Hou Qing 侯庆

Hou Qing 侯庆

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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侯庆，1969年4月生于湖北，1987年就学于湖北黄冈师范学院美术系，1989年任教于湖北美术学院黄冈教育学院，1991年进修于中央美术学院油画系。

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https://baike.baidu.com/item/%E4%BE%AF%E5%BA%86

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牡丹亭记

 

鲍勃·迪伦获得了今年的诺贝尔文学奖，IBM的人工智能读了他的所有书写，总结出十个字：“流逝的光阴，枯萎的爱情”。

有什么深刻性？这是每一个存在的人都切身感受的，它不是某时某刻的感受，而是会萦绕你的一生。在我们最简单的感动中，可能有着最深刻的触痛。

说昆曲，第一反应是《牡丹亭》，为什么不是其它，如《怜香伴》？

舞台是用来做梦的地方，比起反映现实，思考人生，梦想永远是舞台上主流中的主流。《牡丹亭》差不多就是好莱坞标准的爱情类型剧。这类剧式的结果不外乎公主与王子终于走在了一起，幸福的生活。如果是悲剧，二人也死在一起了，等着有一天双双化蝶，浪漫的空间是一定要给的。

过去我以为这类剧式是给年轻人憧憬爱情之用的，后来发现它还有一个功能，让成年人在流逝的光阴中怀念青春。

试想汤显祖坐在台下，舞台上柳梦梅正唱着“则为你如花美眷，似水流年”，他感动的一定是他的青春，爱情在绽放。这类剧情不需要深刻，梦，不需要深刻，有浪漫和美就够了，有一颗做梦的心就能说明你的存在与幸福。

汤显祖的梦本不止这一曲《牡丹亭》，他还有《紫钗记》、《邯郸记》、《南柯记》，合为临川四梦。只是那三梦并不如《牡丹亭》那么单纯，那么美。人类最简单的梦想可能反倒是最永恒的，它不渴望成长，也无关成熟。

2010年，一个偶然，我遇到了天帅，她把我带入《牡丹亭》，带入昆曲，于是我有了这批六年多的昆曲题材的作品，在这里我不关心深刻，想展示的也只是青春的美丽与光阴的流逝。

 

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古今•雅俗

采访人：周劼人

 

『这组作品想要表达的一个主题，就是‘不变’和‘相通’』

 

周劼人（后文简称“周”）：乍一看，您的这组作品虽然名为《牡丹亭》，但似乎表达的是古和今两种内容。为什么要作这种跨越古今的对比和表达？
侯庆（后文简称“侯”）：我的目的并非这种跨越，更不是“穿越”，也不想做什么“对比”。我也问你个问题，你去书店买书，看到过政治史、思想史、科学史、技术史，甚至艺术史，你有没有看过哪本“爱情史”？没有或者很少吧，即使有，估计也并非严肃的学术著作。这是为什么？

我相信科学技术的发展是一代胜过一代的，但如果有人用进化论的逻辑来试图撰写爱情故事史，估计最后得出的结论会是“反进化论”的。我一直相信，很多人文领域的东西，比如爱情、亲情、友情，以及用来表达这些人文内容的载体，比如艺术，很多时候是不会“进步”的。换句话说，现代人在“感情”问题上，并不比古人更丰富、更高明，古人有的七情六欲我们都有，现代人有的情感烦恼，古人也早已经历过。

我的这组作品想要表达的其中一个主题，就是这种“不变”和“相通”。

 

周：汤显祖在《牡丹亭》开篇即说，“情不知所起，一往而深，生者可以死，死可以生”，这让《牡丹亭》几百年来一直被奉为理想爱情的典范。您是不是认为这种“情”、这种“爱情”，是古今不变的？用网络上流行的话说，您是想表达“人们又相信爱情了”？
侯：《牡丹亭》的故事你应该不陌生，《牡丹亭》的昆曲你估计也看了不下百遍，甚至，跟《牡丹亭》相似的爱情故事更是汗牛充栋，但为什么人们听不厌、看不腻，甚至今天银屏上上演的青春偶像爱情剧，依然“粉丝”众多？因为爱情的美好在一遍又一遍打动同一个人，在打动一代又一代不同的人。

说回到这组作品，《牡丹亭》也好，这组画作也好，想表现的都是20岁左右的少女，在初恋时表现出的一种思念、一种萌动。这种状态，也是我所接触过的、所有这个年纪的女孩身上，基本都具备的一种美的诱惑力。通过这种爱情中的状态，我们也可以发现人类情感古今相通的现象。

人物画都倾向于大众化，需要一个大众化的理解，并不需要很深刻。如同看《蒙娜丽莎》，觉得“味道”很美好，就足够了，不需要更深刻的挖掘，更不需要故作深沉的“附会”。杜丽娘也好，都市女孩也罢，那种古今相通初恋的可爱如果你能感受到，作品的逻辑关系你就体会到了。

 

周：但其实《牡丹亭》里的“情”是不真实的，柳梦梅并不真实存在，他是杜丽娘的臆想，所以这种古今相通的少女的美好情愫，我理解是“一个人的爱情”。
侯：我几乎每次和人聊《牡丹亭》时，都会讲起高中班里那个女生的故事，她中途插班，又默默离开，在班上没有知心朋友，但后来突然再次出现，却是与一个从不相熟的男生“倾诉衷肠”。而我后来见到她时，她竟也会微笑着，却莫名其妙地认为，我“一直在等她”。

把两个故事相提并论，是不是有辱先贤？其实，如果把两个故事并列起来看，就不难发现所谓的“爱情”“浪漫”很多时候也是不美好的。那种情窦初开时的情绪和感受，如果“痴心正付”，那自然成就的是花前月下、花好月圆；但如果无处抒发，后果可能就不那么妙了——杜丽娘相思而亡，女同学精神失常。

“一个人的爱情”的另一层意思，也可以是指“汤显祖一个人的爱情”。

汤显祖四十八岁辞官，写了《牡丹亭》。作为一个处在同样年龄段的人，从牡丹亭里，我看到也体会到了一个近五十岁的男人对二十岁那个年龄段的青春美好的怀想，他想表达的不光是爱情本身，还有一个渐渐老去的文人，在观望青春，回望青春时的一种感动。

当然我相信汤显祖的本意不希望人们从这一角度来理解，我也不希望画作把观众引向这个方向。作为读者，我只是能依稀感受到汤显祖在《牡丹亭》中微妙的情感；作为画家，我很用心地画她们，但这种“用心”不等同于“认真”，这种“用心”在专业人士眼里未必能看到，但也许敏感的人，能体会到。我读汤显祖的《牡丹亭》，观众看我的《牡丹亭》，总有些际遇、感触是相通的。

 

『雅和俗的关系就好比风筝和线风筝，断了线，无疑是危险的』

 

周：今天细细来读《牡丹亭》，会发现“领口松、衣衫解，袖稍搵着牙儿佔”这样的词句。虽然您也介绍了《牡丹亭》产生的时代背景，但不少今人还是愿意解释其为“对爱情纯洁的想象”，仿佛承认这里涉及情欲，会有损于牡丹亭大雅的形象。再看您的作品，又恰恰将杜丽娘与都市女性放在了一起，在一般人印象中，前者无论古今都是雅文化的代表，后者都市女性的题材则又总和欲望、俗艳之类的印象关联。所以您作为创作者，是不是有意在凸显这种雅俗的对比？又怎么看待大雅的“情”和大俗的“欲”之间的关系？

 

