(II)

I call art a philosophy of life, not referring to any imagined concept, but rather understanding it as an attitude. It is not self-restraint or self-limitation for some scheme, but rather unwavering trust in a predetermined goal and the open release of oneself; not timidity, but wise, fearless, and reckless following of a beloved leader; not accumulating petty wealth, but lavishly appreciating all changeable value.

We recognize that this attitude is somewhat naive, somewhat involuntary, a bit like that carefree period of time: childhood, whose most prominent characteristic is a joyful trust. Childhood is a kingdom of great fairness and deep love. In a child's hands, everything is equal. Whether playing with a gold brooch or a white wildflower, when a child tires, he will casually toss them aside and forget them, just as they once shone equally brightly in his joyful light, indistinguishable from one another. He has no fear of loss. The world is still a beautiful bowl to him, and nothing in it will be lost. He considers everything he sees, feels, and hears as his own wealth. Everything he encounters belongs to him. He does not force things to move; they pass through his sacred hands like a procession of dim wanderers, as if passing through an Arc de Triomphe. In his love, they brighten for a moment, then dim again.

But they must all pass through this love, and what shone in love remains in the image, never to be lost again. This image is wealth. Therefore, children are so rich. Of course, their wealth is pure gold, not ordinary currency. Education replaces the most individual, unconsciously formed impressions of childhood with concepts formed and inherited from history, and traditionally labels things as valuable, worthless, worth pursuing, or insignificant. The stronger this education, the more the wealth of children is devalued.

It is time to make a decision. Either the rich imagery remains unscathed from the encroachment of new knowledge, or the old loves are buried like a dead city under this unexpected volcanic ash. This new knowledge may become a wall protecting a piece of innocence, or a torrent destroying it indiscriminately. This means that the child will either grow up in the worldly sense, becoming a useful citizen of the country, joining the knighthood of his time, and swearing allegiance; or he will quietly grow from his deep inner self, from his most personal innocence, maturing into a person embodying all the spirit of the times: an artist. A true artist is rooted in the depths of the heart, not in the days and experiences of school. The artist's roots are planted in this warmer soil, isolated from the value standards of the times, growing silently and undisturbed. Other trees, drawing strength from education and growing from colder soil subject to surface changes, may grow taller than the deeply rooted tree of the artist. The artist's tree does not stretch its easily withered branches, weathered by time, towards God, that eternally unfamiliar being; it simply extends its roots, surrounding God, who resides behind all things, in the warmest and darkest of places. Because artists delve deeper into the warmth of all maturation, a different kind of sap flows from them towards fruition. Their cyclical process is far more extensive, constantly incorporating new substances. Only they can speak their hearts; others can only raise questions subtly. The artist's existence is beyond anyone's comprehension. People liken them to unfathomable springs. Time stands at the spring's edge, throwing judgments and knowledge like stones into its immeasurable depths, listening to the sounds. For millennia, the stones have continued to fall, and no era has yet heard their descent to the bottom. (III)

History is a register of those who arrive too early.

Among the masses, there is always one who awakens, unconnected to his contemporaries, his appearance arising from a greater law. He brings strange ways of acting, carving out a place for rebellious acts. A strength and will arise within him, trampling fear and awe underfoot like stones. The future is discussed with unbridled eloquence, and his era is unsure how to judge him; in this hesitation, the era misses him.

Because of his hesitation, he meets a dead end, dying like a betrayed general, like a premature spring, the languid earth oblivious to his urgency. But centuries later, when people no longer adorn his statue with wreaths, when his grave is forgotten, overgrown with weeds—he awakens again, closer to his time, as a companion, permeating the spirit of his descendants. We have encountered many such people again: counts, philosophers, prime ministers, kings, mothers, martyrs. Their era was madness, defiance for them. They lived quietly among us, smilingly passing on their old ideas. Today, no one finds them noisy or blasphemous. They reached their end beside us, wearily concluding their immortality, allowing us to inherit their eternity. Then they truly died. Thus, their monuments ceased to have souls, their historical existence became superfluous, for we possessed their spirit as if it were our own life. Everything in the past is like scaffolding dismantled after completion, but we know that all achievements will become scaffolding again. Under the cover of hundreds of supports, the final building will take shape—a tower, a temple, a house, a home. One day, when this monument is completed, it will be the artists' turn—to be companions of those who achieved. For artists, as those most belonging to the future, traverse time, and we have yet to recognize them as brothers. They may approach us with their thoughts, move us with a work of art, lean towards us, and in an instant, we see their faces clearly;—but we cannot imagine them living today, nor can we imagine them dying today. Our hands can more easily lift mountains and trees, but we cannot close the eyes of these departed, the eyes that watch. Even the creators of our time cannot invite those great people whose homes have not yet been built into their own homes, for these creators themselves have no home; they are the waiters, the lonely future dwellers, the anxious solitaries. Their winged hearts crash against the walls of the times at every turn. Even if they wisely possess a small room, a tiny patch of sky in the window frame like a net, where a swallow trustingly builds its nest upon their sorrow—their hearts are also filled with longing, unwilling to simply wait with neatly folded handkerchiefs and piles of chests. They often yearned to lay out these fabrics, to imbue the discontinuous patterns and colors conceived by the weavers with meaning and connection in their eyes; they wanted to transform chests full of bottles and jars and gold from their obscure wealth into something truly useful. But they arrived too early. Everything that had not been dissolved into life became their work. They placed it equally alongside those enduring objects, its tragic untimely birth a mysterious beauty. This beauty was bestowed upon their descendants, ensuring their continuation. Thus, with artistic creation, a race yet to be born awaited its own era. The artist remained a dancer confined to a small room, his movements fluid and unnatural. What could not be expressed through his steps and the limited flicks of his arms could only be weakly revealed through his lips. Otherwise, he could only trace the unfulfilled curves of his body against the wall with his injured fingers.

