On unnamed days we would journey in groups of twos or threes to sit with Li Shaowen, Li Laoshi – teacher - to sit at his feet, really. Keen were we to be ensconced, always, in the inner-chambers of his abode, away from stingy lawns of the Central Academy of Fine Arts, where grey bricks impinged on our songs, away from those over-zealous artists come to pursue short courses, away from din and patter of student feet. For we guarded him jealously, did not wish to share him with the world. We revelled in that broad scope of knowledge suffusing the very air surrounding him, evident in cadence of speech, gesture of hands, lilt of voice, piercing eyes, tone, and bearing.
Now fully in his presence, that stick of incense kindled, delicate flavour of tea playing on our palate, sometimes wind through doors, we noticed how silvery strands floated like ancient verses about rim of glasses over which those piercing eyes recurrently dangled.
In Li Shaowen’s home conversation surged like a river of golden light whose alluvium was, no doubt, knowledge tinged with wisdom, in quest of truth, bordered on banks of reason. These really were our lectures, without walls within walls, beyond books, prescribed texts, sometimes in that realm where language must yield to spirit and understanding traverses in the clear blue, above where mere words fail to penetrate.
Especially was I delighted when, alone, we traversed in said clear blue. During those times I was sure that he who had painted the ‘Nine Songs’, scenes from Dante’s Divine Comedy, images of a vanished China, all adorned in silk and jade and poetry, had my undivided attention, as I his.
Here there was no speaking of Art in some narrow sense, but even as Life, encompassing all things of the creation. For thus is true art birthed, bolstered, nourished. There was seemingly no subject under the sun about which Li Shaowen could not engage us. Here presided a soul who constantly reminded that our lectures were based upon that catholicity of ritual prevailing in the Spring and Autumn period when great teachers engaged their disciples.
Artists all were we, yet hardly ever a word about technique. Of what use is empty technique? There were no words about examinations. Does not every man preside over his own heart in moments of quietude? Critiques hardly ever were staged. Shall not every painting or sculpture or line traced on some silent surface, scream the soul of the inscriber?
Post lectures with Li Laoshi, no doubt lingered about what improvement needed to be made in depth of self, invariably to be reflected on immediacy of surface, of character. And thus, for years, we carved our dreams from out that living fabric of what lingers an inch above this corporeal frame. For years he watched us change, grow, inch closer to that individual we were meant to enter into full possession of. Sometimes we did not believe he had not lived for millennia, for his spirit is ageless, as the mountains are ageless, and in his heart resides a vast tide of illimitable love. Never have I been prouder to call one "Teacher".
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Kerry Lauerman
Joan Walsh
Salon.com
Comments