侯：首先，我不想做这种对比，昆曲和都市女性题材，并没有雅俗的区别，都只是为了表现“少女美好的情感”。

其次，一提到昆曲就认为是过去的“雅文化”，这也是一种误读。无论是昆曲，还是唐诗宋词，在当时也是大众文化。今天看到流传下来的”经典”，是从当年大量的具有实用功能的作品中”提纯”出来的，也可以说是从”世俗”中进化而来的。为什么唐诗宋词、元曲杂剧成为了不可复制和逾越的高峰？因为作为基础的大量的”俗”已经不存在了，空中楼阁只能是海市蜃楼。

所以不要把雅和俗对立起来、割裂开来。雅和俗的关系就好比风筝和线，雅文化上天，俗文化接地，如果风筝断了线，那么雅文化就失去了基础和归宿，这无疑是危险的。

就《牡丹亭》而言，在一般读者理解中，不知所起的”情”就是雅的，而”欲念”则被划入俗的范畴，所以总想为这种矛盾和冲突的两面同时存在于一部作品中，来找一个理由。但我认为，两者同时存在一个故事中恰恰是合理的。为什么我总爱把牡丹亭和我们班上女同学的故事一起讲，为什么我要把古今的女孩一起画，因为她们的”情”其实都包含了”欲”，包含了人的动物性需求。一个由民间故事经过加工、提纯、再创作而来的戏剧作品，其中的“欲念”和“动物性需求”正好是“接地气”的表现，正好是它不会“不食人间烟火”、代代相传成为经典的原因。因为没有欲念、柏拉图式的”情”在现实中并不存在，“空中楼阁”是无法真正走入人心的。
侯：首先，我不想做这种对比，昆曲和都市女性题材，并没有雅俗的区别，都只是为了表现“少女美好的情感”。

其次，一提到昆曲就认为是过去的“雅文化”，这也是一种误读。无论是昆曲，还是唐诗宋词，在当时也是大众文化。今天看到流传下来的”经典”，是从当年大量的具有实用功能的作品中”提纯”出来的，也可以说是从”世俗”中进化而来的。为什么唐诗宋词、元曲杂剧成为了不可复制和逾越的高峰？因为作为基础的大量的”俗”已经不存在了，空中楼阁只能是海市蜃楼。

所以不要把雅和俗对立起来、割裂开来。雅和俗的关系就好比风筝和线，雅文化上天，俗文化接地，如果风筝断了线，那么雅文化就失去了基础和归宿，这无疑是危险的。

就《牡丹亭》而言，在一般读者理解中，不知所起的”情”就是雅的，而”欲念”则被划入俗的范畴，所以总想为这种矛盾和冲突的两面同时存在于一部作品中，来找一个理由。但我认为，两者同时存在一个故事中恰恰是合理的。为什么我总爱把牡丹亭和我们班上女同学的故事一起讲，为什么我要把古今的女孩一起画，因为她们的”情”其实都包含了”欲”，包含了人的动物性需求。一个由民间故事经过加工、提纯、再创作而来的戏剧作品，其中的“欲念”和“动物性需求”正好是“接地气”的表现，正好是它不会“不食人间烟火”、代代相传成为经典的原因。因为没有欲念、柏拉图式的”情”在现实中并不存在，“空中楼阁”是无法真正走入人心的。
周：那您觉得，是否应该给“雅”和“俗”一个价值判断？

 

侯：俗与欲都有一个共通的“谷”字。谷，食也。民以食为天，民以食为生。因此，说俗与欲是立命之本我想并不为过。

但我们常常以批判的态度去对待俗的存在，原因在于我们对欲的矛盾心态。就个体而言，我们都有欲求与欲而不达的苦恼，另一方面，作为群体而言，很多个体的欲求常常又是人与人产生矛盾的最本质的原因。所以人们试图通过对雅的追求，来解决俗欲带来的问题，所谓得中和雅正者，神恬气静，令人顿消其躁妄之气，心归宁静。然而这只能是一个美好的愿望，因为俗与欲是立命之本，雅好不过是在掩盖它、淡化它，转移视线而己。因此雅好一定具有某种虚伪的特征，只是这种”虚伪”对俗欲的淡化和掩饰，对于个体的人类社会都是十分必需的。

说到这里我又想起一件事，记得还在学生时代，一日友人与我谈男女之事，我不作回应，友立喝我虚伪，至今记忆尤新。“假面具”成为某种看似深刻的批判对象，实际上，更多的时候，面具不是出于虚伪，而是人们不得不掩盖的矛盾两面性。要展示真实的自我、真实的世界，一定要展示真实的两面性，我相信任何人、事都是具有两面性的，只是我们常常只看到一面的表达。其实，正确还是错误，往往取决于时间与地点的选择。那些批判面具背后阴暗灵魂的艺术家，是否会正视自己也拥有同样的灵魂。仔细观察，那些面具下面被斥为虚伪和恶浊的德行，或许不过是人性被压制和扭曲的无奈。换一个时空，也许评价会大不一样，那种批判式的话语通常会让人感到肤浅。分析和感悟背后的更深背景逻辑，才是真正的人文关怀。

 

周：说到”情”和”欲”，提到”雅”和”俗”，我注意到一个有意思的趋势。十多年前，您举办过一个较有影响力的画展，那一系列作品叫《流水观印》，采用油画形式表现中国文人画的典型题材——荷。后来又有一个系列叫《琵琶记》，虽然标题和部分创作灵感都源于白居易《琵琶行》，但内容却以都市人物为主。是不是可以概括说，前者是大雅，后者是大俗，而这一次的牡丹亭系列，却有雅有俗。这种趋势的变化是一种偶然，还是有内在的思想发展逻辑的？这种逻辑是什么？
侯：荷的题材从1994年开始画，到2004年举办第一个个展，可谓十年磨一剑；2007年的《流水观印》是这一题材的第三个个展。展览之前我就意识到，该说的都说得差不多了，问题是境界太古典，还是传统文人所谓“去欲”的清雅之谈，而这种受“程朱理学”影响的文人精神与当今时代是相悖的。就好比如果“采菊东蓠下”是陶渊明的全部，那他就不具有人文价值；如果这种境界是人生的全部，也便是生命的错误。

纵观画坛，无论是早期林风眠时代的“中体西用”说还是后来的“西体中用”说，融合说，我们都在传统中国雅文化与传统西方雅文化中去寻求融合。这种古典的融合，就技术而言是极具挑战性的。我学西画，从古典到印象己焦头烂额；为融入中国传统，又重拾书法，专攻北齐，还在汗牛充栋的中国画学理论中翻寻，十年一晃，收获了了。更大的问题是，几个展览后，我发现我的画面气质、整体精神诉求，与百年前的传统文人并无新境。而且支撑融合观的新儒家文化逻辑，也已随着亚洲四小龙经济的放缓而开始广受怀疑。

于是，我开始重新审视雅俗的互动关系。雅化的追求因其距离生活较远，常常会因缺少活力而走向僵化，很难开出新生命。倒是俗文化，因其离生活更近，将其中鲜活、生动、极具感染力的部分，进行重新审视和提升，或许有不一样的结果。

这种怀疑也使我是对“欲”的态度发生了改变。一直以来，我们对理学的批评就在其“存天理，去人欲”的命题。但画学近千年来受理学影响下，宁静、悠远，空灵、淡逸却成为了被奉为圭臬的境界追求。对这些境界的追求是不是也已经不符合这个时代了呢？

