Bones Have Hijacked Chinese Painting

Bones Have Hijacked Chinese Painting

By ChunYi Long

Wu, Guanzhong: The master of artist who declared "brush and ink are zero"—precisely because of his singular focus on the beauty of form and the "simplification" of art—championed a philosophy once viewed as a betrayal of traditional brush-and-ink techniques; yet, in reality, he utilized this very concept as a cornerstone to successfully propel Chinese painting onto the global stage of modernity.

Zhou, Shaohua: As a master of art who employs the *pai-bi* (flat brush)—despite being characterized as one who "does not understand *bi-mo*" (brush-and-ink)—it is precisely his utilization of this tool that has made possible a unique technique of *cun-ca* (textural rubbing). This technique creates a rich, multi-layered textural effect, vividly capturing the rugged and majestic materiality of the natural world. Tracing its lineage back to the vigorous and robust artistic spirit of the Han and Tang dynasties, his style—characterized by bold ink and heavy coloration—represents, within this specific context, a deliberate return to an aesthetic ideal that is more "masculine" and magnificent in its grandeur.

If one were to regard the use of the traditional hair brush to delineate forms as the sole source of the "Bone Method" (*Gu-fa*), then this very "bone" has effectively held Chinese painting hostage, thereby stifling its evolution. The "bone" referred to here signifies *bi-mo* (brush-and-ink)—or, more specifically, the "bone-centric painting method" wherein *bi-mo* is utilized to outline forms. The supreme and unshakable dominance that this "bone-centric method" has held within Chinese painting—a hegemony dating back from the Tang and Song dynasties to the present day—has indeed held the art form captive. It has caused other painting techniques to be marginalized and disparaged, resulting in the loss of many of the precious qualities that Chinese painting once possessed; in essence, it has caused Chinese painting to stagnate and cease its forward progress.

In contrast to the "boned" style of painting—which relies on outlining contours—the *Mogu* (boneless) method—characterized by "applying color directly without outlining"—has often been neglected, disparaged, and even subjected to unjust criticism and exclusion. This phenomenon can be traced back to the enduring influence of painting theories and aesthetic sensibilities established during the Tang and Song dynasties. Xie He, a scholar of the Southern Qi dynasty, articulated the "Six Canons" of Chinese painting in a famous dictum: "Spirit Resonance and Vitality; Structural Method in the Use of the Brush; Fidelity to the Object in Portraying Forms; Conformity to Kind in Applying Colors; Proper Planning and Placement; and Transmission by Copying." In Xie He's view, a painting *must* possess "structural method" (the use of the brush); without it, the work lacks "skeletal structure"—that essential sense of form—and is devoid of the expressive power inherent in the brushstroke itself. Furthermore, Zhang Yanyuan of the Tang dynasty elevated the "structural method of the brush" to a position of absolute supremacy, declaring: "The depiction of objects necessarily resides in their form; form, however, requires the completeness of *bone-spirit* (structural vitality); and both *bone-spirit* and form ultimately originate in the artist's intent and culminate in the execution of the brushwork." This critical standard—an aesthetic paradigm that zealously exalts the primacy of brush and ink—has persisted for a millennium, continuing to exert its influence to this very day. Once art becomes shackled by such rigid criteria, how can one possibly speak of *true* art? Subsequent generations are left with nothing but the task of imitation and replication—producing works that, at best, can be described merely as "craftsmanship." How, then, can Chinese painting—held captive by its own "bones"—possibly evolve with the times and advance into the future?

