundaries, situation, state) of ideas (con-
cepts).” The first character of yijing, yi 意 (“idea” or “concept”), which
itself consists of the characters “sound”音 and “heart” 心 (and may thus
be rendered as “the sound of the heart”), also connotes “meaning,” “in-
tention,” “interest,” “wish,” “desire,” “anticipation,” “suggestion,” “opin-
ion,” “sentiment,” “thought,” and “purpose.” Other translations of yijing,
a term that has been used since the Tang dynasty (618–907), include
“prospect,” “mood,” “spatial imagery,” Yolaine Escande’s état intentionnel
(“state of intentionality”), and François Cheng’s poetical rendering densité
d’âme (“soul’s density”). The fact that in contemporary Chinese literature
yijing is explained not as the idea, intention, or concept behind a work of
art but as the sentiment or emotional appeal manifested by that work of
art may add to the confusion. Yet, in the traditional Chinese view, any suc-
cessful work of art elicits an emotional response which matches the “soul”
that informs or animates it. Art is never to be reduced to its purely formal
aspects but is always the expression of a deeper, spiritual dimension.
Written six years before the founding of the People’s Republic of China,
the text is entirely free of the Marxist jargon that would become obligatory
after 1949. Drawing from China’s immensely rich cultural heritage, the
article is a dazzling display of Zong Baihua’s erudition. It is a veritable
patchwork of quotations, taken from philosophical works (Daoist, Chan/
Zen Buddhist, or Confucian), traditional Chinese works on art criticism
and art theory, and occasionally from the works of European authors
such as Blake, Goethe, Hölderlin, and Novalis, which Zong got to know
while reading philosophy, aesthetics, and philosophy of history at the
Birth of Artistic Conception in China 369
universities of Frankfurt and Berlin (1920–5). More than half of the near-
ly one hundred quotations (and quotations within quotations), however,
come from classical Chinese poems or from traditional Chinese works
on poetry theory and poetry criticism. Zong Baihua may be the father of
modern Chinese aesthetics, but in this essay, which continues to be widely
read to this day, Zong’s outlook, focused as it is on traditional landscape
painting and classical poetry, is highly reminiscent of that of the scholar/
painter of the past millennium.
The book used as the basis for this translation, Strolls in Aesthetics,
is Zong Baihua’s major contribution to the field. Compiled in 1981, it
collects more than twenty of the approximately thirty essays written by
Zong (professor in the philosophy department of the universities of Nan-

jing and, after 1952, Beijing) between 1920 and 1979.
The Birth of Artistic Conception in

China
Zong Baihua
Foreword
The world knows no bounds, life knows no bounds, and the realm of
the arts equally knows no bounds. “What fits me feels always fresh” (a
phrase from a poem by Wang Xizhi1) is an expression of how an artist
experiences the world. “The scene constantly offering something new” is
the mark of all great works of literature and art. “Gaining novel insights
through the renewed study of old material”2 should be the attitude present
in all artistic creation and art criticism. When history takes a step forward,
this progress is often accompanied by a step backward consisting of root
seeking. Li Bai and Du Fu3 were geniuses, but let us not forget that they
benefited from the lessons taught by many masters. The Renaissance of the
sixteenth century copied ancient Greece, and nineteenth-century romanti-
cism longed for the Middle Ages. Twentieth-century modernism in its turn
traces its source back to the simplicity and naivety of primitive art.
Contemporary China finds itself at a turning point in history. New
prospects are bound to be opened up. But at the same time a critical ex-
amination of our traditional culture, and a new appraisal of it through
sympathetic understanding, have become all the more important. The
study and exploration of the specific structure of China’s artistic concep-
tion—the single most crucial aspect of Chinese cultural history, as well as
its greatest contribution to the world—will enable one to pry into the most
exquisite and magnificent vistas of the Chinese soul. It is a task of self-
370 Zong Baihua
examination to be undertaken by our nation. The Ancient Greek sage of-

fered the following philosophy of life: “Know thyself!” The sages of mod-
ern times tell us: “Transform the world!” But in order to transform the
world, we first need to understand it.
The Meaning of Artistic Conception
When Gong Dingan4 was in Beijing, he told Dai Chunshi:5 “Sometimes

the Western Hills6 seem so distant that they might be on the other side of
the Milky Way. At other times they look dark green as if they had landed
right here in front of our table and mats. And in all of this the weather
conditions are of no influence at all!” That the Western Hills seem far
away one moment and nearby the next has nothing to do with distance in
the physical sense, but with distance in the artistic conception as it exists
within the heart.7
In his Random Notes from the Hut of Natural Indolence Fang Shishu8
states:“Mountains, rivers, plants and trees, the natural world as it has been
created, all of this belongs to the realm of solid reality. Creating scenery
out of the mind, and using the hands in order to convey what is in the
mind, belongs to the realm of the vacuous.9 To make the vacuous into
something solidly real, that depends on the presence of brush and ink.
Therefore the painters of old would always make their mountains dark
green and their trees luxuriant, their waters lively and their rocks sleek,
thereby creating a kind of magic different from that of the natural world.
Some artists may resolutely follow their own natural disposition and free
themselves of conventions, yet even they will invariably work like the al-
chemist who strives to develop the elixir of life, discarding the dregs so
that only the quintessence remains, and fully exploring all the wonders of
the vacuous and the shadowy.” These few lines express the entire essence
of Chinese painting. This essay, in its endless ramblings, does nothing more
than clarify Fang Shishu’s words.
In his “On a Painting by Jie’an,” Yun Nantian10 said:
When we examine the scenery closely—a shrub, a tree, a hill, a val-

ley—it is a unique creation, entirely the result of Jie’an’s11 inspi-
ration; nothing of all this exists in the real world. Its imagery is
otherworldly, its splendor is timeless. It makes one want to ride
the wind—with one’s buttocks transformed into cartwheels and
one’s spirit for a horse12—and to travel through boundless regions.
It truly renders insignificant the Mountain of Gushe, north of the
Fen River,13 which becomes worthless as dust, weak as snow. The
prevalent customs being as foul as they are, who would be able to
understand the focus of concentration of Jie’an’s mind?
The focus of concentration of the painter’s or poet’s mind is a spiritual

sphere unique to that person, it is the imagery he creates, it is the very
heart of the center of his artistic creations.
What is artistic conception? When man comes into contact with the
world, there are five different realms, each of which stands for a differ-
ent kind of relationship between man and the world. First, there is the
realm of utility—i.e., satisfying physiological and material needs. Second,
there is the ethical realm, an expression of the mutual affection between
coexisting masses of men. Third, there is the realm of politics, pertaining
to the organization and control of the masses. Fourth, there is the realm
of science—the inquiry into the laws of physics and the development of
intelligence. Fifth, there is the religious realm, an expression of the wish to
return to the innocence of one’s roots and to blend the supernatural and
the human spheres. In the realm of utility, the main concern is profit; in
the ethical realm, the main concern is affection; in the realm of politics, the
main concern is power; in the realm of science, the main concern is truth;
and in the religious realm, the main concern is the divine. However, situ-
ated between the latter two is another realm. Its object is the concreteness
of the universe and of human life. In this realm, the hues, the order, the
rhythm and the harmony of life are appreciated and enjoyed, which in its
turn provides man with a reflection of his own innermost soul. Real-life
landscapes are transformed into imaginary scenery; forms are re-created
into symbols. Humankind’s noblest thoughts and feelings are concretized
and embodied. This is the realm of the arts. In the realm of the arts, the
main concern is beauty.
Every flicker of beauty finds its source in the heart. Without the rays
of light provided by the heart, there can simply be no talk of beauty. Hen-
ry-Frédéric Amiel, the Swiss philosopher, said:
Any landscape is a condition of the spirit.14

And the great Chinese painter Shitao15 said:
The landscape wants me to speak on its behalf. […] The mountains
and rivers have met with my spirit, and the traces they’ve left have
undergone a transformation.
The artist lets his spirit shine on every phenomenon on earth, and he speaks
on behalf of the physical landscape. What he expresses is an osmotic blend
of subjective sentiments related to his own life and the objective scenery of
the natural world, thereby creating an unfathomably profound, spiritual16
vista, lively and ingeniously wrought, where all elements are in the right
place. This spiritual vista constitutes the artistic conception, the element
which makes art into art. (However, in music and architecture—i.e., pure
forms of art that respectively deal with time and space—the most pro-
found, ineffable artistic concepts of the human mind are being expressed
in shapes that do not imitate nature. Dancing, in its turn, is a pure form
of art that offers a synthesis of both time and space, and can therefore be
considered the original form of all types of art. This is something we shall
return to later.)
372 Zong Baihua
Artistic conception is the crystallization of “emotion” and “scenery”

(or: imagery). Wang Anshi17 wrote a poem which goes as follows:
Willow leaves, singing cicadas, green shadows,

Lotus blossoms, the setting sun’s rays, red and thick.
Spring waters descending from thirty-six slopes,
White-haired, I long to see Jiangnan again.
The first three lines entirely consist of descriptions of scenery—the gor-

geous spring season in the Jiangnan or Lower Yangzi region18—but in the
last verse the entire scene is shrouded in, or rather, permeated by, a layer
of boundless melancholy, the worries that come with recollection, as well

as the feeling of relief upon returning to the place the poet longs for. Emo-
tions and scenery are intertwined, and together they form an absolutely
beautiful “poem.”
Ma Dongli19 of the Yuan dynasty wrote the following poem, composed
to the metric pattern Heaven clean sand:
Withered vines, ancient trees, crows at dusk,