俗话说，“矫枉过正”，于是我希望用一些作品来“反思”和“审视”之前努力的方向，于是就有了《琵琶记》，人物画本身就更大众化一些，而这个题材要表达的内容也有同样方向的探索。

 

周：为什么会选择用《琵琶记》这样的主题？

 

侯：从中学时代起，闲来无聊时我就会随处写“座中泣下谁最多，江州司马青衫湿”。这一句写了十几年、数千遍，慢慢地从无意的行为中竟寻出了某种感动——我开始意识到，白居易也好，天下的文人也罢，甚至古今的文人，大家都是德行了了。

为什么这么说？

白居易见琵琶女能感叹“同是天涯论落人，相逢何必曾相识”，这是一种俗情，比起他在诗界主张教化思想，在诗境构思上求浅求俗，更俗。他之所以有这样的感慨，是因为他与琵琶女都会在得失之间感伤。这不像仙一般的李白，也不似圣一样的杜甫，但这体现出的是在雅俗之间游离的白居易的现实情怀。这种现实情怀己不再是儒家的批判与教化，而是一种无奈的人文关怀。不要轻视这种看似柔弱的人文关怀，它实际上己经传达出了士人在出世与入世之间，左右求而不得、舍又难弃的求和心态。人生的苦恼其实往往来源于这种“欲的想弃难离”。

也因此，我想到要用《琵琶记》这样的一个主题来展示这种和欲望有关的状态——不是“迷失”而是“惆怅”。

我不愿意去强化对物欲过度追求的那种纵情、迷茫与憔悴。在现实生活中，那种真正敢于抛弃一切，而放纵的追求物质与感官享乐的人凤毛麟角，尢其对于成熟的人。而对于堕落的教化更是不具有普遍性的。我想表达的是，生活的选择不是无意识的随波逐流，而是有意识的选择，就如琵琶女的回忆那样，早知今日，也要当初。这种立场看似平和，缺乏戏剧性，但却是更具有深层而广泛的人文关怀，这样的作品也更通俗易懂——在华丽的裘皮下是欲念，而在欲念的深处是惆怅。回首看不过闲度，再往前瑟瑟秋风暮己去，白居易体会到的也就是这种无奈，生命的美何不出自于这种无奈。我也希望能通过《琵琶记》这些作品，让观众感受到这种欲念。

而关于《牡丹亭》，则是“调和”的产物。雅和俗是阴阳关系，雅到极致就是俗，俗到极致便为雅，而作品最终在雅俗坐标系中的定位，也由两者的比例来决定。比如《牡丹亭》《红楼梦》《金瓶梅》，哪一部不是雅俗共赏的呢？但《金瓶梅》里欲念的成分更多，于是便被打成了“俗”文化。而另外两者由于把握得恰到好处，便极具生命力，因为精神性和物质性，两者都是一个正常人正常的诉求。

我更想表达的“调和”，则是指：在肯定欲求的同时，也该对理学的去欲给予更为深刻的理解。中国传统的思维模式常常会教人如何以变化的方式去适应复杂的社会，所谓达则兼济天下，穷则独善其身；所谓邦有道则仕，无道则隐。欲的求与去同此理也。即便时至当代，亦少有人不是身在城垣中，心慕南山下。
『看似崇俗贬雅的观念一直牵引着我们不要放弃对普通人，包括自己在俗欲之中现实情怀』

 

周：说到艺术中的俗和雅，让我想到另外一对相反相承的词——艺术家VS匠人。虽然两者从事的可能是同一种艺术门类，但却被冠以雅和俗两种天差地别的价值判断。那么从绘画上来说，您给自己的定位是两者中的哪一个？为什么？

 

侯：我一直说自己是个“画家”“画画的人”，而不是“艺术家”，不过当今不少画家的看法恐怕和我不同，他们不愿意把自己归为前者。因为前者是“有修养的匠人”，后者则是“有技术的思想者”，主体不一样，社会地位也大不一样。

中国人很早就意识到这一点 ，因此做了宰相的阎立本因为不想让子孙再被称为“画师”，所以告诫他们不可以习画；也因此中国很早就发明了彰显画家地位的画种——文人画。不仅如此，中国的其他艺术形式，比如古琴有琴师弹奏和文人演奏“文人琴”的分别，昆曲在“戏子”登台之外又有曲家拍清曲的存在形式。文人画也好，文人琴也罢，相同的地方在于，文人是志于道的，所以技术就不重要或者不是最重要的了，悟道才是根本。

这是有害的。你看中国古代的文人们，在这种思想的影响下，懒于从形而下的技术磨砺渐渐升华为形而上的道，他们更希望像禅祖惠那样“顿悟”。

这种“传统”甚至一直保留到现在，往往让一个初入门的画家，一上来就一味追求高尚的精神诉求，而不在技术上下功夫。他们似乎都忘记了“技进于道”的道理，认为在绘画领域，形而上的道、形而上的审美，可以脱离绘画这一视觉艺术本身而独立的存在。
周：西方的情况呢？也如此吗？

 

侯：西方的艺术史对这一点似乎要醒悟得慢一些，他们到了十九世纪才发现他必须提升自己的社会地位，不再甘心当一个画家，而要做艺术家。

艺术家的称谓是随西方艺术史诞生。自康德以降，艺术家被描述成拒绝他人要求，为表达自己感受而创作的人。与之对立的则是靠订单生活，为贵族和有钱人服务的匠人。

但无论中西，持这类观点的人一直忽视了一个简单的历史事实——在西方，从古希腊完美的雕塑到米开朗基罗，从伦勃朗到毕加索，艺术史中的作品都是订单下的产物，差别只是订单形式。在中国，艺也就是技，如《论语》的“游于艺”，“求也艺”；以及《庄子》的“说圣人邪，是相于艺也”。艺，都是指实用生活中的某些技巧能力。
周：我有一个问题弄不明白，古今中外，那些不为订单而活的“纯粹”的艺术家们，又是靠什么来养活自己的呢？

 

侯：我也很感兴趣，一方面我认同经济基础决定上层建筑的道理，另一方面我自己在绘画方面的艰难奋斗让我知道，现实中要靠艺术创作来生存的艰难，所以我想从我欣赏的先贤那里得到一些启发比如李白和倪瓒，他们的气质上下五千年，无人能比肩。可以稍稍研究一下就会发现，他们表面的“脱俗”背后是什么呢？李白的父亲是大富商；倪瓒家世代资雄于乡，被誉为东吴四富之一。倪瓒在父兄余荫之下得以安享前半生，待父兄离世后便落得家财散尽凄寒而死。

了解了这些之后，我彻底放弃了全盘效仿他们的艺术的努力。一方面因为这是不可复制的——清的画是他的，浊的基础是他父兄营造的；另一方面，虽然我不否认他的艺术价值，但如若世人不能分辨他们创造的艺术作品雅俗背后的“雅俗”，而一味宣扬要追求仙风道骨的境界，那是极为有害的。
周：为什么您说这是“有害”的？不受服务对象的影响而独立创作，难道不是更好、更能体现艺术的独立精神吗？当然另一方面我不明白，如果他们“遗世而独立”，那么这些所谓的“艺术家”又是通过什么方式“养活”自己呢？

 

侯：他们真的不为“订单”服务，不受他人影响吗？我认为恰恰不是。

现在的所谓“艺术家”创造出的所谓“艺术品”，走向了另一个极端——金融产品。这些作品通过金融衍生品的演绎方式，通过所谓理论家的“独到”评判，会按照金融产品的运行规律，在特定的圈子内按金融产品的定价方式、流通方式流转，但这一切早已和真正的艺术规律相差十万八千里。

