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

32 33 tickling the suggested image out. It is the same for whatever crops up; the earlier, natural, less intentional strokes will dictate the form and details. But I’ll o ft en fi nish a painting, or think I have, and turn it over to fi nd that the markings on the other side are more subtle, and lead in another direction, so I’ll follow that and do it all over again on the back—or front, I’ve usually lost track by that stage. Th is is where the process becomes what I referred to earlier as somewhat god-like, as vistas open and pretty much paint themselves—in that I can see the image before teasing it out of the paper with ink and colours. Th at’s the stage at which the vision we talked about earlier really takes over. Th ese images are inevitably more exciting, more unexpected and more powerful than anything I could have dreamed up as a preparatory sketch. All I have to do is follow the lead, and transform the potential of the natural, spontaneous patterns; a landscape scene, complete with all its mountains and vales, mists and clouds, cli ff s and gorges, emerges naturally out of the random markings. In that sense, what I am doing is essentially similar to being a medium—and some might respond that such a claim would be appropriate for something that is neither well-done nor rare. G Hmm. I think we’ll pass over that last bit. But the process sounds like fun! But is it really as random as you suggest? Surely your accumulated experience, not to mention your subconscious motives, have a big impact on what actually happens in the pro- cess? I’m also intrigued by the concept of ‘ fi nishing’ a painting. How do you decide when that point is reached? M To deal with the second question fi rst, Alexander Calder was once asked when he knew a work was fi nished. He replied something to the e ff ect of, ‘When my wife tells me dinner is ready.’ For me it is when it has reached the stage where it does not need anything added to make it exciting—to me, that is. I may still add some layers or details, but not because it needs them to be fi nished. It is di ffi cult to de fi ne, but I just know when it reaches the happy stage where I can say, ‘Right, that’s it. Now it works the way I need it to.’ From then on, anything I care to add is for the fun of it, rather than necessary to make it work. As to the fi rst question, you’re right, but they’re balanced by ever-growing control over how to keep it random, so to speak. It’s a bit like meditation in that respect; in some ways it’s not about clearing the mind, but about being a witness to what’s hap- pening in it and choosing how to react. Th e more intriguing art and its underlying processes become, the less susceptible they are to precise, binary description. Th at is, of course, as it should be, and a vital part of the artistic process in altering conscious- ness. G Does it work every time? Are you in su ffi cient control to ensure that you always get a fi nished piece of art that you’re happy with? M It didn’t at fi rst! I have in both my studios—one in Hong Kong, one in Sussex— a trunk of un fi nished works where the inspiration ran out before I could capture the magic successfully, or where joint painting sessions with drunken friends le ft me with a studio full of messed-up sheets of paper the following morning. Some would be used to light the fi re, others put in the trunk for future use. Th ese days, it tends to work whenever I decide to keep at it, as long as I keep drunken friends out of the studio! Th e reason something gets set aside these days is because of a complete de fi ciency in the ‘artist’s block’ department. In China, artists with a drinking problem tended to be those who couldn’t drink because it a ff ected them badly. Getting drunk enough to free the inhibitions was never a problem. Many artists face periods of a lack of inspiration or motivation, perhaps most famously writers and their writer’s block; they slip into the aesthetic doldrums and lose momentum. I have quite the opposite problem, in that my process doesn’t need an idea to kick-start it; it just needs the urge to paint. Th at’s usually there in any case, but if not, all I have to do is lay out a sheet of paper and wham! I’m through the portal into the realm of art, the world of . . . what- ever you choose. So halfway through something exciting enough to chase to a fi nish, I o ft en get an idea arising out of it that I want to explore. One painting goes into the trunk un fi nished, and the next takes over. It is a bit scattershot and disorganised, but it’s still exciting, and it’s a vital part of the process of seeing what happens rather than dictating it. G So what happens to all the un fi nished works? Do you remember them individually if and when you revisit them, or are you starting anew? M Th e more recent ones, from the past decade or so, can be rebooted any time, and I do spend some time going back through them and seeing which inspire me to continue. I do tend to see them afresh a ft er they have been tucked away for a while, and I o ft en have better skills to deal with them—more experience of what works and what doesn’t, and how to take them further to reach their potential. O ft en, too, much earlier un fi nished paintings can be surprising. Something that perhaps should have been burnt as a failure twenty years ago can become very intriguing again, and o ft en very di ff erent from the work I’m currently doing. So again, the unexpected fi res the process. It’s worth saying that whether the paper I’m working on has earlier markings or is a clean sheet started afresh, the underlying approach to the process is always the same. Another advantage of this is that I am never locked into the original format or shape. Many of my handscrolls, perhaps my favourite formats, started life as rec- tangular sheets of paper; but ended up being cut into strips, reorganised and fi tted together as long, horizontal images to be played with a bit at a time—a real journey through the landscape, or whatever the subject is. G Ah, scissors! I’ve noticed that a lot of your works are collages. Is there a Chinese tradition at work here, or is this the western in fl uence rearing its head? M Th ere were three di ff erent reasons for using scissors. I think the fi rst arose out of the trunk of ‘rejects’ in Sussex, where I lived and painted on and o ff from 1990 – 2008 . Th ere were all these sheets of paper with colourful, abstract, random markings on them, and collages seemed an excellent way of using the more exciting bits. One good example is a series of three pictures which together tell a story about a mystic who