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

30 31 in the West in the twentieth century wasn’t art at all; he thought it was all nonsense, so explaining it was a waste of e ff ort. Still, it was encouraging to be dismissed in the company of Jackson Pollock and Picasso. G I see what you mean: ‘Fake news! Th e earth is fl at!’ But it’s interesting that you mention Pollock, whose process was famously central to his work. So let me drag you back to that idea. What does all of this history and philosophy mean to your process of painting? M Ah! Sorry for the diversion, important as it was—I think it was indeed the mention of process that prompted me to climb aboard the high horse. So yes, let’s get back to it. Th ere are essentially two aspects of the process of painting. Th e fi rst is what one depicts—even if it is abstract or even virtually absent, as in a blank white canvas or a monolithic Rothko. Th e second is how one goes about depicting it. Th e fi rst aspect is what most people think of as art, and can itself be divided again into two main categories—although they inevitably overlap and blur at the edges. In one camp, the artist is trying to reproduce the world as she sees it; in the other, she is inventing new worlds, new realities. Abstractions, abstract expressionism, minimal- ism and so many other -isms might conveniently be enrolled into the second camp for our immediate purposes. Both are infused by a very personal vision, which is, of course, the essence of what we look to our artists to provide. Here’s another way of looking at this. One might divide pictorial artistic intent into two modes: painting what one sees, or seeing what one paints. I tend almost ex- clusively toward the latter persuasion. I have on occasions painted what I see; I once did a small watercolour of Todi in Italy, seen at dawn across a valley of mist, and I’ve occasionally been pressed to depict particular scholarly objects both for my own col- lection and occasionally for others. But I fi nd mimesis rather boring, and my mind has a strong tendency to avoid it. Unless I really concentrate, any initial impulse to depict reality soon turns into an independent action; the painting takes over. It has a life of its own, and becomes a full partner in the process—and the result is almost always a surprise, o ft en nothing like my original intention. Some deep instinct is far happier following the ancient Chinese tradition of looking at a thousand trees and mountains, waterfalls and boulders—and then, once immersed, painting a synthesis of their reality, a summation, an essence. To this end I also avoid intention for as long as possible—even if I start with an idea in mind, whether that’s an image in real life, an illustration in a book or cat- alogue, a conversation with a friend. All of those can get me clearing the painting table and reaching for paper, brush and ink, without any real intent beyond creating something. G Presumably, though, there’s still some sort of endgame in mind here—not least because the materials themselves tend to produce the same sorts of results. Doesn’t your choice of materials denote an intent of sorts? M Indeed, but Chinese materials have evolved over centuries of maturity to become dancing partners for the artist, not mute, rigid tools through which one can impose a preconceived image. Th ey are designed, at one level, to challenge intent. Th e papers themselves are to a greater or lesser extent absorbent and thin, so pigments seep into the surface—usually right through to the other side. Compare that with the best western watercolour papers, where the ink and colours penetrate only slightly into the surface and cannot be seen from the other side. Chinese papers really do become more of a partner in the art. Th ey o ft en surprise you with an e ff ect and, even if you understand your paper really well, they discourage absolute control. Th at’s particu- larly true for me, since all my training has been practical and on-the-job—I lack the precise artistic skills that more highly-trained Chinese artists command. I’m winging it as I go, although that in itself is still a form of training. G You mentioned Liu Kuo-sung paper earlier; how does this fi t into your method? M As with so much Liu Kuo-sung has done in his artistic career, he has translated his understanding of the tradition—and his urge to modernise that tradition—into experimental extremes. As a part of that urge, he developed his own cotton paper with a jumble of thick and thin threads incorporated into the surface. As he paints he can pull these threads out, leaving exciting partially random markings where the ink or colour has not penetrated the tough threads. Th is is an excellent example of what I mean by Chinese papers being partners in the process. Th ey’re much more than just materials with predictable properties. He’s o ft en been kind enough to send me a pack when he has some made, so I always have some on hand. I greatly enjoy using it, of course. Th at is what led me, eventually, to my love a ff air with the Taiwanese cloud-dragon paper. With that, I’ll usually start with a rectangular sheet of one of its standard sizes and thicknesses—there are two or three di ff erent thicknesses and at least two sizes, as far as I am aware. I paint fi rst from the side with smaller, rougher, randomly placed fi bres on the surface. Th e basic idea is similar to Liu Kuo-sung paper, but the threads are almost impossible to remove without damaging the paper—so they’re intended as textur- ing, but the e ff ect can be much the same if used judiciously. Th en, dipping a large brush and loading it with water and pale ink (or colour) I make abstract, expressive, broad strokes, moving the brush sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. Th e slower markings seep through more thoroughly, while the quicker ones tend to stay more on the surface, thus leaving random white markings on the other side of the paper. When dry, I’ll turn this over and see the much more subtle markings that have come through the paper. Th ese will immediately suggest something to me—landscape, fi g- ures or something completely unexpected. Depending upon the power of that image, I will either take that as the next starting point, or turn the paper back over, and with darker colour, perhaps a dryer brush, add a complementary abstract layer. I may do this several times, and by now the painting itself is a full partner in the process. One minute it leads, the next minute I do; sometimes we are dancing perfectly in harmo- ny, sometimes we’re trying to fi nd a rhythm. At any stage of this process, I’m always open to changing the orientation of the painting. I’ll fl ip it from vertical to horizontal, or turn it upside down entirely. I’m also open to changing which face of the paper to continue on, back or front. Once I decide which direction to follow, I’ll usually work from that side from then on, liu kuo - sung Song of Rain-fed Waterfalls , 1966 On Liu Kuo-sung paper Water, Pine and Stone Retreat Collection, 21 . 1 . 763