通俗些说，他们不需要得到普罗大众对作品的认可，因为如果你觉得他的作品不好，那是你不懂，或者说你懂不懂对他们来说，都不那么重要，最终他们不需要你用评价绘画作品的标准，来衡量它并为之买单。他们需要打动的，需要服从的，是一些有志于将他们的作品转换成金融产品进行“运作”的人的“逻辑”。就比如某些专家已经成为金融产品链条中的一环，他们对作品进行的诠释，其实就是为金融产品建构一个复杂的理论而已。

当然，对这一切他们也有自己的道理——由于创作的主体由匠人变成了艺术家、思想家，绘画的功能也就发生了变化。他们中有人提出，“当代艺术，应该成为重建人类思想文化的重要手段”。于是，本来是视觉艺术的绘画，如今却越来越轻视视觉，作品被过分强调用于审美沉思，并越来越深度地依赖于理论诠释，所以就出现了很多让“普通人”看不懂的作品。我认为，哲学可以难以理解，但绘画却不应该让人看不懂，那些天书般的迷雾，实则源于艺术观念的混乱。而这类艺术的生命力是可想而知的，同时，那些诠释者的道德我也表示深深的怀疑。

周：从《牡丹亭》本身、从你的绘画作品、从你对自己的定位、从当今绘画界的一些现象，其实我们的探讨一直没有离开“雅”和“俗”这一对辩证的关系。那么现在来看一个最简单的问题，你希望是谁来看你的作品，你的作品又是为谁而画的？你又希望人们抱着这样的心态来欣赏它们，解读它们？

 

侯：所有人都可以来看我的作品，但我的作品就是画给普通人看的，每个人都能看得懂，都能看到自己的答案。

最后我还想告诉来参观的人，当你在选购艺术品、艺术作品时，请一定选择自己喜欢的东西。因为，它是一件艺术品，首先是供人类欣赏的；其次，才是用于思考的。

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

绘画故事

 

 

画家与艺术家

 

作为二流的画家巴尔蒂斯很烦被人称为艺术家。他在访谈中说：“我讨厌‘艺术家’这个词。当阿道克船长（《丁丁历险记》中的人物）侮辱一个人的时候，他就说：‘艺术家’！我是一位画家，再好一点一个匠人，一位用画笔和颜料等绘画工具工作的人。”

不知道是不是因为这个原因他的职称才被定为“二流”的。我身边的朋友似乎都认可这个定级，但都说不清楚道理。陈丹青也持这一标准，但所依据，似乎也只是，这是美国人的共识。看巴尔蒂斯的访谈让我重新听到与这个时代不和谐的声音。他会批评“在艺术史领域从来不缺乏白痴，但是从来没有像今天那么盛行。”我倒没有这么义愤填膺，但同巴尔蒂斯一样，希望能把画家从艺术家那样的白痴一般的称呼中拉回到匠人的位置。也许有人会说，“艺术家”这一称谓可是经过数百年的努力才获得的崇高的地位，但对于这个语焉不详的称谓，我实在觉得它是一个很糟的词。高居翰在他的《画家生涯》中表达同样观点，让艺术家回到职业画家所应该的位置。其实从来就是这样，不是下神坛，而是没有神坛。

 

 

艺术家的称谓是随西方艺术史而诞生的，而艺术史则是在欧洲，特别是德语世界，于19世纪及20世纪初建立。自康德以降，艺术家被描述成为表达自己的感受而创作，他们拒绝他人的要求，不受任何羁绊而创造著艺术。而与之对立的是靠订单生活而为人民，更多的是贵族和有钱服务的匠人，而艺术史一直在有意识地回避这样一个简单的事实，从古希腊的完美的雕塑，到米开朗基罗，从伦勃朗到毕加索，艺术史中的作品都是订单下的产物，差别只是在订单的形式上。

在中国，艺也就是技。先秦之所谓“艺”，如《论语》的“游于艺”，“求也艺”，以及《庄子》的“说圣人邪，是相于艺也”（《在宥》），“艺”字都是指实用生活中的某些技巧能力。而当今的所谓艺术，与之相近的则是庄子的技进于道的概念。

 

 

 

 

技进于道

 

一个当今画家很不愿意面对的现实，就是让他们承认，画家是一个有修养的匠人。他们更愿意称自己是一个有技术的思想者或曰艺术家，更甚者是前卫的思想者和先知。所以会有人提出，“当代艺术，应该成为重建人类思想文化的重要手段”，真是豪迈的理想。这如同是在引导艺术家，用巫师的方法去描述精神性的问题，艺术开始返祖了。

有修养的匠人与有技术的思想者，主体是不一样的。一个匠人，一个思想者，社会地位大不一样，中国人很早就意识到这一点 。当年做了宰相的大画家阎立本被人呼为画师，愤感耻辱，告诫子孙，不可以习画。也因此，中国很早就发明了一套彰显画家地位的画种“文人画”。文人是志于道的，这样技术似乎不重要了，悟道成了根本。西方的艺术史对这一点似乎要醒悟得慢一些，他们到了十九世纪才发现他们有必要提升自己的社会地位，不再甘心当一个画家，而要做艺术家。由于创作者的主体由匠人变成了思想者或者说艺术家，于是绘画的功能发生了变化，因为作品被告之是用于审美沉思的。绘画本是视觉艺术，但如今却越来越轻视视觉。绘画如今己经深度地依赖于理论的诠释，而对于感受的忽视几乎达到了嘲弄的地步。我总以为这一类艺术的生命力是可想而知的，同时，那些诠释者的道德我也是深深怀疑的。我相信可以有难以理解的哲学却不应该有读不懂的绘画，之所以有那么多天书般的迷雾，更多的源于艺术观念的混乱。就绘画而论，我们过于纠缠于道的肤浅的表述和传达。庄子的技进于道论或许有助于我们去理清绘画中关于技与道的问题。

庄子《养生主》有一段描述庖丁解牛。

庖丁为文惠君解牛，手之所触，肩之所倚，足之所履，膝之所踦，砉然向然，奏刀騞然，莫不中音; 合于桑林之舞（《成蔬》，殷汤乐名），乃中经首之会（《成蔬》：经首，咸池乐章名，则尧乐也）。文惠君曰：譆，善哉，技盖至此乎？庖丁释刀对曰：臣之所好者道也，进乎技矣。

（《养生主》117——119页，中华书局《庄子集释》）

 

徐复观认为“庖丁并不是在技外见道 ，而是在技中见道 ”（《中国艺术精神》，即庖丁有艺术之境界，而无艺术之作品。其实，什么是艺术品这个有待讨论。或许正象贡布里希说的那样，没有艺术，有的只是艺术家。我以为，技进于道的最关键之处便是这技中见道。也就是说，没有技也就谈不上悟道。技之不存，那来“莫不中音，合于桑林之舞，乃中经首之会”。庖丁之悟道得于在技进之中合了殷、尧乐的美。这种体验在绘画中难以找到，倒是较近于书法创作中的得六合的体验，但在技进之中悟得一种美感则是具有普遍性的。真正的得书法六合的感觉，不是一个拥有普通技术的人所能有的人生体验。那些自诩灵感突现的创作者，大多是夸大其辞。然而这种体验并不适用于诸如人物创作这些需要长时间才能完成的题材，但技进于道的逻辑依然是真理。李泽厚释此“任何技艺，包括文艺，达到这种合目的性与规律性的熟练统一，便是美的创造”。（《华夏美学》）技进于道论所揭示的是一个千古不变的简单创作规律。道由技进而来，有技而无悟不能成就道，有悟而无技进则更是空谈。有解数千牛而不悟道者，而无技进，道，便无从谈起。