Painters must also be emotionally rich in their work. How can a work move others if it cannot move the artist themselves?

A painting must have its most essential element—the so-called "eye of the painting." This eye must be grasped tightly and not treated equally with everything else.

Peking Opera performers have a three-word mantra: "steady, accurate, and ruthless." Ruthlessness means daring to emphasize the most important elements and expressing them fiercely; ruthlessness depends on the artist's emotion.

Ancient Chinese artists' depictions of "Immortal Mountain Pavilions" place the most beautiful architecture in the most beautiful environment. This is the artist's imagination based on reality, a combination of realism and romanticism. Chinese painters painting Huangshan do not stand in a fixed location or take a fixed angle to paint what they only see, but rather observe and understand comprehensively before expressing it, as if standing above Huangshan.

The ancients said, "Viewing the small from the large," which is the same idea. Shi Tao, in his painting of Huangshan, once painted the "Stone Tiger" and "Minghai Spring," which are only two miles apart, together. The poem, "When did the stone tiger come to lie here, listening to the roaring spring?" is perfectly acceptable artistically.

Chairman Mao's poem, "A thousand miles of ice, ten thousand miles of snow," doesn't simply mean that such a vast landscape could be seen from a fixed location; rather, it incorporates the poet's imagination. This is inseparable from Chairman Mao's broad and magnanimous spirit.

Chinese painters' depictions of chrysanthemums are not merely about depicting the flowers, but rather about expressing the painter's own emotions. Landscape painting is neither a photograph nor a descriptive illustration; landscape painting is more beautiful than nature itself. People always say "the rivers and mountains are like paintings," not "the paintings are like the rivers and mountains." The same applies to painters creating from nature. Landscape sketching can also be called "creating from nature." The subject is merely creative material, not entirely at will. It can be 70% based on the subject and 30% based on the needs of the painting itself. Deviating from reality is wrong, and relying entirely on reality is also wrong.

Mr. Chen Yuping was born in a rural area of ​​Licheng District, Jinan. As a child, he loved to copy landscapes on walls with a brush. After graduating from junior high school, he confidently aimed for the Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts Affiliated High School, only to encounter his first setback—due to policy changes, his rural household registration disqualified him from applying. The disheartened boy returned to the fields, bewildered and lost, but he did not give up his dream of painting. Mr. Yuping once said, "I am very stubborn. I've chosen this path in my life, and even if it's blocked, I won't waver." Therefore, during that time, Mr. Chen Yuping emulated the creative spirit of Qi Baishi and Xu Beihong, silently persevering!

Hardships and Difficulties—The Cultivation of Artistic Talent

A good life is forged through hardship.

There's a story: A farmer planted wheat and prayed to heaven for favorable weather and protection from natural disasters and pests. Heaven said, "As you wish." The wheat seedlings grew better than in previous years, and the farmer was overjoyed. But when it came time to harvest in the fall, the farmer found that all the ears of wheat were shriveled. The farmer asked heaven with tears in his eyes, "What happened?" Heaven told him, "Because your ears of wheat avoided all the trials." By filtering out the hardships of life, you miss out on a fulfilling life. Even the growth of a single grain of wheat cannot be separated from the tempering of setbacks; a good life needs to be refined through hardship and adversity.

The arrangements of fate are often unpredictable. In 1962, 16-year-old Mr. Yu Pu had a chance encounter with Mr. Huang Zhiting, a lecturer at the Nanjing Academy of Arts, and thus gained the opportunity to become a disciple of Hei Bolong and Chen Weixin through Mr. Huang's introduction. Studying under renowned masters broadened his horizons, and after four or five years of diligent practice, he grasped the main styles of many masters from the Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. While others were busy with color and sketching, he completed a comprehensive art training centered on poetry, calligraphy, and painting.

Fate often seems to bestow greater suffering upon those filled with hope. During the Cultural Revolution, Mr. Chen Yuping's opportunities to attend university and transfer to art-related jobs were repeatedly thwarted, and he was forced to resign from his primary school teaching position. Financially strapped, he even relied on his teacher for paper to support his passion for art. During this time, his father, who had always supported him, passed away, and in grief, he buried his prized works in his grave. Later, he persevered and became a part-time teacher in the Art Department of Qufu Normal University, causing a sensation in Shandong's art world by lecturing as a farmer. However, fate played another cruel trick on him; he was falsely accused, imprisoned for six months, and stripped of his teaching qualifications.