It was not until the late Ming Dynasty, when Western painting was introduced to China, that a segment of Chinese painters came to realize that their own artistic practice—characterized by "depicting directly through color" (the *mogu* or "boneless" technique)—actually shared much in common with Western art. They discovered that many techniques found in Western painting had, in fact, already been employed by their Chinese predecessors; the only difference lay in the materials used. Regrettably, however, these techniques had been overshadowed—and in some cases, entirely lost—due to the prevailing dogma regarding the absolute supremacy of "bones" (structural outlines) and *bimo* (brushwork). If one were to trace the origins of the *mogu* technique, one could look back to the Northern and Southern Dynasties, or even earlier. Although some painters recognized that the art of painting encompassed far more than mere brushwork—offering a broader scope for artistic exploration—such individuals remained a distinct minority. Moreover, their work often struggled to gain recognition and was, at times, subjected to baseless disparagement—a testament to the immense influence wielded by the convention of judging a painting's merit solely through the lens of "bone-structure" or brushwork. Throughout history, critics and theorists have tended to overlook—or willfully ignore—the painting itself; instead, they obsess over technical minutiae: how this particular stroke was executed, how that one was drawn, whether a central brush-tip (*zhongfeng*) or a slanted tip (*cefeng*) was employed, whether the brush was dry or wet, whether the ink was light or dense, and so forth. While they might pay lip service to a painting's overall structure and artistic mood (*yijing*), brushwork remains, for them, the ultimate arbiter. Consequently, if one cannot discern those individual, delineating "bones"—those structural lines—it is as if one sees no painting at all. No matter how exquisitely a painting may be executed, if it lacks visible "bones"—and thus, in their view, lacks a sense of "bone-structure" (though, being a *sensation*, such structure need not necessarily be *visible*)—it is deemed to fall short of being a "good" Chinese painting. It is in moments like these that one truly experiences the bitter taste of artistic exclusion. A standard established by the ancients a thousand years ago continues, astonishingly, to reign supreme to this very day! Compared to their forebears, contemporary Chinese painters are reduced to mere imitators and replicators of classical works; yet how can an imitator or replicator ever hope to catch up with—let alone surpass—the ancients? And even were they to succeed in doing so, who would accord them any recognition? Meanwhile, those painters who refuse to imitate find themselves rejected by these very standards. It is no wonder, then, that the present age fails to produce any true masters of Chinese painting.

Although the status of the *yougu* (with-bone)technique in Chinese painting remains unshakable, historical records—dating back as far as the Northern and Southern Dynasties—reveal the existence of renowned "meigu" (boneless) painters who eschewed the use of contour lines. It was only due to the aesthetic preferences of literati following the Tang and Song Dynasties that the *meigu* technique came to be marginalized and disparaged. In the modern era, Qi Baishi stands out as a celebrated practitioner of the *meigu* style; however, his work remains fundamentally rooted in ink painting. In his bird-and-flower compositions—specifically his depictions of branches, foliage, insects, and grasses—one can still discern the underlying "bones" (i.e., the structural brushwork). Consequently, his approach cannot be classified as pure *meigu* painting, nor does it fully align with the *yougu* criteria encapsulated by the "Six Principles of Painting"—namely, "Bone Method in the use of the brush," "Rendering the forms of objects," and "Applying color according to kind." Rather, his style is best characterized as a hybrid blend of the *yougu* and *meigu* traditions. Furthermore, there are those who have achieved renown through *xieyi* (freehand) bird-and-flower painting executed in ink; although the "bones" in their works are not delineated via contour lines—and are often formed with a single fluid stroke—their paintings, ultimately, are still deemed to possess structural "bones."

Given that "bone"—or *gufa* (bone-method)—and brushwork hold such paramount importance and an unshakable status within Chinese painting, it becomes essential for us to dissect this concept of "bone" and cultivate a deeper, fresh understanding of it. Whether we look to Xie He of the Southern Qi dynasty and his principle of "Bone Method in the Use of the Brush," or to Zhang Yanyuan of the Tang dynasty—who asserted that "Bone-spirit and Form both originate in Conceptual Intent and ultimately reside in the Use of the Brush"—these classical formulations consistently emphasize the "brush" alone, without inextricably binding it to "ink." In other words, the artistic medium need not be limited to "brush-and-ink"; it may equally manifest as "brush-and-color" or a combination of "brush, ink, and color." The "use of the brush" referred to here places its primary emphasis on the brushwork's "bone-spirit" and "form"—that is, the palpable sensation of possessing "bone," which we may succinctly term "the sense of bone" (*gugan*). Since this is a *sensation*, it may be either visible or invisible; it could manifest as a pile of dry bones—tangible and visible—or as living human beings and animals, wherein the skeletal structure, though unseen, exists inherently as an internal presence. Armed with this understanding, you will gain a fresh perspective on the *Meigu* (Boneless) style of painting. The *Meigu* style does not imply that a painting appears limp, feeble, or structurally unsupported. Fundamentally, there should be no essential distinction between the "Bone-method" style and the "Boneless" style; the "sense of bone" may be either visibly manifest and tangible, or internally subtle and implicit—for both approaches ultimately derive from a meticulous mastery of brushwork. Our understanding of the "brush" must not remain confined solely to the traditional ink brushes bequeathed to us by the ancients. Modern society has developed a vast array of painting tools—all of which, in a broad sense, may be regarded as "brushes," including even your own fingers. While the "brushwork techniques" handed down by our forebears are indeed invaluable and worthy of preservation, they are far from sufficient to meet the demands of the diverse painting tools and ever-evolving artistic methods of the modern era. Furthermore, "brushwork" is not limited merely to the rendering of lines; it applies equally to the treatment of masses and planes. To judge the presence of "brushwork"—or of that structural vigor known as *gugan* (bone-structure)—solely on the basis of line work constitutes a one-sided interpretation. Ultimately, the choice of "brush" and the specific "brushwork" employed to imbue your painting with that sense of structural integrity—whether the resulting aesthetic is one of delicate grace or of bold, masculine grandeur—rests entirely upon your own unique personality and artistic preferences.