庄子在庖丁解牛中的技进于道的观念，实则在文人画的创作理念上很大程度被放弃。他们懒于从形而下技术的磨砺渐渐升华为形而上的道，他们更希望的是象禅祖惠能那样顿悟。这也是元明以后画家以至于当代的艺术家们最纠结的地方。然而，数历代画家，顿悟的榜样好象只有倪云林一人而己。苏米差强人意。云林虽然创造出了最经典的图式与语境，但他题材和形制的单一，多少是一种不幸。实际上，从现在的文献和对倪云林的研究来看，我们仅从传世的作品看倪云林也是非常片面的。而他那句流传甚广的“仆之所谓画者，不过逸笔草草，不求形似，聊以自娱耳。”似乎早己饱受误解。

高居翰在《画家生涯》中就阐述了这样一个道理：宋以后，大量的画家即便是以绘画为职业的，非常勤奋的画家，也会被描述成只是偶尔拨弄笔墨，似乎每一幅作品都是由内在的冲动而成的即兴之作。造成这种现象的原因，一是由于理学对画学的影响，使得绘画的功能性有了很大的改变。再则是米芾，苏轼等理论家强调文人画就优于画家画的影响。

然而，即便是象倪云林这样的逸品榜样，现实中的他，也并非象六祖惠能那样的一个顿悟者，倪云林自己便有一段关于技进的描述。

“我初学挥染，见物皆画似。郊行及城游，物物归画笥。为问崖师，孰假孰为真。墨池挹涓滴，寓我无边春。”（为方崖画山就题《清閟阁 卷二》）

虽然高居翰对于倪瓒的写生技术持怀疑态度，以为远不及十一世纪以前的中国画家对待自然的态度来得认真，但不可否定的是，倪瓒早年习画是有一定的专业认真态度的。

 

 

 

人物画

 

最晚至十七世纪，作为有实用功能的画家画己与文人画明显分离，而人物画则基本都被归入了画家画的范畴。有研究表明，起码自元代始，肖像画基本上成为了一种画匠的活计。它们存在于正统之外的另一个体系之中。文人掌握著正统画史的话语权。实际上在正统画史的描述中，唐代的吴道子有著画圣的地位，而在米芾的《画史》中，周昉亦有著同样高的地位，相比之下，王维，作为水墨山水的鼻祖，声誉远不及吴。但人物画在唐及五代之后便不再有如此有声望的画家。现在我们依然能看到大量的元明清的肖像画和精美的寺院壁画，而其作者几乎都名不见经传。龚贤在描述山水创作时曾言，“古有图而无画。图者，肖其物貌其人写其事。画则不必。然用良毫珍墨施于故楮之上，其物则云山烟树，危石冷泉，板桥野屋。人可有可无，若命题写事则俗甚。”

雅俗之间其实是中国传统绘画对于山水和人物绘画的态度。人为俗物，似乎是个不争的事实。山水的出世与人物的入世所定的是绘画的雅俗。除了像仇英这样少数的知名的职业画家之外，自唐代的周家样之后，己少有知名的人物画家和画派。然而仇英与《韩熙载夜宴图》的作者顾闳中一样，这位南唐画院画家的《夜宴图》如此宏伟精美，《宣和画谱》的评述却多有鄙视之意，甚至说“一阅而弃之可也”。而在刘道醇的《圣朝名画评》和郭若虚的《图画见闻志》中，则根本不提此人。他们在士大夫眼中的地位，说明的是人物绘画，在宋以后俗的地位不容质疑。

其实我不认为需要为人物画翻案，说它其实很有文化内涵，并不俗。我只是想说它是俗，但俗其实在更多的时候更有意义，因为它是市俗生活的必需。另一方面，不容质疑的是人物画的技术性其实更为复杂。但是，或许是因为地位低下的原因，作为收藏主体的士大夫并不认可。传统人物画的发展并没有走到一个很好的高度，这一局面直到近代才有所改变。从西方传入的现实主义创作理念让中国的人物画得到了重生。现实的也就是世俗的，人物画没有必要从此中逃离。中国绘画一直都是在“游于艺”和“成教化”两条脉络下发展。前者是思想的逍遥，后者则是现实的关怀。这种关怀，高蹈的是教化，或文以载道，平凡的则是视觉满足，象周昉的《簪花仕女图》。遗憾的是，周昉这一类“贵而美”的传统在后世再没有大师出现。而作为教化功用的绘画，它们常用的载体是典故。在明以后，这类题材似乎也退出了主流绘画的阵营。它们越来越仅限于职业画家的创作之中，文人画家越来越不屑于这一类题材。有研究证明，15世纪至16世纪初的文人画家，比如沉周和文征明，还有这一类似的作品传世，但到明代晚期的董其昌之后，这一类作品己很难寻觅了。典故，所以传世不衰是因其故事的经典，它可以在反复的讲述中，在不同的时代，悟出不同又似曾相识的味道。

 

 

 

 

故事

 

我不知道爱情故事如今还能怎么讲。从西方的《罗米欧与朱丽叶》到中国的《梁祝》再到汤显祖的《牡丹亭》，还能讲出什么花样来？数千年的爱情故事，汗牛充栋，我都不觉得有什么深意，但它曾经一波一波的打动著我们，如果你不相信它，那是你老了。

如果有人以进化论的笔调写一本爱情故事史，地球人都会抽他，但他们中的大多数都会相信有一部艺术进化史。

我是相信有技术进步史的，象贡布里希的《艺术的故事》那样，但人文的东西很多时候是爱情。

《牡丹亭》的故事讲的是，南宋年间，太守女儿杜丽娘，幽闺深藏，家教甚严。一日，丫鬟春香怂勇，私出游园。感春色好而情思动，归来入梦。梦中遇秀才柳梦梅，一见而钟情，且得云雨之欢。梦醒，丽娘即落相思之病，并痴情而亡。父母悲葬丽娘并建梅花观。三年后，书生柳梦梅进京赶考，卧病梅花观，与丽娘欢会而不知其为幽灵。后经丽娘指点，若想长相私守，须开棺娶她为妻。柳梦梅自然义无反顾。于是丽娘还魂为人，美丽如初。再后则是通俗戏剧的大团圆结局。柳梦梅中得状元，虽经磨难，还是在皇帝的开明之下，奉旨完婚，合家团圆。

在给朋友讲《牡丹亭》故事时，我总是不自觉的想起另一个我年少的故事。高中时，班里插进了个女新生，中等个，普通的模样。印象中她爱主动回答问题，但多数答得并不正确。于是我知道，她的智力也是普通的。一年后女生没再来上课，大家渐渐地把她忘了，这时候大家才想起她在班里似乎并没有知心的朋友，因为谁也不知道她去了哪里，她的家在哪里。一个宁静的夜晚，她突然站在了教室的窗外，同学们正上著晚自习，四十多人的教室，都是苦读发奋的孩子。女孩在窗外叫著一个男生的名字，接下来是相诉。事后那个白面的男生对我说，他当时就吓傻了，对天发誓，他们同学一年，一句话都没说过。隐隐约约我们意识到女孩有了病。几年后，我骑车去一个朋友单位，远远地看见了这个女孩，胖了很多，但我确信是她。她也看见了我，我看著她向我走来，很远她就叫我的名字。我有些忐忑，但她的笑容还是让人放心了很多，走到近前她问我：“有女朋友吗？”我说没有，她很温柔地说：“ 在等我吧”。

