My Take on Appreciating Chinese Calligraphy (Part I) 我欣賞中國書法意見（第一部分）

Warning:  I am not a professional scholar on the subject of Chinese calligraphy.  I am merely an amateur connoisseur of Chinese calligraphy  Corrections and constructive criticism are welcome.

聲明：  我不是中國書法專家。我只是個中國書法業餘愛好者。歡迎各位的批評和指教。

A master calligrapher makes his craft look effortless.  It takes only 5-10 minutes to write 10 to 100 characters, but masterpieces are treasured and save for millennia.

書法工藝外觀看來不費絲毫力氣。寫出幾十百字只要幾分鐘，但被視為佳作就能珍藏幾千年。

I have tried a few times writing calligraphy, and it requires hand and mind to flow as one.  I don't say this in a artsy or flowery sense, any doubts or  wanderings of the mind literally translates to the hands.  The slightest twitch can ruin a masterpiece.

我自己只試過毛筆幾次而已。書法需要手於心靈相通。我說的不是藝術氣息或華麗感，而是心裡的一絲懷疑就會影響到手的動作。手的細微抖動能毀掉傑作。

I'm not going to start the discussion of Chinese calligraphy in chronological order with oracle bones from the Shang Dynasty.  I will start with the most familiar.

首先，我不按時間順序從商朝甲骨文談起書法的字體演變。我先講各位比較熟悉的。

The most commonly used script that's still used in practice today is called "Kaishu"（楷書）.  Calligraphy taught in the Far East teaches Kaishu first in standard public education.  While American schools used #2 carbon pencils to write between comically large lines, Chinese students jump into the deep end of the pool and use the same tools as calligraphy masters.  The four basic tools are called "The Four Treasures of the Study Room" (書房四寶), they include the paper, paperweight, brush, and ink.  Albeit, beginners get to use grid paper like this:

現在最常用的字體是楷書。  東亞地區教書法先用楷書做標準字體。而美國用二號鉛筆碳寫字在滑稽的大線裡面，中國學生跳進池深側而用書法大師的工具。  基本工具稱為“書房四寶”，  它們包括筆，墨，紙， 硯。  儘管，學徒用九宮格紙：

(Source)

Once a calligrapher starts, everything is about copying previous masters.  But how can copying be a creative form of art?  Without originality in calligraphy, is it even an art form authentic to the expression of the creator?

要成為書法家都從擬摹以前的名家著手。但抄寫如何稱為一種藝術？  書法沒有原創的話， 這種藝術形式真實傳達創作者的意念？

I respond with the master mimicker, Zhang Daqian 1899 - 1983 (張大千)：

我舉模仿大師，張大千1899 - 1983：

(Source. I hope I age as gracefully as him when I'm old)

Zhang Daqian was known mostly for his Chinese painting, but the brush techniques in painting derive from writing characters.  Although his works are fairly contemporary to the time scale of Chinese history, he was able to re-discover painting techniques lost for 1300 years when he studied the Dunhuang caves.  Even today, some paintings that were originally thought to date from the Tang may have been Zhang Daqian's works.  That's like someone during the Great Depression painting Da Vinci fooling professional historians today!  Except the forgeries of Zhang Daqian were older than Da Vinci by another 500 years!  It was his ability to mimic that helped rediscover the techniques of ancient painting.

張大千的作品多為中國繪畫，但繪畫技術啟發自書法。雖然他的作品表現了當代中國歷史的時間尺度，但當他研究敦煌石窟時期，  他重新發現失落了1300年的粉刷技術。即使在現在，有些繪畫原先以為可上溯唐朝，事實上卻可能是張大千的作品。這就像大蕭條時期的達文西的繪畫愚弄了今日的專業歷史學家！  但張大千的贗品比達文西通過年長另外500 年！  他的模仿能力幫助世人重新發現古代繪畫的技巧。

(Even the color pigments Zhang used were authentic to the Tang Dynasty!  The colors dude, the colors!)

(Source.  East and West meet! Starting from left to right:  Pablo Picasso, Zhang Daqian, Xu Wenbo (Zhang Daqian's 4th wife))

The act of copying also preserves calligraphy and it's influence on people over time.  Imagine if there was a secret original copy of Beowulf was saved, and every major literary and historical figure decided to attach an their own commentary after reading appreciating the masterpiece.  Let's say Chaucer, King John, Shakespeare, King Edward II, Keats, Aquinas, Dickens, and George Washington all wrote something.  English majors would build a cathedral and have a nerdgasm of excitement, worshiping this document.  Such a document exists in the Chinese literary culture called "Sunny after Snow"  by Wang Xizhi (303 AD to 361 AD).