A small bridge, flowing waters, men’s homes,
An old road, west wind, emaciated horse,
Evening sun sets in the west:
A heart-broken man at sky’s end!
Here also, the first four verses entirely consist of descriptions of scenery,
whereas the last verse describes an emotion, suffusing the whole poem
with a feeling of sadness, loneliness and universal desolation.
Artistic conception can manifest itself in many different hues, because
man, place, emotion and scenery are never identical. It can be compared
to the Mani Pearl of the Buddhists, the beauty of which reveals itself in
countless different colors. The same starry, moonlit night may find itself
reflected in a wide variety of poetical modes.
In his poem “Gazing at the Moon in the Jingyang Palace,” Yang Zai20
of the Yuan dynasty wrote:
Mother earth, hills and rivers—the slightest of shadows,

Wind and dew from the nine-tiered sky: vast and soundless.
The Ming dynasty painter Shen Zhou21 said in his poem “Writing about
my innermost feelings, to be sent to a Buddhist monk”:
Shadows on the luminous river, from beyond the thin clouds,

Soundless is the clear dew between a myriad of trees.
Sheng Qinglou22 of the Qing dynasty, in a poem entitled “White Lotus,”

wrote:
Remnants of moonlight on half the river, nearly shadowless,

Cold clouds on the entire bank—whence rises this fragrance?
Yang’s poem exhales the heroic spirit of the imperial palace, which en-
veloped heaven and earth in feudal times. Shen’s poem takes us to the
realm of the recluse, who has broken off all ties with the world and its
defilements. Sheng’s poem, in its turn, describes the mind of the poet who
feels emotionally attached to the scenery, in a manner that is graceful but
not showy. The main element in the first poem is atmosphere; in the sec-
ond poem it is meditation; in the third it is temperament and interest.
As to the Tang dynasty poet Lu Guimeng’s23 famous lines on the white
lotus—“I should feel resentment because no one’s aware of this / The moon
is bright, the breeze is clear, the petals are about to fall”—they present a
vivid picture of the flowers, quite close in style to that of the prose-poem
or rhapsody. The poetic conception and background are beautiful indeed,
but the emphasis is on the description of an object.
In every form of artistic expression, emotion and scenery form an os-
motic blend. One is enabled to explore one’s deepest feelings, to reach ever
deeper and bring to light layer after layer of one’s emotions. At the same
time one is enabled to penetrate ever deeper into the scenery, to discover
layer upon layer of sparkling, crystal-clear scenery. The scenery becomes
suffused with emotion, and the emotions are concretized and become
scenery. As a result, a unique universe and a brand-new imagery emerge.
Mankind’s imagination is replenished, and new vistas are opened up for
the world, precisely as in the words of Yun Nantian: “It is a unique crea-
tion, entirely the result of the inspiration; nothing of all this exists in the
real world!” This is the “artistic conception” I am talking about. “Outside,
I take Creation as my teacher; inside, I’m in touch with the fountainhead
of my heart.” These few words of instruction by the Tang painter Zhang
Zao24 are the main condition for the creation of artistic conception.
Artistic Conception and the Landscape
Tang Caizhen25 of the Yuan dynasty stated: “The landscape has been en-
dowed with all that is excellent in Creation. Sun, moon and obscurity;
clear weather and rain, cold and heat; dawn and dusk, day and night …
They vary according to circumstances and are of unlimited interest. One
has the impression of witnessing something totally unprecedented, some-
thing so inexhaustibly vast that it resembles a boundless expanse of blue
water—not at all easy to describe.”
The emergence of artistic conception implies that the objective scenery
has been allowed to become the symbol or token of one’s own subjective
affections. In our hearts, affections rise and fall, ever changing like the
waves, assuming countless different appearances. A single fixed outline or
rough sketch will never be able to adequately express them. Only the full
spectrum of all the vivid elements which Nature has to offer—mountains
374 Zong Baihua
and rivers, plants and trees, clouds and mist, light and darkness—enables
one to represent the breath and the rhythms of inspiration that boundless-
ly flourish in our minds. Yun Nantian wrote the following inscription on
a painting: “Sketching these distant clouds and mountains, they become
part of my thoughts, and they end up as tears shed by the hairs of my
painting brush.” The landscape has become the medium through which
poets and painters give expression to their affections. Therefore Chinese
painters and poets have always liked to give the realm of mountain and
water a central place in their expressions. This is utterly different from the
artistic path chosen in the West, where, since Ancient Greece, the human
body has been the main object. Dong Qichang’s26 words were well-chosen:
“Poetry moves within the realm of the landscape, and the landscape moves
within the realm of poetry.” The poetical mind with which the artist has
been naturally endowed casts its light upon the poetical mind of heaven
and earth. (In the Apocryphal Book of Songs it is said: “Poetry is the heart
of heaven and earth.”) The natural landscape is a reflection of the poetical
mind of the universe. The spirit of the painter and the poet is dynamic; it is
itself nothing but a creative evolution of the universe. In all its movements
and choices it resembles a tiny cloud in the great void of heaven, or the
tracks of wild geese on a chilly pond: unpredictable and spontaneous!
Artistic Creation and Self-restraint
The realization of this subtle condition ultimately depends on the mental

self-restraint with which the artist is usually endowed, and the cultivation
of what is one of nature’s mysteries. It is achieved when one experiences
how the spirit, flying and leaping about in the liveliest of fashions, returns
to a meditative state of quietude and illumination.27 Li Rihua28 recount-
ed the following about Huang Zijiu,29 the great Yuan dynasty painter:
“He would spend entire days sitting among jumbles of boulders on barren
hills, or surrounded by thickly growing trees and bamboo. He seemed
absent-minded, and nobody could guess why he was doing what he did.
Sometimes he would go to the place where Middle Mao Lake meets the
sea to look at the fast-moving, thundering waves. Neither the winds and
rains that buffeted the bank nor the sea-monsters with their woeful cries
were able to perturb him.” The Song dynasty painter Mi Youren30 said:
“My position in this world is like that of a single hair in the sea, unper-
turbed and colorless. I frequently sit and meditate in my quiet room, and
while I forget all the worries of the mind, I share the flow of the blue
void in all its vastness.” Huang Zijiu, with Dionysian enthusiasm, would
throw himself among the moving phenomena of the universe, whereas
Mi Youren, with Apollonian tranquility, would embody and illuminate
the vast profundities and subtleties of the world. They represent the two
noblest mental modes in the artistic life.
The “artistic realm” accomplished in this kind of mood can natural-
ly be unpredictable and turbulent and yet at the same time be deeply
profound and delicate. Dong Yuan31 of the Southern Tang dynasty said:
“While sketching the hills of the Jiangnan region, I wield my brush in
a highly careless manner. When you look at the result from up close, it
would seem to have very little to do with the actual shape of these hills,
but when looked at from a distance, the scenery is there in all its beauty
and freshness; one experiences exquisite feelings and profound pondering,
as one does when beholding a landscape one has never set eyes on before.”
When the artist relies on his profoundly tranquil mind-set, he discovers the
depth of the universe. In the natural world he can “happen upon withered
trees, blocks of stone, small ponds and sparse forest, and every time he will
be able, with deep feelings and yet cool detachment, to look for the hidden
appeal in them.”32 Huang Zijiu would always be urging people to produce

deep ponds and to surround them with trees. His mind remained focused
on artistic creation.
Thus, the appearance of the artistic realm has nothing whatsoever to
do with the purely objective or mechanical depiction of the natural world.
As Mi Fu said, “The best is always that which the ingenious mind has
arrived at out of itself.” Particularly in the case of the natural landscape,
with its ever-changing or vanishing clouds and mist, it does not suffice
to merely copy or reproduce. Without relying upon the creative powers
of the mind, it is impossible to fully grasp the scene in its entirety. In his
discussion of the making of landscape paintings, the Song dynasty painter
Song Di33 stated:
The first step is to find a decrepit wall, on which you spread out the
unpainted silk that will be your canvas. After that has been done,
you look at it morning and evening. After a certain period of time,
the patterns in the silk against the wall, running up or down or
crosswise, will start to take on the forms of mountains and water.
You focus your eyes and concentrate your mind upon them. The
highs will become mountains, the lows will become water; holes will
become valleys, empty spaces will become ravines; what is apparent
will become nearby, what is obscure will become distant. As your
mind extends its grasp, a concept will be created, and it will be as
if you see the shapes of humans, animals, plants and trees clearly
in front of your eyes, as they are dancing and moving to and fro.
Thereupon you take up the brush as you like, and while you remain
silent in order to establish spiritual communion, the scenery will
take shape naturally, and it will look as if your painting were not the
work of a mere man. That is what I call “the living brush.”
Song Di’s words are a very nice illustration of what Chinese painters often
say: “Hills and valleys are formed within one’s breast; upon awakening
they can be executed with brush and ink.” This is fundamentally different
from the painstakingly realistic attitude of Monet, the western impression-
ist painter who would depict the same view for up to a dozen times, after
having studied it in the morning, at midday and in the evening.
376 Zong Baihua
The Manifestation of the Meditative State
Why do Chinese artists feel an aversion to purely objective and mechanical

