Sun Shanchun


2014

SHANSHUI: A VIEWAn Appreciation of Cao Xiaoyang’s Art

Sun Shanchun

 ‘Therefore observe it diligently, go by it and do not depart from nature arbitrarily, imagining to find the better by thyself, for thou wouldst be misled. For, verily, ‘art’ is embedded in nature; he who can extract it has it.’

                                           —— Albrecht Dürer

The reason I’ve quoted Albrecht Dürer above is not so much that Cao Xiaoyang is also a printmaker, but rather on account of two grand words that Dürer mentions: ‘Art’ and ‘Nature’. Both are objects of human admiration and pursuit, by many different means and for many different reasons. The multiplicity of ways in which Art and Nature are discussed has in fact greatly enriched human culture. And then there is also the multiplicity of ways of making ‘Art’. But what about Nature itself? What do we ‘do’ with it? As the modern world becomes increasingly more ‘acculturated’ it seems natural for the word ‘nature’ to be applied to human beings. Art is a human activity — it is the ‘culture’ we impose on Nature. As the world’s population explodes, where has nature gone? Some philosophers say, nature has receded, just like a hermit retreating deep into the woods, making friends with the wild landscape and the creatures who inhabit it. Is it possible that ‘retiring’ Nature has already succeeded in covering its tracks and disappearing completely from our purview?

Scholars such as Alexander Wilson say that landscape is a complicated product of civilization, a way of perceiving the world, an imaginary of how humans and nature interact. Landscapes are the collective and societal thoughts and actions of people. This is not difficult to understand: for westerners, landscape is also a culture and a philosophy, even if their narratives of landscape do not seem to contain as many ‘principles’ as ours. Neither our ‘shanshui’, nor their landscapes, are merely mountains and rivers, landforms and water patterns; they represent a realm hidden deep within us, and deep within them, even though many are not conscious of this. Artists like Cao Xiaoyang use their own hands to engage in a kind of artisanship, and through action they bring the landscape directly into their own lives, so that it becomes part of their very being. That is at least how I understand it. In their paintings, one witnesses the subtle intricacy and the innate difficulty of the handmade creation.

Many of Cao Xiaoyang’s works are sketches from nature; one could say he takes Creation as his master. But while the things of Creation are active, changing in accord with the human affairs that impact them, Creation itself is hidden, unmanifested. There are theorists such as the painter Fu Baoshi who say that an ideal shanshui should accurately depict reality, which is in fact not possible. Yet this statement is worthy of consideration. This is how his argument ‘should’ be interpreted: If a painter can truly comprehend the creative function of nature and harness the power of its/her (should we call Nature ‘it’ or ‘her’? This small detail is a source of some anxiety for this writer) eternal Dao, then he could paint the ‘real’ landscape. But such ability belongs only to those enlightened few who have truly grasped the Dao. A painter, however, is only a mere mortal. He uses ‘human’ eyes to investigate, to feel, and to portray shanshui. There are many things he must study, and more than one path he must follow, in order to learn how to see, to feel, and to portray.

Here we are speaking about shanshui in the human context: and this is where we encounter the big question of tradition. Tradition can be described as people’s constant and diligent effort to establish an eternal, unchanging consistency: as such, it ‘should’ be to some degree in correspondence with, or in opposition to, the Dao of Nature. Therefore, tradition is also problematic: it cannot solve all difficulties at once. Tradition can convert people, but this conversion necessitates making a choice; it can give people a sense of belonging, but this belonging comes with a price. Tradition is in fact a living thing, because it lives on through those who believe in it — it dwells within the believers. Tradition is also a way of life; a way of life that becomes heavier and more complex the longer it endures through history. For a painter, tradition gives him ways of viewing the world, but never just one way.

To put it another way, all traditions require that you actively purse and painfully determine your choice: what to throw away and what to keep, whether to forge ahead without looking back or to linger and explore the territory: it is all up to you. Tradition is not an answer, just as life itself is not an answer. And it’s the same for those who paint shanshui, who seek to ‘learn from Nature how to reach the source within’: one must study, one must choose.