“情不知所起，一往而深。生者可以死，死可以生”，此时引用汤显祖在《牡丹亭记题词》中的话是不是有辱先贤？爱情很多时候是不美好的，浪漫更是。

 

 

 

 

汤显祖

 

汤显祖辞官那一年四十八岁，天命己知，于是他写了《牡丹亭》。我最先感兴趣的是他的年纪，他相信爱情，但是他老了。说他老了是因为我看到，他感动的其实不是爱情。

理论家们在评述汤显祖时，会著重强调一个“情”字，上升的高度是以“情”反对程朱理学强调的“理”。旁征博引，洋洋洒洒。这种评述让人感觉汤显祖似乎生活在一个受理学禁锢而情感压抑的年代。如果你被告之，汤显祖生于1550年，卒于1616年，而有研究表明在1560年至1640年前后，是明代色情小说产生的高峰期，不知又该如何评述。同样是这一时期的文人，高攀龙（1562—1626）在批评当时舞台有：“盖台上演出，台下有千百男女聚观，其中之暗受其害者， 不知多少，害人害己，造孽无穷。”知道有这样的时代同期声，方能理解到一个完整的戏剧生态。“情”似乎是一个关健词。在《牡丹亭记题词》中，汤公似乎也是在颂扬著他对情之至的高蹈追求，“生而不可与死，死而不可复生者，皆非情之至也。”令人望而生畏。其实我更愿意相信这是一个伟大的戏曲剧作家的良好操守，他不过是非常完美地创作了一部戏曲，他用了情。他的情和情爱不完全是一回事，试想汤公坐在台下，舞台上柳梦梅正唱著，“则为你如花美眷，似水流年。”他的感动又在哪里，谁又知道。

在当代艺术中，那种纯粹为观念而创作的作品，观念的表达与创作的真实逻辑通常存在著巨大的差异。这种欺骗与虚伪常常会令明眼人感到厌恶。而一幅优秀画作的呈现，它的美丽与诱惑也会与画家本身的创作逻辑有著微妙的差异。而在这深藏的创作思维中，却可能是另一种令人无奈唏嘘的感动。我似乎能感受到汤显祖的这种微妙的情感。

“袅晴丝吹来闲庭院，摇漾春如线。停半响，整花钿。没揣菱花，偷人半面，迤逗的彩云偏，步香闺怎便把全身现？”

她，轻蒙起了双眼，我看到的是青春曾见。

 

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Stories of Painting

 

 

 

Painters and Artists

 

Balthus, the “second-rate” painter, was annoyed at being called an artist. He once said in an interview, “I hate the word ‘artist’. When Captain Haddock (a character in The Adventures of Tintin) wanted to insult somebody, he exclaimed, ‘An artist!’ I’m a painter, or better still, a craftsman, a man whose working tools are paints and brushes.”

 

Perhaps it is for this reason that Balthus’ ranking in the profession is subject to a “second rate”. Friends around me seem to agree with this appraisal but can’t really say the reason. Mr. Chen Danqing was also of the same opinion, but his basis seemingly didn’t go beyond a consensus of American people. As for myself, I hear from Balthus’ interview again a voice that jars and grates against this era; the man would criticize that “The history of art has never been short of idiots, but never as prevalent as today.” I’m in no way outraged as that, but like Balthus, I wish to retire painters from the idiotic title of “artist” and back to their position as craftsman. Some people might say “artist” is a noble title won with hundreds of years of striving, but with its fuzzy designation, I really find it is a terrible word. In the book The Painter’s Practice, James Cahill expressed a similar view: let the artists go back to be what they are supposed to be – professional painters; as it has always been, which in reality it is not stepping down from the pedestal, but not having a pedestal at all.

 

The title “artist” was born with the establishment of Western art history as a discipline in Europe, in particular in the German-speaking world, in the late 19th and the early 20th century. Starting with Immanuel Kant, artists have been described as creating for the expression of their own feelings, rejecting demands from others, making art, prisoners to none. Then standing in contrast to them, there were craftsmen who subsist on orders and served the populace, and more specifically the aristocrats and the wealthy. However, what art history has been deliberately turning a blind eye on is such a simple fact that, from the magnificent sculptures of ancient Greek to Michelangelo, from Rembrandt to Picasso, most of the works in art history were works on order; the only difference is what kind of orders it was.

 

In China, art, or yi in Chinese, is skill. In the pre-Qin period, what was referred to as “yi”, such as in the Analects of Confucius, “Let relaxation be found in polite yi [arts]” or “Qiu is a man of yi [various abilities]”, or in Zhuangzi, “Delight in sageness is helpful to yi [ingenious contrivances]”(“Zai You” [Letting Be, and Exercising Forbearance], Zhuangzi), was certain practical skills. On the other hand, what is called “Art” today is akin to Zhuangzi’s idea of “Dao, [Truth] in advance of art”.

 

 

 

Dao in Advance of Art

 

Painters of our times hate to admit the reality that painters are refined craftsmen; they prefer to call themselves thinkers with talent or artists, or avant-garde thinkers or even prophets. Hence somebody would make the proposal that “Contemporary art should become an important means in the reconstruction of human culture and thought.” What a lofty ideal this is. It is like urging artists to represent spiritual issues by using of the methods of a witch doctor. It is art going atavistic.

 

Refined craftsmen and thinkers with talent are two different entities, and also between them, there is a big difference in social status, a point which the Chinese realized from early on. Yan Liben, a master painter and also a prime minister at the court in the Tang Dynasty, felt so humiliated at being called a “painter” that he admonished his son not to take up the practice. That’s why quite early on, China developed the literati tradition, a genre of painting that emphasized the status of the painters. Since the literati painters aspired for Dao, art or skills, it seemed less important and the realization of Dao became the fundamental. In comparison, it seemed to take a bit longer for Western art to realize the same. It was not until the 19th century that Western painters were no longer content with simply being painters, but felt it necessary to elevate their social status to artists. As the creator’s identity changed from craftsman to thinker or to artist, the function of paintings changed as well, with paintings made out to be for aesthetic meditation. Painting means to be a visual art, but visuals have been increasingly despised. Painting nowadays has relied heavily on theoretical interpretation and its disregard for feelings is to such extent that it almost becomes a parody. I always think you can expect this kind of art won’t last long, and in the meantime I am deeply suspicious of the morality of its interpreter. I believe there are inscrutable philosophies but there shouldn’t be unintelligible paintings; so much is obscure and perplexing about them that derive from the confusion of artistic concepts. In the practice of painting, we get too tangled up in superficial representation and expression of the Dao. A look on Zhuangzi’s theory “Dao in advance of art” may help us sort out the problem about art and Dao in painting.

 

A passage from Zhuangzi’s “Paoding Jieniu” [Nourishing the Lord of Life] describes a cook’s superb skills in cutting up an ox for his Lord:

 

“His cook was cutting up an ox for the ruler Wen Hui. Whenever he applied his hand, leaned forward with his shoulder, planted his foot, and employed the pressure of his knees, in the audible ripping off of the skin, and slicing operation of the knife, the sounds were all in regular cadence. Movements and sounds proceeded as in the dance of ‘the Mulberry Forest’ [a dance music of the Shang/Yin Dynasty, Chengshu] and the blended notes of the King Shou [a movement of the Xianchi music of the Yao period, Chengshu].’ The ruler said, ‘Ah! Admirable! That your art should have become so perfect!’ (Having finished his operation), the cook laid down his knife, and replied to the remark, ‘What your servant loves is the method of the Dao, something in advance of any art.”