copying? Because artistic conception is not a single-layered, superficial,
natural kind of reproduction but a multi-tiered form of creation. Starting
from the depiction of shapes as they are directly perceived through the
senses, moving to the conveyance of something dynamic and alive, and
ultimately leading to the highest spiritual enlightenment, we have three
different levels. In the preface to his Lyrical Poems from the Mountain
Dwelling of He Who Bows to a Rock, Cai Xiaoshi34 provides the most
wonderful description of these three levels as they exist in lyrical poetry35:
Concepts and ideas like to move along tortuous paths; melodies will
create a stronger impression if heard from a distance. When one
reads a poem for the first time, there emerges one view: the full-
ness of spring with its myriad of flowers, enchanting white dew,
snow that covers the earth like white silk, some remaining clouds
like embroidery in heaven. [Zong’s note: This is direct sensual per-
ception exaggerating our impression of things.] When one reads it
a second time, another view emerges: unbroken stretches of mist-
covered waters, icy winds blowing, a noble steed descending a slope,
the scales of fish emerging from the water. [Zong’s note: This is the
conveyance of something dynamic and alive.] When one reads one
last time, the glimmering moon, the white clouds light and fleeting,
the wild geese soaring high in the sky and the leaves that fall like rain,
all of this has mysteriously become modestly placid and detachedly
distant. [Zong’s note: This is the highest spiritual enlightenment.]
Jiang Shunyi commented upon this in the following words: “In the
first view, the emotions are victorious; in the second view, the vital
energies are victorious; in the final view, the personality is victorious.”
“Emotions” are direct reflections of the heart when confronted with im-
pressions; the “vital energies” are the forces of life, as in “The energies of
life travel far”;36 and “personality” refers to noble moral qualities as reflect-
ed in one’s character. In the arts of the western world, impressionism and
realism correspond with the first level. Romanticism, with its predilection
for untrammeled expressions of the musicality of life, and classicism, with
its penchant for revealing the statuesque qualities of life in perfect clarity,
both correspond with the second level. As to symbolism, expressionism
and postimpressionism, their purport corresponds with the third level.
In China, however, the artistic ideal, ever since the Six Dynasties peri-
od,37 has been to “purify one’s heart and behold the Way” (an expression
coined by the Jin and Liu-Song dynasties painter Zong Bing38), the medi-
tative state whereby one comprehends what is subtle and profound in all
marks of materiality, like the disciple of the Buddha who smiled when the
Buddha held up a flower.39 In the preface to his Lyrical Poems from the
Shrine of the Ever Shifting Mind, Ru Guanjiu40 aptly expresses this:
“When would the clear moon appear?”41 expresses the immortal

element of lyrical poetry. “The wind blows ripples on a pool full of
spring water”42 expresses the meditative element of lyrical poetry.
Immortality is not easily studied, but meditation can be learned.
But if, while learning, one does not focus one’s spirit on what is
distant and remote, if one has no interest in the boundless and the
vast, if one has never experienced the subtle Zen-like enlightenment
of the flower held up between the Buddha’s fingers, if one’s think-
ing never leaves well-trodden paths, then all movement will meet
with obstruction. How would anyone be able to surpass the world
of concrete forms without a mind that is nothing but purity and
contemplation? Therefore, the realm of lyrical poetry may be com-

pared to the moon imprinted on an empty pool; above as well as
below, there’s the same clarity, which has nothing to do with intel-
lect or knowledge. Pure sounds lift one up out of the world of dust,
wonderful fragrances are perceived from a distance: one partakes of
clear causality. Birds are singing by a pearl screen, flowers are falling
out of themselves: one makes the ascent into perfect enlightenment.
To surpass the world of concrete forms with a mind that is nothing but
purity and contemplation, that is the original foundation of the creation
of artistic conception. Birds singing by a pearl screen and flowers falling
out of themselves are the perfect completion of the expression of artistic
conception.
Also in painting, the multi-layered nature of artistic conception may be
observed. In his Sundry Stitches from the Purple Peach Pavilion the Ming
dynasty painter Li Rihua says:
In painting there are three consecutive stages. The first one concerns
the location of the body. The place where the body is positioned
must never be hidden or closed, but spacious and bright. At the
water’s edge or at the rim of a forest: that is the place where all
scenery gathers. [Zong’s note: This is the view from up close.] The
second stage concerns the focus of the eyes. One may choose an
exceptionally beautiful landscape, or something boundlessly entic-
ing, such as spring water falling, clouds emerging, a sail shifting
or birds flying away. [Zong’s note: This is the scenery as observed
from on high and at a distance.] The third stage concerns the trav-
els of the intention.43 The force of the eyes may have its limits, but
there are places where the emotions pulsate without interruption.
[Zong’s note: This is a panorama unlimited in space.] Be that as it
may, there also exist places the intention stumbles upon accidentally.
When one sketches a tree or a rock, for instance, it is necessary that
dots applied in a cursive manner grasp its attitude. [Zong’s note:
This is the realm where one hints at the unlimited within the limited,
where one transmits the spirit and captures the liveliness.] When
378 Zong Baihua
one sketches a long horizontal landscape, one must make sure that
“the intention reaches where the brush does not reach,”44 so that
the spiritual energy gets hold of it. The accidental nature of this is
not something one willingly seeks. Rather, it is an unavoidable kind
of accidentality. [Zong’s note: This is the realm where one makes
use of what is limited to express the unlimited, where the creative
and transformative forces unite with the fountainhead of the heart,
and where all forms become symbols.] This is what the Buddhists of
the Yogacara school45 mean when they talk about “extremely subtle
colors and shapes” and “smallest perceivable matter.”
Thus, painting, once its marks of materiality are fully developed, reaches
the highest level of spirituality: the manifestation of the meditative state.
After having passed through several consecutive stages, it reaches its new
home. Dai Chunshi once said: “Wielding his brush like Li Bai when the
latter wrote the lines ‘Fallen leaves gather, then scatter again / Jackdaws
perch but then startle,’46 or in the fashion of One Peak,47 Yun Nantian
accomplished what is being described in the lines ‘Lonely fleabane shaking
out of itself / Startled sand sits, then flies up.’48 In other words: he paints,
but it’s almost a form of meditation!” Meditation is utmost quiescence
within movement, and it is also utmost movement within quiescence; it is
constant illumination through quietude, and constant quietude through
illumination. Movement and quiescence are not two separate entities.
Meditation is a direct exploration of the origins of life. Upon coming into
contact with Mahayana Buddhism, the Chinese became aware of the deep-
est recesses of the soul and magnificently elaborated this awareness into
a realm of philosophy and art: that is Chan Buddhism. Silently solemn
reflection and forward leaping vitality are the two cornerstones of art,
and both of them constitute the spiritual condition of Chan Buddhism. In
the Record of Omissions Made Good by the Monk Snowy Hall it is said:
“The Chan Master Taipingdeng (‘Great Peace Lantern’) from Shuzhou
was well-versed in the sutras and their scholastic reworkings, but apart
from that he also taught meditation. The monk Baiyunyan (‘White Clouds
Performance’) sent him a Buddhist hymn: ‘White clouds, moon over the
mountains / Great peace, shadows below pine trees / The night is clear, no
freak winds / All of this together forms one single vista.’ When Taipingdeng
received this hymn, he chanted it, and before long he experienced sudden
enlightenment.” Meditation makes use of poetry in order to express itself.
Therefore, for the Chinese artistic conception to be created, it took
both Qu Yuan’s extreme sadness49 and Zhuangzi’s carefree unpredicta-
bility. Only extreme sadness enables one to experience passionate love, to
penetrate to the very core of things, in other words, to “grasp what lies
within.” Only carefree unpredictability enables one to be like a flower in a
mirror, or like the moon reflected in water; to leave no traces, like an ante-
lope which hangs by its horns,50 in other words, to “transcend all outward
forms.”51 Form is emptiness, emptiness is form; form is not different from
emptiness, emptiness is not different from form.52 This not only pertains
to the poetry of the High Tang but also to the painting of the Song and
Yuan dynasties.
The Way, Dancing, Blank Space: Characteristics of the

Structure of Chinese Artistic Conception
Zhuangzi was a philosopher with a natural talent for things artistic, whose
elucidations regarding the artistic realm are most ingenious. Zhuangzi was
able to merge the metaphysical principle of the “Way” (dao) with “art”
into a perfect blend. Living according to the Way goes beyond skill, and
the expression of that skill is a revelation of the Way. The third chapter,
entitled “The Principle of Nurturing Life,” contains a brilliant piece of
description53:
Cook Ding was cutting up an ox for Lord Wenhui. At every touch of

his hand, every heave of his shoulder, every move of his feet, every
thrust of his knee—zip! zoop! He slithered the knife along with a
zing, and all was in perfect rhythm, as though he were performing
the dance of the Mulberry Grove or keeping time to the Jingshou
music. “Ah, this is marvelous!” said Lord Wenhui. “Imagine skill
reaching such heights!”
Cook Ding laid down his knife and replied: “What I care about
is the Way, which goes beyond skill. When I first began cutting up
oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years I no longer
saw the whole ox. And now—now I go at it by spirit and don’t
look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a
stop and spirit moves where it wants. I go along with the natural
makeup, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big
openings, and follow things as they are. So I never touch the smallest
ligament or tendon, much less a main joint. A good cook changes
his knife once a year—because he cuts. A mediocre cook changes
his knife once a month—because he hacks. I’ve had this knife of
mine for nineteen years and I’ve cut up thousands of oxen with it,
and yet the blade is as good as though it had just come from the
grindstone. There are spaces between the joints, and the blade of
the knife has really no thickness. If you insert what has no thickness
into such spaces, then there’s plenty of room—more than enough
for the blade to play about in. That’s why after nineteen years the
blade of my knife is still as good as when it first came from the
grindstone. However, whenever I come to a complicated place, I size
up the difficulties, tell myself to watch out and be careful, keep my
eyes on what I’m doing, work very slowly, and move the knife with
the greatest subtlety, until—flop! the whole thing comes apart like
a clod of earth crumbling to the ground. I stand there holding the
knife and look all around me, completely satisfied and reluctant to
move on, and then I wipe off the knife and put it away.”
380 Zong Baihua
“Excellent!” said Lord Wenhui. “I have heard the words of Cook