Tradition can also confuse people. Those who have seen Cao’s work often will start talking about the classical elegance of Song-dynasty shanshui paintings and mourn the loss of the ancient methods. Painters think about this too; it is an inescapable question. However, artists still must paint; and thus they must seek out the traditions that exist within their own minds and hearts, and harness the inner wellspring that connects them to the dao of Nature. These shanshui must be his own shanshui, must be his own tradition, must be his own self: his own present, in this moment and as it begins to move into the past.

It is my longstanding insecurity as a viewer that Cao Xiaoyang has touched: living in the modern world I, (and the ‘some people’ I mentioned before), must suffer this fracture: Tradition is majestic, shanshui is profound, but we can only view these things, engage with these things, from within our identity as contemporary people; and then we must make our own decisions and create our own methods accordingly. The artist is sincere and honest: he tells us frankly about his interactions with tradition and his yearning for shanshui. Yet neither the line, the ink nor the colour washes of traditional Chinese shanshui painting directly exist in his work; strictly speaking, from the point of view of tradition, his shanshui paintings cannot really even be called shanshui. To be frank, what he creates is really a contemporary artist’s ‘interpretation’ of traditional Chinese shanshui painting. So, where, then, is shanshui? Where is tradition? Standing in front of Cao’s work, these are the fundamental questions that materialize before us, channeled through the medium of charcoal on paper and tinged with an edge of loneliness, of quietude.

People have always yearned to return to Nature, to ‘become’ Nature. An admirer of the 19^th-century painter George Inness once commented: ‘He himself is nature.’ For me, at a time when civilization has developed to such a point, and culture has matured to such a point — or rather has over-matured and decayed into such violence — attempting to think about concepts like ‘style’ and ‘method’ gives me the shivers, never mind thinking about ‘nature’. Our bodies are infiltrated with myriad uncertainties and deep-rooted anxieties; and culture grows and emanates from the body — perhaps it has always been this way. As Buffon said, ‘Style is the man himself.’

I am going to take a risk here and say that Cao Xiaoyang, himself, wants to ‘become Nature.’ Or to put it another way, he wants to ‘make’ Nature, to enact Nature. If such longing did not exist, then why would we have concepts such as ‘soothing the spirit in Nature’ (changsheng) or ‘Man and Nature are One’ (tian ren he yi)? If this kind of longing did not exist, there would be no poetic connections between men and mountains, and all the poems celebrating these connections would not exist. This is why the shanshui that Cao Xiaoyang so lovingly brings to life on paper has such power to move us: it allows us to travel through many different trajectories, to encounter the ‘obscure and indistinct’ nature of the dao, and to dissolve time — wandering freely through time present and time past.

February 2013, at the Erji Studio, Hangzhou

(Translation by Felix Chan Ho Yuen and Valerie C. Doran)

(Note: This text is excerpted from Sun Shanchun’s original Chinese essay)

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山水•觀：

──寫在曹曉陽的“所謂”山水面前

孫善春

不要依靠你自己的觀念而背離大自然，更不要以為你能夠創造出更美的圖畫……因為藝術深深地植根於大自然；只有在大自然中發現了藝術，才能真正地擁有。

──丟勒

引用丟勒，並非由於這裡的曹曉陽是版畫家；真正的原因是他話中的兩個大詞：“藝術”與“大自然”，而且二者都是令人景仰追慕的，以不同的方式與理由。事實上，談論藝術，談論大自然，走近藝術，走近大自然，都有太多的路徑可選，這是人類文化的豐富饋贈。而且，“做藝術”，大家都真地看到或知道，也是千姿百態的；可是，拿“大自然”我們能“做什麼”？“自然”這兩個字，對文化人來說是相當玄妙的。加上個“大”字，更讓人有距離感。不管怎麼說，“自然”已經自然而然地也可以拿來說人類了，因為世界越來越文化了：藝術是人為之物，是人對世界自然的“文化”。比如，人類的數目越來越多了。大自然到哪裡去了？有哲學家說，自然隱去了，退隱了。像人一樣，歸隱山林，退居林下，與山林野物為友去了。不知道，這“身退”的自然是否已經“功成”方才隱跡？

