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The ancients depicted leaves and moss in shades of deep ink and thick ink, forming characters like 分 (fen), 个 (ge), 一 (yi), 品 (pin), 厶 (si), or clustered in threes and fives—palm leaves, pine needles, cypress fronds, willow tendrils—some drooping, some slanting, all to capture the spirit of trees, mountains, and the essence of wind. But I am different.
My dots are suited to wind, snow, rain, or sun across the seasons. Some dots contrast light and dark, front and back; others blend water and ink in a single breath. Some resemble budding flowers, trailing algae, or dangling tassels; others stretch vast and barren, parched and flavorless. Some are inkless, like flying white strokes vanishing in mist; others are pitch-black yet translucent, like charred lacquer.
And there are two more dots I’ve yet to reveal to fellow scholars: the dot that strikes head-on, heedless of heaven or earth, and the dot of ten thousand cliffs—utterly clear, without a single mark. Ah! Method has no fixed form; it is the vigor that shapes the art.
读石涛 《赠刘石头山水图册》中画语,译录分享。
Translating and Sharing Shi Tao's "Notes on Landscape Painting for Liu Shitou"