Ding and learned how to nurture life!”
Living according to the Way, just like living in the arts, means to let the
knife roam where there is lots of empty space, all in perfect rhythm, as
though one is performing the dance of the Mulberry Grove or keeping
time to the Jingshou music. The rhythm of music forms the very core of
both lifestyles. Therefore, also in Confucian philosophy it is said: “Great
music conforms with the harmony of heaven and earth, great ritual con-
forms with the order of heaven and earth.” The Book of Changes states:
“There is an intermingling of the genial influences of heaven and earth,
and transformation in its various forms abundantly proceeds.”54 The

rhythm of continuous creation is the ultimate fountainhead of all Chi-
nese arts. In an inscription on a painting, Shitao said: “The harmonious
creative forces of heaven and earth beautifully merge; the four seasons
descend upon us day and night. If one can penetrate the Primal Principle,55
it is possible to bequeath wondrous things to a hundred generations.” In
his works, the artist needs to grasp the realm of heaven and earth! The
German poet Novalis said: “I might almost say that in all poetry chaos
should shine through the well-clipped foliage of order.”56 And Shitao also
said: “To firmly establish your spirit in an ocean of ink, to affirm your life
by the peak of the brush, to perform a metamorphosis upon the surface
of the scroll, so that the light shines forth from within chaos.” Art has to
cut away all epidermis, and reveal the true nature of everything, sparkling
and crystal-clear.
Through “realistic depiction” and “conveying the spirit,”57 artists come
to the realm of “subtle understanding,” and thanks to this subtle under-
standing, they “penetrate the Primal Principle, and are able to bequeath
wondrous things to a hundred generations.” That is a mission of truly epic
proportions!
If artistic conception is going to be expressed in a work of art, it is
necessary to shine through the well-clipped foliage of order, and to let the
Primal Principle cast its brilliant rays. This well-clipped foliage of order is
the organic, harmonious art form resulting from every individual artist’s
ingenious organization of lines, dots, light, colors, shapes, sounds or char-
acters, whereby he gives expression to his ideas and intentions.
Because artistic conception is the artist’s originality; because it is born
from a sudden insight, a shock is experienced when one’s innermost “foun-
tainhead of the heart” and the “creative and transformative powers of
nature”58 come into contact with one another, it has nothing to do with
objective portrayal, as when a photograph is being taken. Therefore the
artist has to be able to get hold of the “well-clipped foliage of order”
which is his and grasp the rays of truth. Thanks to their well-ordered
structure, music and architecture lend themselves particularly well to the
direct revelation of the inner harmonies and rhythms of the true nature
of the universe. Therefore, all art tends toward the state of music and the
ingenuity of architecture.
Be that as it may, it is “dancing,” that pinnacle of meter, rhythm, order

and reason, and at the same time that most lively, whirling, powerful and
enthusiastic of all things, which not only represents the ultimate condition
of all forms of artistic expression, but which also symbolizes the universal
process of creative evolution. In that particular moment, the artist loses
himself in the nucleus of creation, he is submerged in the realm of things
spiritual, he “penetrates the original mystery, where words are no longer
valid, and harmonizes the transformations of the spirit with nature’s mys-
teries” (quoting the great Tang dynasty painting critic Zhang Yanyuan).
“Here, there is something veritably in control / Along with it we float or
sink” (from Sikong Tu’s Twenty-four Categories of Poetry59). From the
unfathomable depths of the Mysteriously Profound,60 which the artist has

come to know from personal experience, something volatile emerges, set-
ting the spirit in motion as though in a void, setting the vital energies in
motion as though in a rainbow.61 In that particular moment, only “danc-
ing,” this most inseparable of all laws, this most ardent of all movements,
manages to concretize and to embody the unfathomably deep realm of the
Mysteriously Profound.
During the dance, the order, rigorous as architecture, starts to flow and
becomes music, while the speeding life force, vast and mighty, restrains it-
self and becomes meter. Art is a demonstration of the creative evolution of
the universe. Thus, the great Tang dynasty calligrapher Zhang Xu grasped
the essence of calligraphy by watching Lady Gongsun perform a sword
dance,62 and the great painter Wu Daozi63 asked General Pei to perform
a sword dance for him, so that it might strengthen his vital energies, with
the words: “Its vehemence and fury might stimulate me to penetrate the
mysteries!” In his Account of What I Have Seen and Heard about Painting,
Guo Ruoxu64 recounts:
During the Kaiyuan reign period65 of the Tang dynasty, General Pei
Min was in mourning. He paid a visit to Wu Daozi and asked him
if he would fill a number of walls of the Tiangong Temple in the
Eastern Capital, Luoyang, with paintings of gods and demons, so
that these might protect the soul of the deceased. Wu Daozi replied:
“My painting brush hasn’t been used for a long time, but if the
general is willing to perform a measure of his sword dance for me,
its vehemence and fury might stimulate me to penetrate the myster-
ies!” Thereupon General Pei took off his mourning garments and,
dressed in his everyday clothes, rode his horse so fast it seemed to
fly. Wheeling to the left and turning to the right, he threw his sword
into the clouds, several hundred feet high, where it flashed down
like lightning. General Pei stretched out his hand, holding the scab-
bard so as to receive the sword, but the sword pierced [the roof of]
a building and fell within.66 Several thousands of people witnessed
this, and each of them was startled or frightened. Thereupon Wu
Daozi pulled out his brush and started to paint on the walls as sud-
denly as a wind rising, and he created one of the most marvellous
382 Zong Baihua
sights of the empire. In all of his career as a painter, Wu Daozi never

had more reason to feel proud than this time.
The poet Du Fu, describing the highest achievement in poetry, said: “The
profound and subtle penetrate the boundless / Dancing, the thunderbolt
is transfigured” (from the poem “At night, listening to Xu Eleven reciting
a poem. I loved it and thus wrote this”). The first line describes probing
into deep darkness, penetrating the profound and subtle mechanisms of
creation. The second line hints at the Great Energy creating in a spiraling
movement, and describes how it is being provided with a shape and be-
comes a whirling dance. Profound calm and illumination are the source
of dance-like vitality. Or to put it the other way round, only the dynamic,
concrete dancing movements of life, the meter of music and the different
art forms are able to give a tangible shape to, or to embody, the Way which
manifests itself in quietude and illumination. The German poet Hölderlin
wrote two lines with far-reaching implications:
Who has thought what is most profound,

loves what is most alive.67
Thanks to Hölderlin’s words, we suddenly become aware of one of the

characteristics of Chinese philosophy and arts. Chinese philosophy is all
about comprehending the rhythms of the Way through “life itself.” The
Way is concretized through life, through the system of rituals and music.
Nothing represents the Way better than the arts. The arts, in all their mag-
nificence, endow the Way with form and life. The Way, in its turn, provides
depth and soul to the arts. The Zhuangzi chapter “Heaven and earth”
contains an allegory explaining how only the arts (“Shapeless”) are able
to grasp the authenticity of the Way (the “Dark Pearl”):
The Yellow Emperor travelled north of the Red Water, ascended the
slopes of Kunlun, and gazed south. Upon his return, he discovered
he had lost his Dark Pearl. (Sima Biao explains: the Dark Pearl is
the authenticity of the dao.) He sent Knowledge to look for it, but
Knowledge couldn’t find it. He sent Li Zhu (“the one with the keen
eyes”) to look for it, but Li Zhu couldn’t find it. He sent Chi Gou
(lit. Stammering Abuse—the debater) to look for it, but Chi Gou
couldn’t find it. Finally he sent Shapeless, and Shapeless found it.
“How bizarre!” said the Yellow Emperor. “In the end it was Shape-
less who was able to find it!”
Lü Huiqing68 added a highly apt commentary to the name “Shapeless”:

“Shape means: never without; -less means: never with; neither dazzling
nor obscure, that is how the Dark Pearl was found.” To be never with-
out and never with, to be neither dazzling nor obscure: precisely that is
the symbolic function of artistic forms. Shape is the phenomenon, -less is
the illusion. Artists create illusory phenomena as symbols of the reality