誠實地說，對有些人來說，如今不得不在這樣的背景下來說話，也不得不在這樣的幾句前提下來說畫了。面對曹曉陽的作品，許多人會脫口而出：山水。有藝術史知識的觀眾，當能聯想到荷蘭英語德國俄羅斯乃至美國等所在的風景畫。這並非諷刺：我們擁有許多的知識，但我們如今並非擁有滿意數量的與土地相關的山水或風景經驗；於是，旅游成了全地球的大問題，它成了生活方式。天下一家，環球同此涼熱，我們的“山水”與別人家的“風景”只是一個LANDSCAPE，原來跟土地離分不開；而這個LAND十分稀缺，也只有越來越人化，越來越不自然了。此外，我們想自然而然地以我們中國人的方式來山水生活，也不得不日益受到煩擾；雖然，你仍然可以選擇“臥游”，“神游”，有你自己心中的“山水”，都市叢林的“風景”。

學者如亞歷山大•威爾遜說，風景乃是一種復雜的人類文明的產物，是一種看待這個世界與想像人們與自然之關係的方式，是人們社會性和集體性的所思所想和所作所為。這並不難於理解：西方人那裡的風景也是一種文化與哲學，儘管他們的關於風景的論述中仿佛沒有我們那麼多的道理。我們的山水，他們的風景，原來並非只是山與水，地質與水文等；它們也就在我們與他們的人那裡藏著，許多人甚至並非怎麼明了。現在，我們知道得較多了；畫家，更會困惑得較多。因為他們要做，要動手，要幹“手藝活”：對這裡的畫家曹曉陽來說，他們要“動手為藝，讓山水進入他們的生活”。至少筆者正是這麼理解。從他們的畫裡，可以看到手藝的精微與艱難。

因為山水是難的。

就中國而論，山水起於人物之後，原來只是配景，後來漸漸獨立，演變，一至成為高深難測的高級藝術形態。說它“難測”，實是因為“天心難測”，“天道無情”之類的語言；而且我們看到山水時實在難以不作如是想了：我們“太文化了”，像尼采所說。山水，於是仿佛處於人間與天道之間的中介位置，煙雲神秘，引人入勝。但“天地無言”，內中奧秘，唯有能者得之。對於畫有志於山水者，古人的教誨是“外師造化，中得心源”，這話可說是總結性的，其中當然有太多的問題，尤其要擺在畫家跟前。外師造化如何師，中得心源如何得，而且，這“外”與“中”如何能打通一體，實在是難而又難。因為千萬不要忘記：造化是天地之功，非人類努力所成。而藝術，永遠是人的事情。

曹曉陽的許多作品是寫生的，可以說是師造化；但造化之物是動的，與人事俱變的，而那造化是隱而不彰的。有論者，如畫家傅抱石，說理想的山水，當然應該是要畫的和真的一模一樣，而這是辦不到的。這話很值得思索。或者“應該”這麼理解他的論點：如果畫者能夠看穿領會大自然的造化之功，捕捉到了它/她（稱大自然為“它”還是“它”？這細節令筆者感情上出現波動）的恆常之“道”，那就能畫出真的山水了。這是得道之人的功夫。而畫家非至人神人完人等，他會以“人”的眼睛來看山水，來感受，來傳達，而且他還要學習，學習來看，來感受，來傳達；而學習的材料是複數的，道路是並非唯一的。這裡即是關涉人事的山水，這裡的大問題是傳統。傳統，或者可以說是人持續努力而設定維持的恆常不變，它與天道，“應該”有著相當的對應，或者對抗。