複製的行為還保留了書法及其對人們長期的影響。試想一下，如果有貝奧武甫的一個秘密的原件被保存，和每一個主要的文學和歷史人物決定閱讀欣賞的佳作後附加一個自己的評論。比方說，喬叟，約翰國王，莎士比亞，英國國王愛德華二世，濟慈，阿奎那，狄更斯和喬治華盛頓都寫了些什麼。英語專業的學生將建立一個大教堂和有興奮地崇拜這個文件。中國文學文化的存在一份名為 “快雪時晴帖”的書札王羲之（公元303至公元361 ）。

The entire scroll is much longer.  Here's the full version.  The right side with the blackened paper is Wang Xizhi's original calligraphy. It's only four lines of poetry, 28 characters.  So what does Wang Xizhi have to do with Chinese calligraphy?  Wait for part II!

整個捲軸更長。下面是完整版本。右側的熏黑紙是王羲之的書法原創。它只有四行詩， 28個字符。那麼，王羲之與中國書法有什麼關係呢？等待第二部分！

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Feeling Words

I should be in my pajamas watching the newest episode of Pokémon with my sister this Saturday morning. Instead, I’m dressed up in a dress shirt with hard leather shoes, nervously trying not to forget lines of Chinese poetry.

Remember to point to the sky when you say “sparrow”… Make sure “not” is softer, “return” is louder…

While every other kid in my neighborhood gets to go home in the afternoon after a hard day of elementary school, I have another 3 hours of Chinese school every weekday.

My Chinese teacher is a remnant of the old Taiwanese system of education. Before I even learned my own name in Chinese, I was forced to have perfect pronunciation. As a former radio broadcaster in Taiwan, my Chinese teacher drilled us to be pitch perfect.

“Third tone! Third tone! Your mother isn’t a horse!”

“Curl your tongue!”

“Squeeze your lips like a dead fish!”

Every year, Chinese schools all over southern California converted a local high school into a poetry recital gauntlet. Children in preppy, itchy clothing would huddle around pushy teachers and parents, eking out a final practice run before the judging began. Parents used to be allowed to witness the competition, but some overachieving parents decided to mouth lines to their children as they were being judged, which by competition and ethical standards was cheating. As a new rule, every child was forced to perform in front of the judges, alone with other competition students.

All of us were stone-faced, nervous in our “adorable” outfits. Like sheep heading towards the slaughter, one by one we would recite the same three poems to the judges. Each time someone's voice cracked or when someone mispronounced a word, the judges would frantically scribble on their score sheet. What would always put me on edge was when someone completely forgot their lines and burst into tears. Along with losing the chance of winning, their morale was crushed, all at the age of nine.

What was worse was watching the people who did “well.” Before this person uttered a single word, you could already sense the stench of cockiness. In the kitschiest way possible, the over-inflection in each syllable was the product of each nit-picky detail corrected by a tiger parent or teacher. At every high shriek, most students who watched couldn’t help but giggle at the ridiculous circus act.

As a 9-year-old, I had no idea what any of this poetry meant. Sure, I knew most of the nouns, but when encountering lines like “why do our days leave and not return?” my premature mind thought, “Well there’s no time machine, stupid!”

This activity had nothing to do with appreciating poetry. Being surrounded by pushy parents who wanted to put their children in a trophy case, there was a sense of pride knowing that your child was better than another. A gold plastic cup was concrete evidence of that fact.

Poetry was imprinted into my mind as being pretentious and a complete waste of time. Poetry was another assignment, something that had to follow arbitrary irrational “standards.” The whole process was mechanical, devoid of any love for the words we spoke. Words had no meaning for me.

Until I went to college.

I signed up for Classical Chinese only because I mixed 110 with 101 when I applied. Classical Chinese is the ancient literary style of written Chinese, which is quite different from modern Chinese. Slowly and painstakingly, each word was carefully analyzed, picked to the last detail. All the rules of Chinese I knew were thrown out the window. Use some damn possessive pronouns Confucius!

One day, our class had just finished translating “The Orchid Pavilion.” It’s pretty much about a bunch of drunk emo poets who take shots. As they continue to write poetry, they begin to ponder about the nature of their existence. Compared to the universe, their moment of happiness was only a fleeting moment compared to the grand expanse of the universe.

For the longest time, I thought words served only to communicate information. Anything beyond that context was just extraneous, flowery language only used on standardized tests.
The moment I bit into that sweet orange or that moment poets drank blissfully into the night – words froze those moments in time. Words had the power to immortalize a thought.

Our classical Chinese professor told us to meet in the East Asian Library. As I trudged through the rain, my socks were soaked all the way through. I entered the dimly lit library in the art seminar room. Inside, warm light bathed the center table. Numerous ancient copies of the “Orchid Pavilion” were splayed naked on the table.

“Feel free to touch history,” my professor said.

As I carefully grazed my fingers over the yellowing paper and pine soot brush strokes, a chill unrelated to my cold feet struck me.

Through the tumultuous ebb and flow of history, a world that seemed so alien and remote was still relatable. That seemingly insignificant moment when these poets realized the fleeting temporal nature of reality would rot their flesh was imprinted here, their thoughts are still alive. When I close my eyes and smell the fermented paper, they were alive in my mind.

The last line of the text quotes,

後之覽者亦將有感於斯文
“May future generations who glance here feel these words.”

I finally felt words.