Painting the Dao

71 ak10.37 Lost behind the Stone Ink and watercolour on cotton paper, mounted for framing 211 × 95 cm, Bangkok, spring 2010 Ten artist seals 水松石山房 Shuisongshi shanfang (Water, Pine and Stone Retreat; two different seals) 攜杖老人 Xiezhang laoren (Old man who carries the staff ) 人磨墨墨磨人 Renmomo momoren (Man grinds the ink; ink grinds the man) 无爲 Wuwei (Without action) 有意无意 Youyi wuyi (Between intention and no intention) 金石壽 Jinshi shou (Indefinite life) 一二三 Yi er san (One, two, three) 意外之喜 Yiwai zhixi (Happy accident) 偶然得之 Ouran dezhi (Achieved by accident) inscr iption When a strategy fails it is time to either abandon it or lift it to a higher level. As an artist one faces this dilemma all the time. Every brushstroke opens up myriad possibilities. Every painting seems to transform one’s art. The brush is merely something you cling to because you can’t do it alone. The stone is beyond question. It is the largest stone I ever managed to lug back to my abode, although I had the serendipitous help of several visiting staff masters, one of whom owned a particularly powerful anti-gravity staff, which helped. Too large by far for a studio stone, we placed it after a little judicious use of the chisel outside the house where we could gaze on it every morning as we strolled to the edge of the brook to get water for tea. It was an hour-stone, changing subtly as the day progressed, its shadows tickling the imagination as the day slipped towards dusk, taking intention with it. I have left so many houses high in the mountains over the years, but not long ago I went back to one in the mountains of Shu and found there a painting I had done of the stone at the time. It had darkened but was largely undamaged so I added this inscription to record my delight. A pool of purple blood bleeds into the studio. I suspect it is a noble ruyi , but in fact it is not a ruyi at all, other than symbolically. I once lived with the Three-toothed Hermit, although by the time I met him he had only two; the third was lost in an unfortunate incident with a turnip. I forget how many decades I spent with him, but every few years I would declare it his birthday and carve him a ruyi sceptre from the fragments of ancient trees that surrounded his mountain home [. . .] At the Garden at the Edge of the Universe, Bangkok, ’10. Given our circumstances as recluses without a particularly powerful walking staff, it was difficult to gather large stones, but at the walking-staff symposium there were many willing hands. We managed to drag back from other mountains the largest stones I have ever had the pleasure to edit with my chisel. I really like the way the words disappear. Very decent of them and appreciated. [The text block bottom left is illegible in parts and is not transcribed above.]