所以傳統也是難的。它並不能一勞永逸的解決所有難題。它可以讓人皈依，但這皈依需要選擇；它可以讓人有歸屬感，但這歸屬感需要代價。傳統其實是活的，因為它必要借助相信這傳統的人而活，它要活在這人身上；它通過這人的活而活成傳統。傳統，就是一種生活；這生活因為綿長的歷史而深重復雜。對於畫者而言，傳統給予其觀望世界的樣式，但這樣式從來不是單一。換句話說，所有的“傳統”都是要你去主動追求且痛下決心進行抉擇的；放棄與堅守，直行不顧還是左右周游，都取決於你。傳統不是答案，也如人生沒有答案。畫山水者，欲“外師造化，中得心源”者，也是一樣，有待學習，有待選擇。

傳統讓人困惑。看到曹曉陽作品者，往往會說起宋畫山水之高古，繼而慨嘆古法之不復，風雅久不作。畫家自己也會念叨念叨，不會逃出這樣的問題，只是他還要畫：尋找他們心中的傳統，把握自己“心源”中接通的“造化”的天道。這些山水，必須是他的山水，是他的傳統，他自己：他自己的現在，正在走過去的現在。

於是，曹曉陽觸動我的，正是長久存在我這樣的觀者心底的不安：身為現代人，或者如前面說的“有些人”，不得不經受著分裂：傳統是偉大的，山水是高遠的，但我們只能以一個現代人的樣式來觀望，來看待，進而進行自己的擷取，採摘，選擇與創造。這畫家的努力，真誠而坦白，用自己的的方式，訴說著與傳統的交往與對山水的渴望。傳統中國山水畫，線，墨，色，在他們這裡都不是直接存在的；從傳統的約束性一面來說，他的山水都稱不得“山水”二字。他們的努力，直白講來，可謂現代藝術家對中國傳統山水的“翻譯”：山水在哪裡？傳統在哪裡？這樣的根本問題，就通過他們的紙上炭筆作品，帶著孤寂與寧靜，現身於觀者面前了。

於是，我看曹曉陽這裡的山水/風景，常感孤寂。“以其境過清，不可久居，乃記之而去。”這樣的古人語自動般地跳了出來。西方藝術史家談風景畫，常追溯古羅馬詩人維吉爾之“阿卡迪亞”，那四時如春的完美田園，堪比我們的桃花源。在歷史中，它成為平靜的鄉村。康斯坦布爾曾說“風景的本質”乃是“人對鄉村生活的情感”，並在致戀人的信中引用了英語詩人湯姆森的詩《四季》：優雅而充實，心滿意足，隱居的生活，線材的靜寂，友誼和書籍，勞逸有序的生活……而這些，更多地已經化作了理想與追憶。風景與山水，與現今時代就有了各自的距離。

“我也曾在阿卡迪亞。”這句雋語曾因引起多少西方人的感觸傷情！曹曉陽的作品裡，多見的是克制。這克制，或可以說是來自西方風景畫的孤寂理想，也來自於中國古代山水傳統中求道的高標。中國人的理想，是不是可以說不單是成為可以欣賞洋洋之山與浩浩之水的人，成為兼有“仁愛”的愛山水的人，甚或具備山水獨立無言超脫人世意味的人？對一個現代人來說，對不一定具有末世情懷的文化人來說，這樣的人可謂一種“超人”：超人，是通向未來的道路。

人，總有著重歸自然的渴望，成為自然的渴望吧。“他自己就是自然。”當年，有位崇拜者這麼評價19世紀的風景畫家喬治•英尼斯。在文明如此發達文化如此成熟或過度成熟到暴力的時節，身為一位閱讀者，想到風格、手法等語詞都不由心裡發怵，難得“自然”。在我們自己身上，內嵌著或被植入了許多的不確定與深深的不安分，文化就生長在我們身上，可能很早以來就是如此。“風格即人”，當年的布封先生這麼說。說到這裡，不禁冒昧一言：畫家曹曉陽，如果可以這麼說，也是渴望成為自然的吧；換言之，他要“做”自然。若非如此，如何暢神，如何天人合一？若沒有這渴望，也就不會有“相看兩不厭，唯有敬亭山”的意思。於是畫家曹曉陽的一種山水，這眼前紙上的努力之功，令人感動──感動的意思是：令人聯想多方，恍兮忽兮，暫不知今夕何夕。

 

2014年2月30日，於古武林二集軒