 

“Paoding Jieniu” [Nourishing the Lord of Life], Zhuangzi Jishi [Interpretation of Zhuangzi] (Zhonghua Book Company), 117-119.

 

Xu Fuguan thinks that “Dao is realized not without but within the cook’s art” (Zhongguo Yishu Jingshen [Art Spirit of China]), meaning that the cook achieved the realm of art but produced no work of art. But what really constitutes a work of art is still an open question. Perhaps it is just like what E. H. Gombrich said, “There really is no such thing as Art, only artists.” My view is that the key to the idea “Dao in advance of art” is that Dao is realized within the art, which is to say, without art, there is really no point in talking about the realization of the Dao. Without the existence of art, there is no achievement of such state that “the sounds were all in regular cadence. Movements and sounds proceeded as in the dance of ‘the Mulberry Forest’ and the blended notes of the King Shou.” The cook achieved Dao by integrating the beauty of the music from the Yin Dynasty and the Yao period in the development of his art. It’s difficult to find that kind of experience in painting, which more resembles the experience of liuhe (universal harmony) in calligraphy. However, it is quite common to achieve an aesthetic experience in the development of one’s art, though the true experience of liuhe in calligraphy is not a kind of life experience attainable by people with average skills. Those composers who claim a flash of inspiration are mostly exaggerating. But, although this kind of experience is not applicable to creative processes that take a long time, such as figure painting, the logic in the idea “Dao in advance of art” is still true. Li Zehou explains this as such, “Any craft, including literature and art, that achieves this facility and unity of aim and the established rule of things, is a creation of beauty.” (Huaxia Meixue [The Chinese Aesthetic Tradition]). “Dao in advance of art” reveals a perennial, simple rule of creation. Dao comes out of art, but the Dao cannot be achieved by art without understanding, even less likely by understanding devoid of art. There are people who have cut up thousands of oxen without attaining Dao, and on the other hand, without the development of one’s art, the Dao is just out of the question.

 

In fact, Zhuangzi’s idea of “Dao in advance of art”, as expressed in “Nourishing the Lord of Life”, was to a great extent abandoned in the concept of the literati paining. Painters of the literati school were too lazy to make concrete efforts to hone their craft in order to gradually elevate it to the level of the sublime, the Dao. Instead, they longed for an epiphany like that experienced by Huineng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chán Buddhism. This has come to become a biggest hang-up for artists since the Yuan and Ming dynasties down to today. But as far as “epiphany” goes, of all the generations of painters, there was only the case of Ni Yunlin (also known as Ni Zan); Su Shi and Mi Fu were less than ideal. But again, although Ni Yunlin was the creator of the most classical compositions and pictorial language, the lack of variety in his themes and forms were somewhat unfortunate. In fact, if we are to judge from the existing literature and studies on Ni Yunlin, the understanding we get of the master based solely on his extant works is very partial. Yet his widely quoted but seemingly, greatly misunderstood lines are there, “My humble self is called a painter, but I paint nothing more than a few free and broad strokes, not seeking similarity in form or appearance, but just to entertain myself.”

 

In The Painter’s Practice, James Cahill discussed a phenomenon: after the Song Dynasty, most painters, even hard-working professional painters, were described as just occasionally playing with paints and brushes, as if every piece of work were an improvisation, the result of some inner impulse. The causes of such a phenomenon were: one, the influence of the Song-Ming Neo-Confucianism on painting theories, which greatly changed the function of painting; two, the influence of emphasis made by theorists such as Mi Fu and Su Shi on the superiority of the literati paintings over academic paintings.

 

However, even Ni Yunlin, the model of the carefree and leisure characters of literati painting, in reality was not a person who encountered an epiphany like master Huineng. In one passage, Ni Yunlin described how he honed his art:

 

“When I first learned to paint, I felt there could be a painting in everything. On my trips to the countryside and my strolls in the city, I painted everything. Then I ask Master Fangya, which is real and which is unreal. A small scoop from the inkwell, lends me an endless spring.”

Ni Zan, “Wei Fangya Huashan Jiuti” [Inscription on a Mountain Painting Dedicated to Fangya], Qingbi Ge [Collection of Works from Qingbi Studio], vol. 2,

 

Although James Cahill was quite suspicious of Ni Zan’s life drawing skills, thought his was nowhere near the earnest attitude towards nature shown by Chinese painters before the 11th century, it is undeniable that in the early years of his painting practice, Ni Zan showed a degree of professionalism and earnestness.

 

 

 

 

 

Figure Painting

 

 

In the 17th century the latest, academic painting that served a practical function had been distinctly separated from the literati painting, and figure painting mainly fell into the category of academic painting. Studies show that as early as Yuan Dynasty, figure painting had basically become an artisan-painter’s job, existing in another system outside the orthodox. The literati had the say in the orthodox art history. As a matter of fact, in the narratives of the orthodox tradition, Wu Daozi of the Tang Dynasty was honored as “the painting sage”, and in Mi Fu’s book, History of Painting, Zhou Fang was equally celebrated. In comparison, Wang Wei, founder of ink wash landscape painting, was in reputation far behind Wu. However, after the Tang Dynasty and the period of Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms, no figure painter had attained such a degree of prestige. The great number of figure paintings and temple murals we have today that remain from the Ming and Qing Dynasties were works of mostly obscure authors. Gong Xian, a painter of the Ming and Qing Dynasties, described the creation of landscape painting in the following way:

 

“Works of the old are portrayals not paintings. Portrayals are representation of the likeliness of people, things, stories or events. Paintings are not necessary so, but to apply good thick ink to fine paper with choice brushes and paint things like misty mountains and shadowy trees, perilous rocks and cold springs, wooden bridges and remote lodgings. People are not essential, and it would be most vulgar if a topic is assigned to depict a story or event.”

 

The distinction between the refined and the vulgar were the attitude of Chinese traditional painting toward landscape painting and figure painting. Human figures were vulgar subjects, which appeared indisputable. The unworldliness of landscape and the worldliness of people defined the refined and the vulgar in painting. Except a handful of well-known professional painters such as Qiu Ying of the Ming Dynasty, after Zhou Fang, the Tang Dynasty painter gaining prominence for his “Zhou’s style”, there were few noted painters or schools of figure painting. But the reputation of Qiu Ying was more or less like that of Gu Hongzhong, author of the Night Revel of Han Xizai. As magnificent and exquisite as it is, this masterpiece of the court painter from the Later Tang Dynasty, was shrugged off in Xuanhe Huapu [Xuanhe Painting Book] with such comments as, “One look at it, you can throw it away.” In Shengchao Minghua Ping [Critique on Famous Paintings of Our Holy Dynasty] by the art historian Liu Daochun of the Northern Song Dynasty, as well as Tuhuajianwen Zhi [Records of Painters and Paintings] by the art critic Guo Ruoxu of the same period, Gu Hongzhong was not even mentioned. The attitude of the literati, or scholarly civil servants, toward these painters showed that an “unrefined” status was conclusively assigned to figure painting after the Song Dynasty.