Stripped of all artifice—stemming from a pure love of art

Hardship did not hinder his pursuit of art; on the contrary, it inspired deeper reflection. His mentor, the renowned painter Hei Bolong, taught him not to imitate his teacher, but to learn from his teacher's teacher—tradition. With age and experience, he traced "tradition" to a broader level: "The source of painting is culture, and what is the source of culture? It is the fundamental interests of humanity. This need for survival, reflected in painting, is the cultural concept of truth, goodness, and beauty—a unified whole in the hearts of the general public. Therefore, learning to paint must begin from the source, and the aesthetics of Chinese painting lie within its unique culture."

"The highest standard of traditional cultural aesthetics is harmony, which ensures continuous vitality. A work should move the viewer, and it should be positive, not provocative." In his view, many so-called innovations born solely from desire, disregarding the viewer's enjoyment, ignoring social impact, and even deliberately creating forms to attract attention and profit, are themselves acts of deception. "Chinese tradition emphasizes daily renewal, meaning elevating oneself every day, transcending worldly concerns and corruption." The "newness" that people often talk about today is merely a process in the change of things. Can the process be preserved? Therefore, the master proposed the idea of ​​seeking truth in painting, because it is not about blindly imitating. Once understood, one can paint with true feelings, and individuality will naturally emerge, without needing to talk about "originality." The great way is about transcendence; behind the ordinary lies the experience and truth of life. This is what is meant by seeing simplicity and embracing the uncarved block.

Author Wang Jianping, male, born in 1956, is from Zhaodong County, Heilongjiang Province. He graduated from the Heilongjiang Provincial Art School's screenwriting program in 1984. He is currently a member of the China Prose Writers Association, the Heilongjiang Provincial Writers Association, the China Calligraphers Association, the Capital Calligraphy and Painting Art Research Association, and a director of the Heilongjiang Branch of the Calligraphers Association. His prose works have been published in dozens of publications, including China Prose Panorama, Prose Hundred Schools, Prose Writers, and Heilongjiang Daily. His prose works have won a nomination for the first prize of the China Prose Writers Association Huabiao Award and an Outstanding Work Award at the 4th China Prose Forum. He has published prose collections Gleanings from the Mediterranean and Wang Jianping's Prose Collection. He co-wrote the play "Workplace Games" with Gao Changshun and the musical "The Tribe of the Sun," which won the third prize at the 31st Tian Han Drama Awards and the Outstanding Play Award at the 8th Lilac Awards of the Heilongjiang Provincial Drama Competition, respectively. He also co-authored the long-form documentary literature "Educational Candlelight" with Gao Changshun. Rongbaozhai Publishing House published "New Works by Famous Contemporary Chinese Calligraphers (Wang Jianping Volume)."

There will also be autumn rain, and the autumn rain in the north seems more remarkable than in the south, falling more flavourfully and decently. Under the grey sky, a cool breeze suddenly arose, and the rope halted, with rain descending from above. After the storm, the clouds gradually rolled westward, the sky turned blue once more, and the sun reappeared. "Isn't it, a layer of autumn rain is cold!" Northerners read these words, succinctly, old age resembles layers of words, flat and slanted, this mispronunciation of the Qi rhyme is just right. Fruit trees in the north are also a rare sight in autumn. First is the jujube tree, growing one by one in the corner of the house, on walls, beside huts, and near stove rooms. These jujube seeds, like olives and pigeon eggs, on the small oval leaves, display a pale green with a hint of yellow; this is the height of autumn. When the jujube leaves fall, the fruit turns red, the north-west wind blows, carrying dust and sand, as is said to be its way, and those who know its best value appreciate it. Some critics say that Chinese literati, especially poets, possess a strong sense of decadence, hence the abundance of autumn in poetry. Although I do not read much foreign poetry, I also compile an autumn prose collection, but in the works of poets from Britain, Germany, France, Italy, and other countries, one often encounters references to poems from the "Book of Songs" and lines of "sorrow." In the long pastoral poems of notable poets or the seasonal verses, it is always said, "Autumn is the finest and most flavourful part." This reflects that humans have an enduring feeling, drawn to the remote, desolate, harsh depth of autumn. Not only poets, but ordinary people also cherish autumn; there is no need for national or racial distinction. There is the idiom "Qiu Shi" and also Ouyang Zi's perfect "Autumn Sound" and Su Dongpo's "Chibi Fu" in reading materials, which shows the deep connection between Chinese literati and autumn. Yet, the profound nourishment of this northern autumn must be felt in the north. Of course, the autumn of the Jiangnan region has its peculiarities, such as the bright moon over the Twenty-Four Bridges, the autumn tide of the Qiantang River, the cool mist of Mount Putuo, and the remnants of Lychee Bay, but the colours are less vivid and fleeting. When autumn arrives in the northern country, it feels like rice wine and dried white, porridge and crucian carp, sea bass and large crabs, yellow dogs and camels. Autumn, autumn, it is here, and I wish to embrace it.