The Art of Dialogue Beyond Life and Death

Author: Zu Wei
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-07-01
Features: A biographical writing that takes a unique approach, straddling the realms of story, art, and imagination. The subject is Yang Yingfeng, a Taiwanese internationally acclaimed artist, a sculptor who dedicated his life to creating landscape sculptures with the core spirit of the natural, simple, harmonious, and healthy aesthetics of the Wei and Jin period in China. The author weaves in two more outstanding masters—Pablo Picasso and Michelangelo—into the narrative of the master's growth process, as these two virtual dialogue partners engage in spiritual exchanges with the subject across time and space about life choices and artistic creation. Three great souls blend seamlessly into the works that emerge unexpectedly, perfectly formed.
Excerpt: From "A Loved Hostage" to "A Child of Nature"
Just as I finished writing this title, a flash suddenly occurred in my mind—Little Michelangelo and Little Yang Yingfeng appeared in my Paris study on this "flash."
"Why are you not happy?" Little Yingfeng asked Little Michelangelo.
"Oh, I know, you and I are the same—without our parents around, we miss them very much. Isn't that right? My mother left me with my grandparents after giving birth and went to Northeast China, far from Taiwan, to do business with my father. My grandmother didn't want my parents to take me away, so she kept me as a 'hostage' by her side. I couldn't see my parents and often cried when I missed them."
"Yes, I'm the same. My mother passed away when I was six and I'll never see her again. I miss my father too," Little Michelangelo nodded.
"After my mother passed away, I was sent to live with my wet nurse. Her husband was a stonemason, or a sculptor, and I really liked following him to carve stones. One day, I told my father that when I grew up, I wanted to be a sculptor. He listened and severely beat me, saying I was good for nothing."
"It's a coincidence that my father also feared me becoming a sculptor. Later, he sent me to the Tokyo Academy of Fine Arts in Japan to study architecture."
—How interesting, these two little ones in my study knew their futures!
Next, Little Yingfeng invited Little Michelangelo to Taiwan:
"Come with me to my hometown of Ilan. I'll tell you a secret—I've invented a way to think about my mother so that she won't cry, she'll smile, and she can even tell many stories with the moon. My grandmother, uncle, and aunt are all incredibly kind to me. Since you're my friend, they'll be just as kind to you. Anyway, it seems like they can see what I'm thinking, so as soon as I have an idea, they help me make it happen. For example, one time they took me up the mountain to pick kumquats. While I was eating, I suddenly saw a deep blue sea with a giant turtle-shaped mountain in it. The adults said it was a sea turtle that brought blessings to the people of Ilan, called Turtle Mountain. After I got home, I really wanted a pair of scissors and some paper to cut out the sea turtle mountain. My grandmother immediately gave me scissors and lots of paper, saying, 'I know, you want to cut out the sea turtle mountain, right? Cut more, so you can take them to your parents in Northeast China to bring them great blessings, and give them to many people. From then on, I cut many of them and sent them to my parents in Beijing, and the rest I gave to children and pasted on my textbooks. From then on, scissors became the tool I loved the most in my life. It helped me cut out many beautiful dreams of art. Even the stainless steel landscape sculptures I later made, which you've never seen, were first cut out on paper like the sea turtle mountain I remembered as a child, then shaped, and finally transformed into stainless steel."
"Little Michelangelo, when you come to my house, you'll see a large mirror embedded in a redwood frame—it's my mother's dressing mirror. My mother only came back to see me and my grandmother once every three years. Usually, I slept with my grandmother. After my mother came back, I started sleeping with her. I really liked the scent of my mother's body—it was better than osmanthus and white orchid. I also loved waking up in the morning and watching my mother comb her hair in front of the large redwood mirror. I'm not lying, my mother was truly beautiful—beautiful beyond words. My mother liked to wear black silk brocade qipaos. When I went shopping with her, whether men or women, young or old, all looked at her with their eyes fixed, not a single person looked at me. Later, when I read the ancient poem "On the Path to the" in classical Chinese, I realized that my mother was as beautiful as the great beauty Luo Fu in the poem: 'Passersby saw Luo Fu and lowered their burdens, stroking their beards. Young men and elders saw Luo Fu and took off their hats, putting on their caps. Farmers forgot to plow, and gardeners forgot to dig. They returned in resentment, blaming each other for just watching Luo Fu.' I'm not boasting, but if Little Michelangelo had seen my mother while carving the David, you would have lost focus and hit your hand with the hammer, and you might have even abandoned the David to carve my mother! Believe it or not?"
After my mother passed away, I would often look at the empty mirror and feel incredibly lonely, my heart feeling hollow. But when I saw the wood-carved phoenix on the mirror frame, my heart wasn't empty anymore. My mother was that phoenix, she was still at home. So every night, the phoenix on the mirror frame would fly into my dreams. The phoenix became the prototype for my lifelong creations."
"You asked me what the phoenix is. Well, Little Michelangelo, I'll tell you. The phoenix is a mythical bird, a bit like a peacock, but a thousand times more beautiful. My grandmother said the phoenix is a divine bird that often comes to the human world, bringing blessings like Turtle Mountain. I said, 'Isn't that like my mother, who comes back to the sky once every three years?' My grandmother agreed. Later, I drew and carved many phoenixes because she was my mother—"
Little Michelangelo interrupted: "Yes, I'm the same. Later, I carved and painted so many madonnas, and upon reflection, the madonna is my very missed mother."