 

As a matter of fact, I don’t consider it necessary to reverse the case for figure painting, saying that it is actually very decorous and not unrefined. All I want to point out is that it is unrefined, but in most of the time, the “unrefined” elements are actually more significant, being a necessary part of everyday life. On the other hand, it is undeniable that figure painting actually employed quite complicated techniques, but maybe because of its lowly status, the literati, who were the principal collectors of paintings at the time, didn’t give it credit. This resulted in the underdevelopment of the traditional figure painting, which didn’t turn around until the modern times. The introduction of the concepts and practices of realism from the West to China revitalized the Chinese figure painting. Reality is secular, unrefined, and therefore there is no need to escape from it. Chinese painting has continued to develop along two separate traditions: “play with arts” and “enlighten the mind”. The former champions free thinking and unfettered imagination; the latter advocates concern for real life, which has rendered, in sophisticated form, works for enlightenment or for conveying the truth, and in more plain and common form, works for visual satisfaction, such as Zhou Fang’s Court Ladies Adoring Their Hair with Flowers. But regrettably, no subsequent master has emerged from Zhou Fang’s kind of traditions of “the genteel and beautiful”. And in terms of paintings intended for enlightenment, they usually adopted, as subject matters, classic fables. But after the Ming Dynasty, this tradition also appeared to have retreated from the mainstream painting and more and more restricted to the practice of professional painters, with increasing scorn from the literati-painters. Studies show that the literati painters between the 15th and the early 16th century, such as Shen Zhou and Wen Zhengming, still produced works in this tradition and those works have been passed down to this day. But after Dong Qichang, an influential painter of the Late Ming Dynasty, it was very difficult to find works in this tradition. Classic fables have been celebrated down the generations because they are good stories that bear repeated telling and relate and appeal to different times with both their difference and familiarity.

 

 

 

 

Story

 

 

I don’t know how to tell a love story today. From Romeo and Juliet of the West to China’s Butterfly Lovers and Tang Xianzu’s version of Peony Pavilion, love stories, countless of them, have been told for thousands of years, and I don’t find them very new or particularly deep, but you can’t help being touched by them, over and over again. When you don’t believe in love stories, you are old.

 

If somebody is to write a history of love stories in an evolutionary sense, everybody would probably think he’s crazy, but most people would believe there is a history of the evolution of art.

 

I believe there is a history of the evolution of technologies in art, as told by Gombrich in the Story of Art, but in many cases, the subject of a work of humanities is love.

 

The Peony Pavilion tells this story: Du Liniang is the daughter of a magistrate in the Southern Song Dynasty. She is brought up cloistered away in her boudoir in the magistrate mansion and with very strict disciplines. One day, her maid Chunxiang persuades her to secretly go out for a walk in the garden. Upon coming back from the walk, she falls asleep and dreams that she encounters a young scholar named Liu Mengmei, the two of them fall in love with each other at first sight and then make love. Waking up from the dream, Du Liniang is beset by a love sickness that quickly consumes her. She wastes away and dies. Her grieved parents bury her and build a Plum Blossom Shrine upon her burial ground. Three years later, the scholar Liu Mengmei comes to the capital for the imperial examinations; he falls sick and goes to reside in the Plum Blossom Shrine, where he meets and falls in love with Du Liniang without knowing that she is a ghost. Later on, the girl reveals to him the truth and tells him in order for them to be together, he has to exhume her and marry her. That Liu Mengmei did without hesitation. Du Liniang is then brought back to life and looks as pretty as before. Next is the usual happy ending of popular dramas. Liu Mengmei, though having gone through many ordeals, comes out first in imperial examinations and is pardoned by the emperor. The wedding eventually takes place on imperial orders and everybody is happy.

 

Whenever I tell the story of The Peony Pavilion, I always cannot help recalling another story from my own adolescent years. I was then in senior high school. A girl was transferred to our class; average height, plain looking, she, as I remember, liked to volunteer answers in class, but most of the time her answers were incorrect. So I guessed that she was also not very bright, just average. A year later, the girl stopped coming to class and everybody seemed to forget about her. It was only at the time we realized that she hadn’t had a close friend in the class, because nobody knew what happened to her, or where she lived. Then it was a quiet evening. She suddenly appeared standing outside the classroom. We were at the evening self-study session, a classroom of some 40 students absorbed in study. She called out to a boy through the window. Then he came out and they talked for a while. Afterwards, the pale-faced boy told me he was really scared and he swore that they hadn’t ever spoken a word to each other throughout the whole year they were classmates. From this, we became vaguely aware that there was something mentally wrong with her. A couple of years later, while riding to a friend’s workplace on my bike, I spotted the girl from far away. She was a lot plumper, but I was pretty sure it was her. She saw me too, and I watched her walk towards me and called my name from quite a distance. I was a bit nervous, but her smile was reassuring. When she came close to me, she asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?” I said no. Then she said, softly, “Are you waiting for me?”

“For unknown reasons, people fall in love, and they love with such devotion that the living aren’t afraid of death, and the dead can come back to life.” I don’t know if it’s proper to quote these lines from Tang Xianzu’s The Peony Pavilion Inscription in relation to this situation. Quite often though, love is not always so beautiful, and neither is romance.

 

 

 

Tang Xianzu

 

Tang Xianzu resigned from his government position when he was 48, an age that as Confucius says is to know the decrees of Heaven. So he went out to write The Peony Pavilion. It was his age at first that drew my attention, because he believed in love, even though he was not young any more. The reason I point this out is because I see that what moved him in his writing was not love.

 

When discussing Tang Xianzu, theorists like to put the emphasis on the word “love” and make the grand statements that “love” was used to make a stand against “reason”, championed in the Cheng-Zhu school of Neo-Confucianism; there are extensive references and eloquence at great length. Commentaries of this kind give you the impression that Tang Xianzu lived in an era of suppressed feelings due to its thralldom to Neo-Confucianism. But what would you say if somebody tells you studies have shown that the period between 1560 and 1640 (Tang Xianzu lived from 1550 to 1616) was the heyday of pornographic novels in the Ming Dynasty. Gao Panlong (1562—1626), a scholar of the period, criticized the contemporary theater, “On the stage, there is the performance. Down by the stage, hundreds of men and women gather and watch. How many of them have quietly fallen its victims! It’s self-ruining and ruining others. What tremendous evil it has done!” Only having heard contemporaneous voices like that can we understand the full context of the theatre of that time. “Love” seemed to be a key word; in the “Peony Pavilion Inscription”, Tang Xianzu appeared to extol the pursuit of the ideal of the ultimate love, writing, “If the living are afraid to die or the dead cannot come back to life, they just don’t love enough.” What a daunting demand! But I prefer to think that actually expressed the professional integrity of a great playwright. He was merely creating a play in the most perfect way and he did so with great love, a love of which was different from the love between a man and a woman.

 

Imagine Tang Xianzu in the audience, watching Liu Mengmei sing on the stage, “For you, maiden fair, with beauty that soon will fade.” What emotions might he have?

 

In contemporary art, mostly in artworks created purely for concept’s sake, there is usually a big divide between the expression of concept and the true logic behind the creative process. Deception and falseness as such often offend people with discerning eyes. But in a good piece of painting, there would still be subtle differences between its lure and beauty and the painter’s own logic behind the creation. In those hidden thoughts of the creative process, there could be emotions on a different note. I seem able to feel those underlining emotions of Tang Xianzu.

 

“In the courtyard drifts the willow-threads, torn by spring breeze into flimsy shreds. I pause awhile, to do my hair. When all at once, through the mirror I quietly glance at another’s face. I tremble and my hair slips out of lace. As I pace the room, how can anyone see me in full bloom!”

 

She covered her eyes, and I see a flash of her youthful past.