How a Single Brushstroke Contains the Whole Universe
A dot may occupy very little paper, yet change the whole painting. The space around it can be just as active. I explored this relationship through Daoist and Zen Buddhist ideas in a lecture in Vienna on 9 January 2026, at the celebration of Wolfgang Kubin’s 80th birthday.
The central question is simple: How can a single dot contain meaning, energy and even a sense of the entire cosmos, while the surrounding emptiness becomes an equally active part of the painting?
I was well prepared, though nervous at first. I wasn’t sure whether the audience would connect with the topic. Fortunately, they did. What follows is a condensed version of the lecture, with a few exercises that may help make the ideas visible. BACOPA’s photographs from the event record the occasion.
The Creative Dot and the Primal Force of Daoism
Wolfgang Kubin and I once realized that we share a strong affinity for Daoism and Zen. When he suggested we present together on his birthday, “the dot and emptiness” quickly became our subject. My concern here is Daoist philosophy and its relevance to painting, rather than a survey of religious practice.
I hope these exercises change the way you look at a dot in Chinese painting or calligraphy. They offer a way into xieyi (写意, xiěyì), where the quality of a brushstroke matters as much as what it depicts.
A dot looks small and manageable; the space around it seems to have no clear boundary. What connects them? In the reading of Chinese painting I am proposing here, making a mark means giving form to a world of relationships. Let’s begin with a practical exercise.
What makes a weak dot? It seems to sit on the surface without weight or purpose, as though it could be blown away. A convincing dot feels anchored. Its strength comes from the way it is made and from its relationship with the paper around it.
Creating a Dot
Imagine holding a brush with both hands. One hand pushes left while the other pushes right; one pulls back while the other presses forward. Imagine upward and downward forces as well, held in balance. This is a mental exercise, not a demand to use two hands when writing. Concentrate those opposing movements at the brush tip, then let it meet the paper.
For me, the exercise gives the dot an internal tension before it has even taken shape. I relate this interplay of opposing forces to yin and yang (阴阳, yīnyáng). The philosophical idea becomes something I can test through the hand.
The Dot as Cosmos and the Gate to Emptiness
To speak of the cosmos within a dot is a philosophical image, not a claim about its physical size. A small mark can suggest the same interplay of movement, stillness and relationship that we encounter on a much larger scale.
Take the brush again. Our task is to give the dot a convincing shape without making the movement stiff. With practice, technique becomes less intrusive. This is where I find a connection with wu wei (无为, wúwéi): action that proceeds without unnecessary forcing.
Here is one way of forming the dot. The tip touches the paper, lifts slightly, then takes pressure again as it moves around a small curve. Release the pressure and return towards the starting point. The diagram traces this movement; it is not a rule for every dot or script.
In this exercise, I understand the dot as a circular movement condensed into a small mark. The finished ink may be solid, while the movement that makes it traces an enclosing line. Dot, line, circle and open space become ways of thinking about one gesture. This brings me to wanwu (万物, wànwù), the “ten thousand things,” or the multiplicity of the world. The term appears in the Daodejing, including chapter 42.[1]
From Dot to Enso
Enlarge that circular movement and we arrive at the ensō (円相; Chinese: 圆相, yuánxiàng), the brush-painted circle familiar from Japanese Zen. It can suggest enlightenment, cyclic existence or emptiness. Its meaning is not fixed, and its inscription may connect it with something as ordinary as eating a sweet and drinking tea.[2]
An ensō is often made in one continuous stroke. Changes in pressure, speed and ink remain visible, sometimes leaving a gap or a dry, broken edge. That directness interests me: the painter cannot hide every hesitation behind elaborate detail. It need not be a certificate of spiritual attainment to make us look closely. The dot gathers a movement into a compact form; the ensō lets that movement open out.
Emptiness and the Power of Leaving Space
The ensō helps me approach emptiness through a visible example. Its center is not painted, but it is shaped by the surrounding stroke. In a painting, an untouched area can similarly become a place of tension, distance or rest.
Buddhist emptiness (śūnyatā; 空, kōng) needs a distinction here. In Madhyamaka thought, it concerns the absence of independent, intrinsic existence; it does not simply mean a vacant surface or a storehouse full of possibilities.[3] When I call unpainted space “full,” I am describing its pictorial potential, not defining Buddhist doctrine.
In painting, open space can give the image depth, rhythm and movement. It directs the eye, builds tension and offers release. When I speak of qi (气, qì), I am thinking of the vitality carried by the brushwork and its continuation through the composition. A pause between marks can be as expressive as a mark itself.
The deliberate use of unpainted space is often called liubai (留白, liúbái), “leaving white.” Its shape matters. A narrow interval may press two forms together; a broad opening may let them breathe. Looking at these intervals changes our understanding of the painted forms as well.
I find it useful to give the unpainted paper as much attention as the ink. This is an approach to composition, rather than a quotation from Laozi. Chapter 28 of the Daodejing contains 知其白，守其黑 (zhī qí bái, shǒu qí hēi), which may be rendered “know the white, keep to the black.” Its philosophical context should not be reduced to an instruction about painting. Chapter 11 offers a more direct analogy: a vessel is useful because of the space it encloses.[1]
Dot and Emptiness in Liang Kai’s Li Bai Strolling
A painting makes these relationships easier to examine than an abstract definition does. We can ask where the ink gives the image weight, where the eye pauses and how much of a figure the paper is allowed to complete.
During the lecture, I used Liang Kai’s Li Bai Strolling, also titled The Poet Li Bai Chanting a Poem on a Stroll. The Southern Song painting belongs to the Tokyo National Museum.[4] I read it as a meeting of Liang Kai’s association with Chan painting and Li Bai’s Daoist affinities, rather than treating either man as the representative of a whole philosophy.
Notice the concentrated black of the hair beside the lightly drawn face. The robe is established with a few broad and narrow strokes, while much of its interior remains untouched. That unpainted area belongs both to the clothing and to the paper around it. The red seal introduces another weight near the top. Rather than filling the sheet, Liang Kai lets these few accents hold the space together.
A Final Experiment
Try one final thought experiment. Look at the figure as a large, imaginary brush gesture. Li Bai’s dark hair becomes the place where the brush first gathers its weight. Follow the robe down, then return through the open space within and around it. This is my way of reading the image, not a reconstruction of Liang Kai’s actual brush sequence.
Now look again without following the figure’s outline. Does your eye settle on the hair, the lifted face, the almost unpainted robe—or the space beside it? The image remains the same, but the balance shifts with our attention.
Examples of the brushwork discussed here can be found in my Chinese Calligraphy portfolio, from traditional characters to painted and experimental forms.
Footnotes
[1] Daodejing, chapters 11, 28 and 42: the usefulness of enclosed space, the white/black passage and wanwu. These references inform the comparison; the brush exercise is my own teaching approach.
[2] The Asian Art Museum’s discussion of an ensō by Nantenbō explains several possible meanings of the circle and the everyday associations of its inscription.
[3] Jan Westerhoff, Nāgārjuna, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, section 2, on emptiness and intrinsic existence.
[4] The LACMA exhibition checklist for Chinese Paintings from Japanese Collections lists Liang Kai’s The Poet Li Bai Chanting a Poem on a Stroll, lent by the Tokyo National Museum.
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