Understanding Zen Aesthetics in Painting and Calligraphy
Zen has influenced the arts of East Asia in many different ways, but “Zen art” should not be understood as a single style. A painting does not become Zen simply because it is minimal, monochrome or spontaneous. More interesting is the attitude behind the work: attention to the present moment, reduction of unnecessary elements, acceptance of imperfection and an awareness of the relationship between form and emptiness. These qualities can be found in painting, calligraphy, poetry, garden design and many other artistic practices.
The expression “Zen moment” is often used as a label for relaxation. That troubles me when it turns Zen into a consumer product, much as I feel can happen with feng shui (風水). My interest lies elsewhere.
Zen is the Japanese reading of the Chinese Chan (禪, simplified 禅). The name ultimately derives from the Sanskrit dhyāna, meaning meditation. Chan zong (禪宗 / 禅宗) names the Chan school. For a fuller account, see the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy’s introduction to Japanese Zen.
I do not claim that my view is the only correct one. I hope it helps explain my pictures. When I speak of Zen here, I am not thinking of incense sticks, YouTube Reiki music or herbal tea.
Zen and Painting
The relationship between Zen and Chinese painting is historically complex. Chan Buddhism, which developed in China and later became known as Zen in Japan, interacted with artistic traditions that had already been shaped by Chinese philosophy, calligraphy and ideas about nature. Painters associated with Chan, such as Liang Kai and Mu Qi, became famous for works in which a few decisive brushstrokes could suggest far more than they explicitly described. Their paintings demonstrate that reduction does not necessarily mean poverty of expression. On the contrary, what is omitted can become as important as what is shown.
What draws me to Zen is attention to the present. The past cannot be changed, and the future is uncertain. In meditation, I try to let the horde of frolicking monkeys in my head settle and become more fully present. Sometimes it is difficult, and it does not always work. When it does, the experience is hard to put into words. Painting is one way I try to approach it.
Empty Space
Empty space is one of the most striking features associated with East Asian ink painting, but it should not automatically be interpreted as “Zen emptiness.” Unpainted paper can serve many purposes: it may suggest mist, water, distance or atmosphere; it may separate forms or create compositional tension. At the same time, emptiness can acquire philosophical significance by allowing the image to remain open and incomplete. The viewer is invited to participate rather than being shown everything.
The following imagined childhood scenes may help explain what I mean by a “Zen moment”. I offer them as images of undivided attention, rather than definitions of Buddhist awakening.
Zen Moments
1) Imagine yourself as a baby in a cot. You hear a sound, and suddenly your father is there, smiling. You know what comes next: he lifts you into the air, swings you around and gathers you to his chest. That complete absorption is what I am trying to evoke.
2) You are eight or nine. Your best friend wants to go swimming, and perhaps you will catch a fish. Early in the morning, you step into the garden. Dew glistens on a spider’s web. You realise you are on holiday and the whole day is yours. A neighbour’s rooster gives its cock-a-doodle-doo, as if to confirm it. For that moment, you are completely there.
3) You are on a swing. It rises to its highest point, then pauses for an instant before returning. That brief suspension is another image I use for a “Zen moment”.
Zen in My Art
In my work, this means concentrating on the gesture, leaving empty space active and resisting the urge to correct every irregularity. Ink records the physical action of the brush directly. Once a stroke is made, I have to respond to it. More examples are collected in Zen Paintings: The Art of Emptiness.
Zen Can Be Funny, Too
I know what everyone is asking now: can a donkey have a Zen moment too? 🙂
Of course. He stands on his hind legs, gathers momentum and jumps. Just before he comes down, there is his Zen moment. I tried to catch this thought in a rough sketch: the donkey and his suspended instant. Simple enough—in theory.
I probably succeeded best in capturing this moment in landscape painting. One of the early attempts was this:
By May 2022, roughly thirty years after the donkey sketch, I was returning to the subject through more complex pictures. These first two details from a larger painting come close to what I mean by a “Zen moment”.
Another part of the same painting shows its lines of force. They set movement, power and noise against quieter passages. Think back to the moment of suspension on the swing. [1]
Here is the painting as a whole. I hope the details make its apparent chaos easier to read. The second row of brown marks echoes the mountain range and creates another sense of space. We seem to look down on those marks while looking towards the mountains. Still confusing? Try the shift of viewpoint described in the second note. [2]
Chinese calligraphy is essential to this work. Without practising it, I could not approach these moments in painting. The three examples below show different ways a brush can give a character movement and balance.
Zen as an Artistic Attitude
For me, Zen matters less as a set of recognisable symbols than as an attitude towards making a picture. Simplicity still asks for care; a spontaneous stroke draws on practice.
Perhaps the hardest part is knowing when to stop. I make a mark, respond to it and eventually leave the work alone. What remains unexplained gives the viewer room to enter.
Footnotes
[1] I have written before about the importance of dots. At Sunnyside – Where Truth and Beauty Meet was kind enough to reblog that piece. ↩
[2] Try imagining that you are floating a few hundred metres above the ground, a little higher than the pinkish-brown marks. Moving away from a frontal view lets an abstract layer of the picture interact with the landscape.
That layer also has its own relationships. Follow a line of force through the painting and notice how far it takes your eye. The movement can make the scene feel close and powerful, almost too large for the picture.
The quieter area at the upper left provides a counterpoint. A few more strokes might turn it into a lifelike bird, which some viewers may expect. But for me, doing so would weaken the balance. ↩
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