of the universe and of human life. Truth glitters within artistic forms; the
Dark Pearl shines within the Shapeless. Goethe once said: “The True is
Godlike; it does not appear to us directly, we must guess at it through its
manifestations.”69 He also said: “Our life’s a spectrum-sheen of borrowed
glory.”70 Life, to Goethe, is the reality of the universe. The following verse
from Goethe’s Faust, “All that must disappear is but a parable,”71 eluci-
dates even better that the Way, “the real life,” dwells in appearances that
are all mutable and transient. A poem by the English poet William Blake
expresses this very neatly:
To see a world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
The above poem, and the lines from the poem about the ninth day of the
ninth lunar month72 by the Chinese Song dynasty Buddhist monk Daoc-
an—“Heaven and earth: a single eastern fence73 / Eternity: nothing but a
Double Ninth Day”—both manage to hint at how the boundless is lodged
within the finite, at how all the things that are born and die symbolize
eternity.
The noblest spiritual activities known to mankind, situated in the
realms of art and philosophy, are born from a self, the inner core of which
experiences the highest degree of freedom and abundance. As this plentiful
self is permeated with the pure force, tens of thousands of images are right
by its side;74 bracing its arms it marches on, detached and unrestrained;
it is in need of space in order to be active (see my article “Consciousness
of Space as Evidenced by Chinese and Western Painting Techniques”75).
“Dancing” is its most direct, its most concrete natural expression. “Danc-
ing” is the model of all Chinese arts. All Chinese calligraphy and paint-
ing techniques display a tendency toward dancing in the air. Even solemn
buildings have flying eaves76 and seem to dance in their own typical way.
Du Fu’s poem “On Seeing a Pupil of Lady Gongsun Performing the Jianqi
Sword Dance—A Ballad” opens with the following lines:
In the past there was a beautiful woman from the Gongsun clan,
Who moved the whole world as she performed her sword dance.
Audiences so numerous they looked like hills watched in amazement,
For heaven and earth seemed to continue moving up and down …
Heaven and earth are dancing, they are poetry (poetry is the heart of heav-
en and earth), they are music (great music conforms with the harmony of
heaven and earth). The typical features of Chinese painting rest on these
foundations. Loosening his clothes, the painter majestically faces a blank
piece of paper (the space where the dancing will take place), and using
384 Zong Baihua
cursive or seal script as if he were dancing in the air, he composes the mu-
sic and poetry that is inherent in all things in the universe. What happens
when one photographs the myriad beings with a camera? Their shapes
form a kind of bottom layer of dark shadows on the paper. The lines with-
in the contours of the shapes of things are blurred and hazy. The plants,
trees, cliffs and rocks on the mountains are unable to vividly express the
painter’s thoughts and ideas. Only after a substantial amount of snow has
fallen will the contours of the cliffs and rocks, the branches and trunks of
the trees in the forest, reveal their spirit and disposition, their radiating
power and vitality, as if one would unfold a sheet of blank paper and allow
the myriad beings to reveal their picturality through irregularly outlined,
boldly traced lines. This is the reason why Chinese painters (Wang Wei for
instance) love to paint snowscapes: it allows them to create an image of a
world being opened up.
Confronted with the blank surface, Chinese painters are unwilling to
let the bottom layer of dark shadows fill up the “face” of the object, there-
by obliterating the empty space—which is precisely what western paint-
ers do. Therefore they directly wield brush and ink on the blank surface,
giving expression to the living rhythm of what they paint by using a wide
variety of wrinkly lines. (Shitao stated: “Through the use of wrinkles, the
brush suggests the living surface of things.”) At the same time they make
use of the different styles of calligraphy (cursive script, seal script or offi-
cial script) in order to express the meter of their own heart. The resulting
painting will always be a mix of the natural beauty of things as directly
grasped by the painter on a spiritual level, his creative powers, and his
soul. As brush and ink are applied in a free and unrestrained fashion, as
the lines create their own rhythm and the colors their own music, a path
opens up for one to follow. Cherishing the void one roams, exploring the
vacuous and the shadowy, and modeling emptiness into solidity. (See the
Fang Shishu quote in the first section of this article.)
Zhuangzi talked about “the empty chamber where the white light is
born,”77 and he also said: “The Way gathers in emptiness alone.” The
method of expression whereby details are added in a blank space and
emptiness is modeled into solidity is emphasized in Chinese poetry and
songs as well as in essays. In every poem, in every song, open space and a
kind of undulation are always present. Conceptually, they are very close
to Chinese painting.
Calligraphy, that preeminently Chinese art form, is a particularly good
example of what is meant by being “unpredictable and turbulent.” In his
Discussion of Calligraphy78 Zhang Huaiguan of the Tang dynasty de-
scribed Wang Xizhi’s way of wielding the brush in the following words:
“Placing one dot here and one stroke there, he moves from right to left and
from top to bottom. The characters seem to recline in the middle, leaving
an abundance of open space. But the characters are forceful and beautiful,
they resemble living things. They seem obscure, but in a profound and last-
ing way; they seem to glow with a spiritual brilliance. Because it cannot be
fathomed, it is the most marvellous of all calligraphy.”79 Here we can see
that calligraphy in its most marvelous form entirely accords with painting:
movement emerging from emptiness, depth and quietude amidst spiritual
brilliance; outward forms are transcended, to grasp what lies within.80
This applies to all creative processes in the Chinese arts.
In his Poetry Unraveled, Wang Chuanshan81 states: “People discussing
painting will say that something tiny, merely one foot long, has the pow-
er82 of ten thousand miles, and that as soon as a written character has
been empowered, it is able to attract the eye. If we do not involve power,
then we contract ten thousand miles into something one foot long, like
the map of the entire empire at the beginning of an atlas. It is because of
this power that five-character quatrains, at the moment of their concep-
tion, contain the ultimate truth. Only the High Tang poets83 were able to
produce the most wonderful effects with five-character quatrains. Take
this poem for instance: ‘Where is your family’s abode? / I live in Hengtang
/ Now the boat has moored I ask you / Perhaps we come from the same
hometown.’84 The energy of the ink radiates in all directions, so that the
poem’s intention is made clear even there where characters are absent!” In
his “Song discussing painting” Gao Rifu85 said: “Even there where brush
and ink do not reach, a mysterious breath pervades the empty space.” And
Da Chongguang86 said: “Vacuity and solidity generate one another. Even
there where no painting has been done, wonderful vistas arise.” All three
of them pay attention to blank space as a key element in the realm of the
arts. In Chinese poetry, painting as well as calligraphy, a similar concep-
tual structure manifests itself, a conceptual structure which represents the
way in which the Chinese people perceive the universe. In the poetry of
High Tang poets such as Wang Wei and Meng Haoran,87 the influence
of Chan Buddhism, with its stress on the illusory nature of all phenom-
ena, is omnipresent. In the lyrical poems of the Northern Song dynasty,
there are the rippling movements of waves amidst emptiness, and end-
lessly vast expanses of water. Even the following verses: “The twenty-four
bridges are still intact / Swaying in the heart of the waves, the cold moon,
without a sound” and “I watch as the painted boats all pass under Xiling
Bridge / Springtime is preserved on half the lake”—respectively written
by Jiang Baishi88 and Zhou Caochuang89—manage to use emptiness as a
foil for solidity, allowing the energy of the ink to radiate in all directions.
But because they exaggerate in their application of color while describ-
ing the scenery, they fail to “make the poem’s intention clear even there
where characters are absent,” the latter being a characteristic of the Tang
dynasty quatrains which has never been surpassed. When the Chinese
learn about the Way, they do so by “seeing movement in places of vacuity
and quietude, and by seeing vacuity and quietude in places of movement.”
The Way gathers in emptiness alone; substance and function do not exist
in two separate realms.90 This constitutes the actual nature of the Chinese
people’s sense of life and artistic conception.
Wang Chuanshan also said: “Du Fu was particularly skilled at grasping
the most profound essence of whatever he came into contact with, and at
giving expression to the most minute of things. The genius of Wang Wei
386 Zong Baihua
resided in his ability to broadly absorb from all sides, all the while reveal-
ing his innermost self.” He also said: “Wang Wei was an absolute master at
making what is far off seem near, and at remodeling vacuity into solidity.
With Wang Wei, the presence of the mind would make itself automatically
felt in an indirect way, and outward forms would automatically occupy
the right place.” This is highly interesting. “The presence of the mind mak-
ing itself automatically felt in an indirect way” finds its expression in “the
energy of the ink radiating in all directions,” whereas “outward forms au-
tomatically occupying the right place” corresponds with “something tiny,
merely one foot long, having the power of ten thousand miles.” “Broadly
absorbing from all sides, all the while revealing his innermost self” and
“making what is far off seem near, and remodeling vacuity into solidity”:
that is precisely the creative technique and the artistic conception of Wang
Wei, who was at the same time a great painter and a great poet. It is also
representative of how the Chinese create the movement of life and the
taste of the generative forces of heaven and earth out of vacuity.
In his discussions of the genesis of artistic conception in poetry, Wang
Chuanshan makes another profound and subtle statement which helps us
understand the ultimate foundation of “the birth of artistic conception
in China.” He says: “In the midst of mystery and agitation, all true affec-
tions can be found. [By the Songs] you can arouse, you can contemplate,
you can express comradeship, you can show resentment;91 therefore one
chooses the Book of Songs. However, if, inspired by all this, one attempts
to write poetry, it often happens that one witnesses certain scenes or sit-
uations, that one thinks of things from the past or in the future, without
being able to adequately express oneself, even after years of painstaking
efforts. To write about universal human emotions with a swiftly moving
brush, as if one were following the sun’s shadows, that is the secret of any
poet.” “To write about universal human emotions with a swiftly moving
brush, as if one were following the sun’s shadows”: in these words lie both
the ultimate ideal and the highest achievement of the Chinese arts. This
holds true for the poetry of the Tang and Song dynasties, and it holds true
for the painting of the Song and Yuan dynasties.
Especially in the landscape, flower and bird paintings of the Song and
Yuan dynasties we can savor what it means “to write about universal hu-
man emotions with a swiftly moving brush.” The natural life depicted by
the painter is concentrated on an endless expanse of white. Amidst the void
undulates the Way, “which you can look for but cannot see, which you can
listen for but cannot hear, which you can reach for but cannot hold,” and
which is therefore described by Laozi as “invisible,” “inaudible” and “in-
tangible.”92 Every single flower or bird, every single tree or boulder, every
single mountain or river which appears on the expanse of white is loaded
with infinitely profound significance, with boundlessly profound emotion.
(Painters and poets look upon the myriad beings with the same kind of be-
nevolence, without discriminating. It doesn’t matter how far away or how
puny a plant or a rock may be. They will paint it with their “meticulous
brush,”93 or they will convey an impression of haziness and desolation
while sprinkling the ink with an “unrestrained brush.”) The myriad beings
are steeped in the calm and deep love of the painter’s soul, the brightness
of which is felt throughout the four quarters of the land.94 So deep is this
love that one feels as if one is living a peaceful dream. What the watcher
experiences is a consolation that pervades his entire soul, and the awaken-
ing of a subtle awareness.
This is the way the brush is used in Chinese painting: it plunges straight
down from the void, ink dots perform a dance and blend with the white
on the paper. The painting starts to look like “a cloud, colored by the sun;
its brightness does not come from within, but neither does it come from
without; no contours, no lines are visible, yet it can give rise to an end-
less array of emotions—emotions that seem to be without attachments”