"Exactly, Little Michelangelo. When I grew up, I lived in Rome for three years. On the right side of St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican, I saw your masterpiece at the age of 24—Madonna holding Jesus taken down from the cross, titled 'Motherly Love·Holy Suffering.' I particularly noticed that the madonna at 51 looked far too young. I thought, 'Because the mother you missed as a child was so young.' I also noticed that you carved your signature 'Michelangelo' on the madonna's chest. I understood, that was because you wanted to etch your name into your mother's heart forever, right?"
I didn't expect that these two children's innocent words revealed a profound truth about art: the lack of maternal love or sexual love are both eternal archetypal themes in human art. Love and affection are what humans and even animals crave—being loved—they are two songs of life, the loud and the gentle, nurturing one's own life and passing on one's genetic legacy. When they become mute in reality, humans sing them out in art. In geniuses, these songs give rise to masterpieces that move humanity.
"Hah, the moon in Paris really disappoints me," Little Yingfeng sighed as I looked out the window of my study at the crescent moon in the night sky. "Why is the moon in Paris so murky, like worn-out clothes? Why isn't it as bright and yellow as the moon in our Ilan?"
I sighed in response: "Ah, because there are too many lights in Paris, too harsh and crude, squeezing out the healthy moonlight and starlight. The moon and stars in the sky above all modern big cities are sick, their faces looking terrible. You can no longer see the moon and stars described by Li He in his poem: 'The moon returns from the mountain peaks, its light shines brilliantly in the sky. The osmanthus dew meets the fairy, the stars descend amidst the clouds.'
Little Yang Yingfeng told me: "No, my mother told me that the moon she saw in the big city of Beijing was the same as the one I saw in the countryside of Ilan. My mother also said that she embroidered a picture of the Moon Palace (my mother was an excellent embroiderer) and gave it to Chang'e in the moon. Chang'e was very happy and asked my mother to tell me that as long as I talk to the moon, especially tell my own stories, Chang'e would hear me and relay everything to my mother. From then on, I always liked to go to the river alone, talking to the two moons in the sky and in the water. My mother could hear everything."
Little Yingfeng turned to Little Michelangelo: "If you go to my house and have stories to tell your mother in Florence, just talk to the moon in Ilan, and I'll have Chang'e relay it to your mother."
During the day, it was also incredibly fun. The mountains in Ilan are winding and curved, so the locals call them 'Nine Bends and Eighteen Turns.' They reminded me of my mother's figure in a cheongsam, also 'nine bends and eighteen turns.' The mountains are full of flowers, smiling like my mother, and emitting her scent. There are also hot springs—taking a face wash, ah, it's like my mother is kissing my face. Suddenly, I had a great realization: the mountains, rivers, flowers, and grasses are all my mother. I saw them, and I saw my mother. Before, I cried when I missed my mother because she was too far away. Now, I smiled when I missed her because she was right there in the mountains, rivers, flowers, and grasses, and there was even a moon to tell stories for her. How wonderful is that! Little Michelangelo, when you come to Ilan, you'll also smile when you miss your mother, and your mother in heaven will also be with you. Let's go, let's go."
Little Michelangelo was not moved at all; instead, he became even sadder: "Thank you, but I won't go—"
"Why not go? Oh, are you afraid there will be no one to teach you to carve stones there?"
"It doesn't matter. We can use clay. I love playing with clay, making oxen, pigs—it's so much fun. We can make a big Bodhisattva together. My grandmother would be overjoyed. She worships the Bodhisattva, and we can worship with her. My grandmother will cook the best food for us every day. What do you like to eat?"
"No, I won't go. I won't go!" Little Michelangelo cried, very sadly. Little Yingfeng and I were at a loss, not knowing how to comfort him. He cried and left.
I don't know why, but Little Michelangelo was not moved at all by Little Yang Yingfeng's moving invitation. Perhaps Little Yingfeng and Little Michelangelo were different. Little Yingfeng's childhood was filled with love. Even though he was kept as a 'hostage' by his grandmother and mother, lacking maternal love, his highly poetic and intelligent mind found the moon, found nature, had Chang'e relay messages, worshipped nature as his mother, and compensated for his lack of maternal love through his early childhood artistic activities like cutting paper and playing with clay. He became the child of nature—not, no, the child of art. Even in his innocent childhood, he accidentally grasped a wonderful life philosophy: engaging in "artistic play" like "telling stories to the moon," "playing with clay," and "cutting Turtle Mountain," which were "pre-art" activities like those of our ancestors tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands of years ago. Later, Little Yingfeng continued to use this wonderful method to save himself and elevate himself, moving from "pre-art" to the "frontier of art."
Little Michelangelo's personality was completely different. He projected his pain into the more painful imitation of stone carving, a "pre-art" activity, hoping for divine redemption. Later, he carved the suffering of Jesus, the suffering of slaves, painted the suffering of the creation, and "spoke" out great suffering to heal his own pain, bringing him to the forefront of the Renaissance.
This difference—was it the reason why Little Michelangelo refused Little Yingfeng's invitation and left?