Chinese Calligraphy After the Poet Tang Yin
Chinese New Year brought me to Chinese television in 2021, writing a New Year couplet. This time I wanted to begin the Western New Year with calligraphy too. I chose a poem by Tang Yin (唐寅, 1470–1524). He is neither my favourite poet nor my favourite calligrapher, but his work gave me a useful starting point after a long break from serious practice. I made several versions for the pleasure of it: a small gesture to begin the year.
Chinese friends often respond to my calligraphy with generous admiration. I appreciate it, though their kindness is not quite the same as a critical assessment.
How do I see it myself? Imagine little John playing Beethoven’s Für Elise for his grandmother’s eightieth birthday. Grandma is moved to tears; his parents are proud as turkeys. But John has heard Sviatoslav Richter, Friedrich Gulda and Alexis Weissenberg. He knows there is a world between his playing and theirs. That is rather how I feel with a brush in my hand.
But who cares?
Other people spend their time fishing, and some come home without a catch. I spend mine doing calligraphy. It need not lead to mastery to be worthwhile. For me, it is also a form of meditation: a way of practising patience and perseverance, and of paying attention to how I think.
Mastery takes discipline and time—a great deal of time. Can someone who is not Chinese become a good Chinese calligrapher? I believe so. When I was young and more Japanese students began studying music in Vienna, I remember hearing doubts along the lines of “A Japanese musician playing Schubert?” I never liked those artificial boundaries. Listening to Mitsuko Uchida play Mozart is answer enough for me.
And for Chinese calligraphy?
In my experience, many Western viewers are drawn to Chinese calligraphy, but their interest can falter when they cannot read it. Yet reading every word is not the only way to approach a work. During my time at the Academy in Beijing, I was lucky enough to meet Li Keran (李可染). He told me that, as a young student with little money, he had once borrowed from several people to buy a calligraphy he admired. Only years later did he understand its text. The story has stayed with me.
The Poem
The characters in these versions are comparatively legible. Understanding the poem is another matter: recognising words is not the same as following their associations. Here is the text I wrote:
白华垂柳弄新晴，紫背浮萍细点生。三月寻芳骑凤侣，一时齐唱踏莎行。
收灯院落伤栖燕，细雨楼台湿啭莺。莫问东君诉恩怨，自来春梦不分明。
A loose English rendering of the text above:
White blossoms and drooping willows play in the newly cleared light;
purple-backed duckweed appears in tiny dots.
In the third month, companions seek the spring flowers,
singing Treading the Grass together.
In the courtyard, the lanterns put away, nesting swallows stir sorrow;
fine rain wets the singing orioles by the terraces.
Do not turn to the Lord of Spring with grievances:
spring dreams have never been clear.
Why am I telling this?
This is why I find calligraphy such a demanding subject. Even a dot has a direction, a weight and a place within the character. Some characters need only a few strokes; others require many. Each must hold together, and then the characters must work in relation to one another.
I return to the comparison with music. There are the scales and finger exercises, and there is what gradually becomes possible through them. For now, I have these different attempts at the same poem—and plenty of reason to go on practising.
Related articles
Chinese TV Invited Me to Write a New Year Couplet · Chinese Calligraphy · Dao in Chinese Poetry: Li Bai and Du Fu
Explore Art & Writing
Art Portfolio → Featured Artworks → Arts & Philosophy Journal → All Articles
Explore Asian Art Essays for writing on Chinese painting, calligraphy, aesthetics and art history.
Available Artworks
Original works are available on FriedrichZettl.com and Saatchi Art
Leave a Reply