(borrowing the words used by Wang Chuanshan in his appraisal of Wang
Jian’s95 quatrain “On Spring”). Brightness in Chinese painting is a kind of
metaphysical, nonrealistic flow of the supernatural energy of the universe,
which sets the entire surface of the painting in motion. It links center and
periphery, rotating up and down. The faint glint on old silk is perhaps the
best image for conveying the meaning of this mysterious phenomenon. In
traditional western oil painting, the entire canvas is filled up, leaving no
blank space. The glow and the atmosphere which animate the painting are
mere physical, visible substances. In China, however, all of the painter’s
attention goes to the places where brush and ink are not applied. It is pre-
cisely in the places where brush and ink are not applied that we enter the
hazy realm of Heavenly Equality96 and of the changes operated by nature.
(In the words of Gao Rifu: “Even there where brush and ink do not reach,
a mysterious breath pervades the empty space.”) The structure of this kind
of painting is rooted in the perception of the universe—verdant, brimming
with vitality, prosperous and thriving—as it exists in the Chinese soul.
Wang Chuanshan expressed this very aptly: “It is an inherent characteris-
tic of space and time that every magnificent element of nature will evolve
into something enchantingly beautiful. When the mind and the eyes make
contact with such a thing, one will approach it with gentle and civilized
feelings. The thing will show its original splendor, and it will be revealed
to us as if it were something we’ve cherished all along. Shining in all its
magnificence, its emotional impact will know no bounds!” Is this not the
impression we get from Tang dynasty poetry and Song dynasty painting?
The Chinese love to set up an empty pavilion or kiosk in the landscape.
Dai Chunshi said: “Clusters of hills, densely overgrown / Clumps of trees,
lush vegetation / An empty kiosk, like a bird spreading its wings / Inhaling
and exhaling the breath of the clouds.” An empty kiosk actually becomes
the point of intersection where the wondrous energies of mountains and
rivers meet, with a movement like breathing; it becomes the place where
the spirit and vitality of mountains and rivers accumulate! When Ni Yun-
lin97 painted landscapes, he would frequently put empty pavilions in them,
and he is the author of the following two famous verses: “At the foot of
the pavilion, I meet no one / The setting sun quiets autumn’s shadows.” On
one of Ni Yunlin’s paintings, entitled “Mountains with rivulet and kiosk,”
388 Zong Baihua
Zhang Xuan98 wrote the following poem: “The rocks are sleek, rain before
the cliffs / The fragrance of a spring, wind through tips of small branches /
River and mountains offer unlimited views / All drawn together in one ki-
osk.” And in his poem on the Hanxu Pavilion, Su Dongpo wrote: “There’s
only this pavilion, and nothing else / I sit and watch myriad vistas—nature
in its perfection.” The Way gathers in emptiness alone.99 The Chinese per-
ception of the universe also finds its expression in Chinese architecture.
Where the vital energies circulate in openness and quietude, where kites
fly and fish leap: that is the realm where the artistic soul of the Chinese and
their image of the universe meet like two mirrors reflecting one another. Ni
Yunlin wrote the following poem:
An orchid grows in a remote ravine,

Mirroring itself in its inverted image.
No man is there to prize its beauty,
The spring breeze faintly smiles.
In Greek mythology, the handsome Narcissus sees his own reflection in

a pool and falls in love with it. The victim of an endless longing for his
own beautiful reflection, Narcissus withers away and dies. In China, the
orchid grows in a remote ravine and mirrors itself in its inverted image.
Its solitary fragrance is only appreciated by the flower itself, but though
the orchid may feel lonely, it still has the company of the faintly smiling
spring breeze. For every exhalation there is an inhalation, similar to the
breathing of the universe itself. All of this happens in a happy manner,
carefree and satisfied. (This illustrates the difference in mentality between
China and the West.)
The arts not only cleanse the soul and the universe, they also deepen
the soul and the universe, and they make it possible for man to savor the
depth of the universe in a state of mental detachment.
The poem “Elated by the Zither on the River” by the Tang poet Chang
Jian100 manages to describe the cleansing and deepening effects of the arts
(in this particular case the music of the zither) in a way few other poems
do:
On the River I strum the jadelike zither,

With every string I strike, my heart is purified.
The seven strings’ crystal-clear song reaches everywhere,
Ten thousand trees stand in the serene tune’s clarity.
It can whiten the moon’s reflection in the river,
And it can make the river’s water deeper.
Thus I understand that the parasol trees’ branches101
Are worth their weight in gold.
Chinese works of literature and art characterized simultaneously by a su-

perbly sparkling and pure artistic conception, a profound understanding
of the universe, and an overwhelming emotional appeal are not that easy
to find. One fine example is the following lyrical poem by Zhang Yuhu102
of the Song dynasty. It is called “Lovely Nian Nu: Crossing Lake Dong-
ting”:
Lake Dongting and Lake Qingcao, near mid-Autumn,

There’s not the slightest hint of wind.
A jade mirror, a field of jewels, thousands of acres large,
And me in my tiny, leaf-shaped skiff.
The white moon distributes its glow,
Sharing its reflection with that of the Milky Way.
Outside and inside, everything is clear and pure.
In quietude, I reach understanding,

Something wonderful, but hard to communicate in words.
I recall previous years in the deep south,
When the moon shone on me, all alone,
And my valor was pure as ice or snow.
My short hair turns sparse, through my garments I feel the chill,
Calmly I drift across the vast expanse of blue.
For a drink I have the entire West River,
My wine cup is the Dipper in the north,
The myriad beings are my guests. (Expressing the poet’s detachment
from space)
Tapping the sides of the boat, I whistle alone,
I don’t even know what night it is tonight! (Expressing the poet’s
detachment from time)
This truly is “cleansing away all clamor, understanding the subtlest of

sounds; all the dust is blown away, and the whole truth is revealed.”103 I
myself also wrote a short poem once, which I hope is able to convey the
universal emotional appeal of the Chinese soul. Though it may be rustic
or vile, I take the liberty of adding it here, so the reader may verify for
himself:
Cypress Creek, Rowing Home on a Summer Evening

A violent wind emanates from the horizon,
Grayish green: mountain peaks as the sky darkens.
Evening sun filters through cracks in the clouds,
Its glow paints the whole river cold.
Unhurried, a white egret flies,
Light and pale, a lonely cloud, far away.
As I fasten the hawser, the moon is born,
The myriad shapes bathe in its clear rays.
Artistic conception has its own depth, its own height and its own width.
The height, greatness and depth which Du Fu reached in his poems have
never been reached by anyone else. “To express what no other man is able
to express, that is height. To contain what no other man is able to contain,
390 Zong Baihua
that is greatness. To follow winding paths that no one else is able to follow,
that is depth” (quoting a remark by Liu Xizai104 on Du Fu’s poetry). And
in his Poetry Talks of Stone Forest, Ye Mengde105 stated:
The Chan Buddhists have three sorts of sayings, and the same goes
for Old Du’s poems. For instance, the lines ‘Waves toss the wild rice
seeds, sinking clouds of black / Dew chills the lotus pods, the falling
powder’s red,’ speak of containing heaven and earth. ‘Fallen flowers
and gossamer threads, the day is calm / Cooing doves and young
swallows, spring is deep,’ speak of following the waves. ‘Secluded
for a hundred years, the brushwood gate is far away / In the fifth
month the river is deep, the thatched pavilion is cold’ speak of tran-
scending all emotions and knowledge.
Containing heaven and earth is greatness, following the waves is depth,

and transcending all emotions and knowledge is height. Also in Li Bai’s
poetry, the same height, depth and greatness are present. But emotional-
ly, Li Bai was rather more partial to nature’s grandeur. When he climbed
Mount Hua’s Falling Goose Peak, Li Bai exclaimed: “This mountain is the
highest of all! With my breath I could reach the throne of the Heavenly
Ruler. I regret I didn’t bring along some of Xie Tiao’s amazing verses106…
Scratching my head, I have some questions for the blue sky!” (Taken from
the Forest of Saying from the Tang107). Du Fu on the other hand was most
concerned with “directly grasping thoughts and emotions in their pure
form” (a line from one of Du Fu’s poems). His ability to explore the depths
of human nature surpassed that of Li Bai. Du Fu possessed both Dante’s
zeal and enthusiasm, and Goethe’s power of expression. The height, depth
and greatness in the poems of Li Bai and Du Fu, just like Wang Wei’s
deceptive simplicity, are all rooted in a dynamic, extremely mobile and
well-regulated spirit. Inheriting this spirit is our heartfelt joy.
Translator’s Notes
1. The Daoist adept Wang Xizhi (303–61) is the most famous

calligrapher in all of China’s history. He was one of the first to
stress the importance of yi (“idea” or “intention”) in any artistic
undertaking.
2. This phrase is taken from the second chapter of the Analects of
Confucius.
3. Li Bai (701–62) and Du Fu (712–70) are the two most famous poets
in Chinese history. Both lived in the eighth century, the middle period
of the Tang dynasty, widely regarded as the golden age of Chinese
culture.
4. Gong Zizhen (1792–1841), also known as Gong Dingan, was a poet
and influential scholar of the Qing dynasty (1644–1911).
5. Chunshi or “Unsullied Scholar” was the sobriquet of Dai Xi (1801–

