Extract from: Beyond the Stage of Time, Volume I Realised Realms. The Master of the Water, Pine and Stone Retreat

10 11 at the time. I’d o ft en watched him and others paint, including Fang Zhaoling; it didn’t look at all di ffi cult to do, however long it might take me to do it well, but it also looked like a lot of fun. Given the extraordinary opportunity to learn from the best, I took it. A ft er spending most of my life to date dealing in, collecting and studying other—mostly dead—people’s art, I was suddenly part of a living world of creativity. I also quickly grasped that it was an extraordinary hobby and a great way to ward o ff boredom. Just as you can write in your mind, you can paint in your mind too— anywhere and under any circumstances, whether standing up at a bus stop, waiting for a fl ight, or just waking up in the wee small hours. G I suspect that sounds like a pretty abstract concept to non-artists. Can you tell me a bit more about how ‘painting in your mind’ works? M Producing the image is the obvious part of what a painter does as an artist, but it is only a part of the process. Th e visionary capacity of the artist is also very impor- tant. We count on our artists to see on our behalf what we cannot, or to see things di ff erently. Th e expression of that vision is also important, resulting in the physical work of art, but re fi ning vision in order to make what is expressed truly meaningful is every bit as important—in fact, one can argue more so. Just about anyone can learn the cra ft of painting easily enough given time and a little e ff ort, but there is little point in doing so if you then have nothing to o ff er in the way of some enlightening perspective. G I’m not so sure about anyone being able to learn the cra ft of painting! I suspect that it’s true of the basic practical techniques, but what about vision? Can that truly be learned, or is it inherent and instinctive in some way? M An interesting and tricky question! Some things are di ffi cult to de fi ne in such a way that they can be dealt with as either/or questions, and de fi ning ‘vision’ is de fi nitely one of those things. In theory, anything can be learned given the dedication and drive to do so, whether it’s a new language or a new painting technique. And I think that if you’re really motivated, you can learn both technique and vision re fi nement at the same time. How well you do it is to some extent subjective, espe- cially where art is concerned, but the reality is that most people are capable of absorbing and understanding all kinds of things. Th e bigger question here is really about motivation, I think. To whatever extent vision is inherent it can be re fi ned inde fi nitely, but then that itself becomes part of the visionary process. So the answer to the question feeds back on itself and becomes: is the urge to re fi ne it inherent, or can that be learned too? Th at’s a di ffi cult question to answer. Motivation comes from all kinds of places, and we all react to it in di ff erent ways. I do know that whether it’s learned or not, that urge is vital to artists. Without it, you’d never spend so many years re fi ning your vision or skills. Artists e ff ectively re fi ne vision with every brush stroke, and the visionary aspect of expression is ongoing for as long as the driving force that motivates the artists survives. But that is far from all that goes into the process. A great deal of observa- tion and consideration go into re fi ning both the visionary capacity and the ability to express it. You can be literally anywhere, doing anything at all on the surface of life, and still be constantly re fi ning both. Imagine being stuck in an airport lounge for a couple of hours, as I o ft en am; instead of being bored, fi nding a newspaper to read, or eating very unhealthy snacks, I always have the option of re fi ning the ability to see . G Ah, seeing! It’s a word we’re used to hearing when people talk about art, but what does it really mean in a painting context? M Seeing isn’t just a matter of observing the physical surface of whatever is in front of you. It’s a matter of seeing beneath, beyond, through the surface. You need to isolate the essence of reality; you need to see the patterns that underlie an e ff ect you see in front of you. Fabrics are a good example, especially in clothing: they wrinkle and fold in all kinds of di ff erent ways. If you spend an hour watching people in an airport trying to understand the underlying rules that govern this, the patterns that are the essence of this phenomenon, you will fi nd it far easier to depict them, and be convincing to your audience. Th is idea is applicable literally everywhere. If you are waiting for a bus and there are trees on the street, you can look for the same essential patterns that will allow you to paint a tree expressively, meaningfully, without having to attempt photographic mimesis. Gazing at the façade of a building, or a boulder in the countryside, there are always endless opportunities to seek out the abstractions, the patterns that best distil your particular experience of either one. You might fi nd the inspiration for an abstraction in a simple pattern of blocks of stone, or a landscape scene suggested by the markings and lichen on a rock face. You can even be painting in your mind by transforming this visual exercise in recognising essence into the process of mentally planning the next painting: going through its stages, deciding how best to lay it out, which inner languages (line, form, colour, texture) to grant prominence, and so forth. So painting in the mind is a critical part of the process, and in my experience a de fi ning aspect of being an artist. Once you become involved in all this, in seeing the inner patterns, the essence of a subject, or an idea, you can begin to paint or draw them in a way that is deeply personal and intriguing, and thus far more revealing to your audience. Th at, for me, is when the cra ft of painting becomes the art of painting. I know that artists in every fi eld identify with this. I was once at a cocktail party in the Mandarin Hotel in Hong Kong, standing in a group with James Clavell, the author of many novels set in Asia. I could see that his mind was quite obviously elsewhere. I was standing beside his wife, who also saw his expression. She gently nudged him with her elbow, and said, ‘Stop writing!’ G Th at makes a lot of sense when you’re out and about in the world. But how does this work in the wee small hours, on those days when you wake up at 3 am? Th ere’s far less to see and inspire you then, I imagine. M Not so much on the outside, I agree, but there’s an in fi nite realm on the inside. One can be re fi ning vision with eyes open or closed, at any time of day or in any sit- uation. Attempting to see essence in reality involves a constant conversation with the