60), a painter representative of the court academy style.
6. An extension of the Taihang mountain range, west of Beijing.
7. The reader should bear in mind that in Chinese the heart (xin) also
indicates the mind, the feelings, and the intentions.
8. Qing dynasty painter, calligrapher, and poet, who lived from 1693 to
1751.
9. In China, terms such as “emptiness” and “the vacuous” rarely
indicate an absolute void. Everything nontangible, not yet formed,
or imaginary is considered vacuous. In poetry, an “empty mountain”
does not indicate a barren wasteland; the mountain is considered
empty because the one person whom the poet would like to meet is
temporarily absent.
10. Yun Shouping, also known as Yun Nantian (1633–90), was a well-
known calligrapher, poet, and painter (of flowers, bamboo, insects,
and animals) of the early Qing dynasty.
11. Zong Baihua explains that Tang Jie’an, a friend of the painter, is
meant here.
12. An allusion to a passage in the sixth chapter (“The Great and
Venerable Teacher”) of the Daoist classic Zhuangzi, where a
terminally ill man is trying to imagine what will happen to him after
his death.
13. Another allusion to Zhuangzi. In the first chapter (“Free and Easy
Wandering”), it is said that the legendary ruler Yao visited the
faraway Mountain of Gushe, which so awed him that he forgot all
about governing his empire.
14. The original, in Journal intime, reads: “Jedes Landschaftsbild ist ein
Seelenzustand.”
15. Zhu Ruoji (1642–1708) was one of the most fiercely individualistic
painters of the early Qing dynasty. A Buddhist who later converted to
Daoism, he is best known under the name Shitao (“Stone Billows”).
16. “Spiritual” here has the connotations “divine,” “supernatural,”
“sacred,” “efficacious,” and “marvelous.”
17. A Song dynasty (960–1279) economist, statesman, and political
reformer, Wang Anshi (1021–86) was also an accomplished poet.
18. Where Wang Anshi spent the first twenty years of his government
career.
19. Ma Zhiyuan (c. 1250–1321), courtesy name Dongli, was a poet and
well-known playwright of the Yuan dynasty (1271–1368).
20. Yang Zai 1271–1323.
21. Shen Zhou 1427–1509.
22. Exact dates unknown.
23. Died c. 881.
24. The eighth-century eccentric Zhang Zao was one of the first Chinese
painters to use his hands instead of a brush.
392 Zong Baihua
25. Caizhenzi or “Gatherer of Truth” was the sobriquet of the art

historian and critic Tang Hou (first half of the fourteenth century).
26. Dong Qichang (1555–1636) was one of the most influential scholar-
painters and art theorists of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644).
27. The term used by Zong Baihua, ningshen jizhao (“congealing the
spirit and reaching illumination through quietude”) refers to a Taoist
meditation technique.
28. Li Rihua (1565–1635) was a late Ming dynasty government official,
artist, art critic, and connoisseur.
29. In Dong Qichang’s classification, the Daoist adept Huang Zijiu,
whose actual name was Huang Gongwang (1269–1354), was one of
the four greatest Yuan dynasty painters.

30. The landscape painter Mi Youren (1086–1165) was the son of the
famous calligrapher and painter Mi Fu (1051–1107).
31. Dong Yuan?–962.
32. Zong Baihua quotes the late Ming dynasty Gu Ningyuan (c. 1585–c.
1645), author of the Huayin (“The lure of painting”).
33. Song Di (c. 1015–c. 1080) was a government official, writer, and
painter.
34. Pseudonym of Cai Zongmao (1798–?). “He Who Bows to a Rock”
is an allusion to the Song dynasty painter Mi Fu, who, upon seeing
an exceptionally ugly rock, put on his ceremonial clothing, bowed
before the rock, and addressed it as his brother. This is the first time
Zong Baihua quotes from the seventh chapter (entitled “Scenery”)
of a late Qing dynasty work by Jiang Shunyi, the Cixue jicheng
(“Sayings on the study of lyrical poetry collected”). In this quotation
Zong Baihua has also included Jiang Shunyi’s own remarks.
35. What I translate as “lyrical poetry” denotes a poetic form (ci)
characterized by lines of unequal length, set to an existing melody.
Ci poetry (which is also rendered as “song”) is a relatively late
development, becoming immensely popular in the Song dynasty.
36. Zong Baihua quotes the Twenty-four Categories of Poetry, a highly
influential series of 24 poems attributed to the late Tang poet Sikong
Tu (837–908).
37. Six Dynasties period 220–589. During the three and a half centuries
of disunity and warfare after the downfall of the Han dynasty and
before the reunification under the Sui and the Tang, Buddhism
became one of the dominant forces in all fields of Chinese life.
38. The Buddhist Zong Bing (375–443) was one of the first to leave a
treatise on art theory. Forced by illness to relinquish his travels to
famous mountains, he depicted on his walls the places he had visited
and contemplated these.
39. Referring to a Buddhist story in which the Buddha gives a wordless
lesson to his disciples by holding up a flower. Only one disciple
understands the lesson and smiles. In Chan Buddhism, as in Daoism,
the wordless teaching, the direct transmission of wisdom in ways
other than verbal, is very important.
40. Another quotation from the seventh chapter of Jiang Shunyi’s Cixue
jicheng. There is some uncertainty as to the name of the author of this
obscure fragment. Instead of Ru Guanjiu, his name might be Guan
Jiushan.
41. First verse of a lyrical poem by Su Shi, composed to the tune “Prelude
to Water Melody.” Su Shi (1036–1101), also known as Su Dongpo, is
the most famous of all Song dynasty poets.
42. First verse of a lyrical poem by Feng Yansi (903–60), composed to the
tune “Visit to the Golden Gate.”
43. Intention is yi, the first half of yijing or “artistic conception.”
44. The first artist and art theorist to formulate a version of this famous
saying was Zhang Yanyuan (813?–79?).

45. Yogacara or “Representation-Only” is a highly influential idealistic
school of Mahayana Buddhism. It explains how human experience is
shaped by the mind. The central practice is meditation, which allows
one to understand the nondifferentiation of self and other.
46. From Li Bai’s poem “Autumn Air.”
47. Yifeng daoren, “One Peak Daoist,” was one of the sobriquets of
Huang Gongwang, also known as Huang Zijiu.
48. Two lines from Bao Zhao’s (c. 414–66) “Rhapsody on an Overgrown
City Wall.”
49. Qu Yuan (c. 340–278 BC) was a poet and minister of the southern
state of Chu. Exiled after being slandered, he committed suicide by
drowning. He is the author of the “Lisao” (“Encountering sorrow”),
the best-known poem from the collection Songs of Chu.
50. Referring to a story in Yan Yu’s (1191–1241) Canglang’s Remarks
on Poetry, where an antelope escapes its enemies by jumping up and
hanging from tree branches.
51. “Grasping what lies within” (which alludes to the second Zhuangzi
chapter, “Discussion on Making Things Equal”) and “transcending
all outward forms” are quotes from Sikong Tu’s Twenty-four
Categories of Poetry.
52. Zong Baihua quotes the Heart Sutra, one of the most popular of all
Buddhist scriptures.
53. The translation is adapted from Burton Watson, The Complete
Works of Chuang Tzu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968),
50–1.
54. The translation is James Legge’s.
55. Explained as the workings of the chaotic original energy as it existed
before the creation of the universe.
56. Adapted from John Owen’s 1842 translation of Heinrich von
Ofterdingen. The German original goes: “Ich möchte fast sagen,
das Chaos muss in jeder Dichtung durch den regelmässigen Flor der
Ordnung schimmern” Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen (München:
Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, Bibliothek der Erstausgaben, 1997),
142.
394 Zong Baihua
57. “Conveying the spirit” (chuanshen) is one of the most crucial notions
in Chinese art. Coined by the famous early painter and Daoist adept
Gu Kaizhi (c. 345–406), it originally denotes the painter’s capacity to
grasp the spirit of the person who is being portrayed and to transmit
it through painting.
58. Zaohua, a term originating in the sixth Zhuangzi chapter.
59. The “veritable controller” is an allusion to the second Zhuangzi
chapter.
60. In Zhuangzi, “Mysteriously Profound” (xuanming) is a term
indicating the ineffable dao or Way.
61. The latter two phrases are an unacknowledged quote from Sikong
Tu’s Twenty-four Categories of Poetry.

62. The eccentric Zhang Xu (675?–759?) was particularly famous for his
cursive script. Du Fu would later witness the same sword dance, as
performed by a disciple of Lady Gongsun. He described it in a poem,
the first lines of which are translated in the following.
63. Wu Daozi (685?–758?) was the most famous Tang dynasty painter,
especially known for the murals he created in Daoist and Buddhist
temples. He was a disciple of the calligrapher Zhang Xu.
64. The Tuhua jianwen zhi (1074) is the single most important book on
art history of the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127).
65. That is, sometime between 713 and 741.
66. An alternative translation would be: “… and the sword entered it as
if it pierced a building.”
67. The German original, from the poem “Sokrates und Alcibiades,”
goes: “Wer das Tiefste gedacht, liebt das Lebendigste.”
68. Lü Huiqing (1032–1111) was a Song dynasty statesman, who
participated in Wang Anshi’s reforms, but who also authored a
number of commentaries on Confucian and Daoist classics.
69. The original aphorism from the closing section of the third book of
Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre reads: “Das Wahre ist gottähnlich; es
erscheint nicht unmittelbar, wir müssen es aus seinen Manifestationen
erraten.”
70. From the first act of the second part of Faust. The translation is David
Luke’s. The German original reads: “Am farbigen Abglanz haben wir
das Leben.”
71. From the final chorus of the second part of Faust. Translated by David
Luke. The original reads: “Alles Vergängliche / Ist nur ein Gleichnis.”
72. The ninth day of the ninth lunar month is also known as Double
Ninth Day or Double Yang Day. On this potentially dangerous day
(too much yang), people traditionally climb a hill or mountain and
drink chrysanthemum wine, in order to protect themselves.
73. An allusion to the fifth in a series of twenty poems on drinking
wine, where Tao Yuanming (365–427) describes himself as plucking
chrysanthemums by the eastern fence in his garden.
74. An unacknowledged quote from Sikong Tu’s Twenty-four Categories
of Poetry.
75. Originally the text of a 1935 lecture, this article was published in
1936 and can also be found in Meixue sanbu.
76. So called because of their pointed, upturned forms.
77. The empty chamber is the heart/mind. The white light is the
illumination to the Way. This quote, and the following one, are from
the fourth Zhuangzi chapter (“In the World of Men”).
78. Shuyi, dated 759.
79. This quotation is not in Zhang Huaiguan’s short treatise. It can
be found attributed to Zhang Huaiguan in later works, such as
Sheng Ximing’s (fourteenth-century) Examination of Calligraphy
(Shufa kao). In reality, Zhang Huaiguan’s opinion of Wang Xizhi’s
calligraphy was not uniformly positive. About Wang’s cursive style,

for instance, Zhang remarked that it exuded the temperament of a
young woman, lacked a grown man’s energy, and was therefore not
to be highly estimated.
80. The latter phrase is yet another quote from Sikong Tu’s Twenty-four
Categories of Poetry.
81. Wang Fuzhi (1619–92), who is here designated with his pseudonym
Chuanshan, was a leading neo-Confucian philosopher of the late
Ming and early Qing dynasties.
82. Shi (“power”) also connotes “visual effect” and “dynamics.”
83. Critics of later dynasties divided the Tang into four periods: Early,
High, Middle, and Late. Active during the High Tang (712–61) were
some of the most popular poets in all of Chinese history: Li Bai, Du
Fu, Wang Wei, and Meng Haoran.
84. This is the first half of a poem by Cui Hao (704?-754), “Song of the
Changgan Travelers.” In the second half of this love song, the man
answers the woman’s question.
85. Dates unknown.
86. Da Chongguang (1623–92) was an early Qing dynasty statesman,
calligrapher, and painter.
87. Wang Wei (701–61) was a poet and landscape painter who was
heavily influenced by Chan Buddhism. Meng Haoran (689–740) was
a major influence on other High Tang poets.
88. Jiang Kui (1155–1221), also known as Jiang Baishi, was a well-
known Song dynasty lyrical poet and calligrapher.
89. Zhou Mi (1232–98), also known as Zhou Caochuang, is most
famous for his recollections of Hangzhou, capital of the Southern
Song dynasty before the Mongol invasions.
90. The latter statement is originally by the modern Confucian
philosopher Xiong Shili (1885–1968). Substance and function
(tiyong, a term made famous by the third-century philosopher Wang
Bi) are explained as “original reality” and “the material world” or as
“fundamental constitution” and “practical application.”
91. These are the words of Confucius, who is explaining to his students
why it is so useful to study the Book of Songs (a collection of 305
396 Zong Baihua
poems dating from the first millennium BC), which Confucius

considered one of the most important tools in education. Wang
Fuzhi’s statement is about the Book of Songs (Shijing) only, but Zong
Baihua applies it to poetry (shi) in general.
92. Zong Baihua quotes Chapter 14 of the Daodejing (The Way and its
power).
93. Gongbi (lit. “meticulous brush”) denotes a realistic style of painting
that pays a lot of attention to detail and technical perfection. It is
contrasted here with yibi (lit. “unrestrained brush”), which indicates
a highly free and unconventional style of painting.
94. The latter part of the sentence is a quotation from the Confucian
classic Shujing (Book of Documents), where the virtues of the

legendary ruler Yao are praised.
95. Wang Jian 452–89.
96. A term originating in the second Zhuangzi chapter. By harmonizing
things with Heavenly Equality, the necessity of any argument
pertaining to “right” and “wrong,” “so” and “not so” disappears.
97. Yunlinzi (“Cloud Forest”) was the sobriquet of Ni Zan (1301–74).
Recognized as one of the greatest Yuan dynasty painters, Ni Zan had
Daoist orientations. Best known are his landscape paintings, from
which human beings are generally absent.
98. Zhang Xuan (1341–73) was an early Ming dynasty statesman and
poet.
99. As Zhuangzi said.
100. First half of the eighth century.
101. The wood of the wutong or parasol tree was used in the production
of zithers.
102. Yuhu jushi (“The Lay Buddhist of the Lake”) was the pseudonym of
Zhang Xiaoxiang (1132–69).
103. The author quotes the introduction to a collection of two hundred
lyrical poems by the Qing dynasty official and writer Dong Guohua
(1800–50). Yet another quotation from the seventh chapter of Jiang
Shunyi’s Cixue jicheng.
104. Liu Xizai (1813–81) was a late Qing dynasty literary critic.
105. Ye Mengde (1077–1148) was a Song dynasty scholar whose sobriquet
was Shilin jushi (“The Lay Buddhist of Stone Forest”).
106. Xie Tiao (464–99) was among the earliest noted landscape poets.
107. Compiled by Wang Dang (first half of the twelfth century).

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Art in Translation

ISSN: (Print) 1756-1310 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rfat20

The Birth of Artistic Conception in China

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/17561310.2017.1353291

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The Birth of Artistic

KEYWORDS: Zong Baihua, Chinese painting, Chinese philosophy,

Introduction by Jan De Meyer (Department of Sinology,

“The Birth of Artistic Conception in China” is a seminal article on Chinese

Zong (professor in the philosophy department of the universities of Nan-

The Birth of Artistic Conception in

examination to be undertaken by our nation. The Ancient Greek sage of-

The Meaning of Artistic Conception

When Gong Dingan4 was in Beijing, he told Dai Chunshi:5 “Sometimes

When we examine the scenery closely—a shrub, a tree, a hill, a val-

The focus of concentration of the painter’s or poet’s mind is a spiritual

Any landscape is a condition of the spirit.14

Artistic conception is the crystallization of “emotion” and “scenery”

Willow leaves, singing cicadas, green shadows,

The first three lines entirely consist of descriptions of scenery—the gor-

of boundless melancholy, the worries that come with recollection, as well

Withered vines, ancient trees, crows at dusk,

Mother earth, hills and rivers—the slightest of shadows,

Shadows on the luminous river, from beyond the thin clouds,

Sheng Qinglou22 of the Qing dynasty, in a poem entitled “White Lotus,”

Remnants of moonlight on half the river, nearly shadowless,

Artistic Conception and the Landscape

Artistic Creation and Self-restraint

The realization of this subtle condition ultimately depends on the mental

appeal in them.”32 Huang Zijiu would always be urging people to produce

The Manifestation of the Meditative State

Why do Chinese artists feel an aversion to purely objective and mechanical

“When would the clear moon appear?”41 expresses the immortal

contemplation? Therefore, the realm of lyrical poetry may be com-

The Way, Dancing, Blank Space: Characteristics of the

Cook Ding was cutting up an ox for Lord Wenhui. At every touch of

“Excellent!” said Lord Wenhui. “I have heard the words of Cook

and transformation in its various forms abundantly proceeds.”54 The

Be that as it may, it is “dancing,” that pinnacle of meter, rhythm, order

unfathomable depths of the Mysteriously Profound,60 which the artist has

sights of the empire. In all of his career as a painter, Wu Daozi never

Who has thought what is most profound,

Thanks to Hölderlin’s words, we suddenly become aware of one of the

Lü Huiqing68 added a highly apt commentary to the name “Shapeless”:

the illusion. Artists create illusory phenomena as symbols of the reality

To see a world in a grain of sand

less array of emotions—emotions that seem to be without attachments”

An orchid grows in a remote ravine,

In Greek mythology, the handsome Narcissus sees his own reflection in

On the River I strum the jadelike zither,

Chinese works of literature and art characterized simultaneously by a su-

Lake Dongting and Lake Qingcao, near mid-Autumn,

In quietude, I reach understanding,

This truly is “cleansing away all clamor, understanding the subtlest of

Cypress Creek, Rowing Home on a Summer Evening

Containing heaven and earth is greatness, following the waves is depth,

1.  The Daoist adept Wang Xizhi (303–61) is the most famous

5. Chunshi or “Unsullied Scholar” was the sobriquet of Dai Xi (1801–

25. Caizhenzi or “Gatherer of Truth” was the sobriquet of the art

1. The Daoist adept Wang Xizhi (303–61) is the most famous

5. Chunshi or “Unsullied Scholar” was the sobriquet of Dai Xi (1801–

25. Caizhenzi or “Gatherer of Truth” was the sobriquet of the art