Throughout history, there have always been intrepid spirits willing to venture into uncharted territory—individuals who dedicate their entire lives to striving for artistic innovation. The Impressionist master Van Gogh stands as a quintessential example; his contributions to the world of painting and the invaluable legacy he left behind will be remembered forever. In China, figures such as Wu Guanzhong in the North and Zhou Shaohua in the South have likewise devoted nearly their entire lives—achieving recognition relatively late in their careers—to advancing the synthesis of Chinese and Western aesthetics within the realm of Chinese painting. They were, in fact, remarkably fortunate to witness the fruits of their lifelong struggles gain recognition during their own lifetimes. Even so, within a Chinese art world held captive by an obsession with "bones"—that is, the rigid adherence to traditional structural principles—they faced immense resistance, and the voices of their detractors never ceased. Critics disparaged Wu Guanzhong for declaring that "brushwork equals zero," and faulted Zhou Shaohua for employing "flat brushes" rather than mastering traditional brush techniques; in essence, they argued that these artists' works lacked *bimo* (traditional brush-and-ink technique)—or, to put it another way, that they lacked "bones." These critics applied the *bimo* "standards" of the ancients to judge modern works, while turning a blind eye to the intrinsic qualities of the artworks themselves. Upon close contemplation, Wu Guanzhong’s paintings exude a radiant beauty, much like a graceful, alluring maiden; Zhou Shaohua’s works, conversely, possess a majestic grandeur, akin to a gallant, spirited warrior. From where does this sensation arise? It stems from their "brushwork." One need not see piles of dry bones to perceive the presence of "bones" within art; what we perceive in their paintings is the vital spirit of living human beings—a "bone-structure" that, though invisible to the eye, is nonetheless profoundly present.

Long, Chunyi, the author of this article, is a man with an insatiable curiosity for exploring new and diverse experiences. Since childhood, he has harbored a deep passion for the fine arts; indeed, even before reaching school age, he began studying calligraphy under the tutelage of his grandmother. After decades spent in the workforce, he could no longer resist the call of his true vocation; he resigned from his position as a Senior Software Engineer to once again take up the paintbrush. With over thirty years of life in China followed by another thirty-plus years living in the United States, his life has been remarkably rich and colorful, shaped by the dual influences of both Eastern and Western cultures. Despite spending his latter decades in America, the cultural sensibilities forged during his first thirty years in China remained indelible; they could neither erase his "Chinese imprint" nor alter his fundamentally Chinese heart, for within his subconscious, Chinese culture remains the dominant force. His professional background lies in computer software engineering—a high-tech field characterized by rapid, ceaseless evolution. This dynamic environment has profoundly influenced his mindset; approaching every endeavor with a forward-looking, progressive spirit has become a deeply ingrained professional habit. Thus, when he finally returned to painting, his primary objective was to create art that authentically reflects Chinese culture—to live fully in the present moment, to depict the visions held within his own heart, and to forge a path that no one before him had ever trodden. He believes that drawing upon the artistic philosophies and techniques of Western painting—while employing his own unique visual language—offers an excellent approach to creating Chinese art.

He assimilated techniques from Western Impressionist and Abstract painting, harnessing the absorbency and diffusion properties of traditional Chinese *Sheng Xuan* paper to allow ink and color to blend seamlessly, thereby creating natural textural effects. By pushing the unique characteristics of *Xuan* paper to their absolute limit, he significantly enriched the expressive power of his art. After more than a decade of continuous study, practice, and exploration, he came to a profound realization: the painting approach of the West—characterized by the direct application of color—is essentially identical to the Chinese *Mogu* (boneless) painting method. He recognized that many Western techniques and methodologies share a common lineage with their Chinese counterparts; in essence, he was merely rediscovering and reclaiming a heritage—a legacy of his Chinese ancestors—that had long been lost. Through a cyclical process of practice, experimentation, and further practice—rooted in Chinese culture, Chinese materials, and Chinese brushwork—he forged a unique and personal path within the realm of Chinese painting. His works exude a masculine vigor and ruggedness, yet never sacrifice a sense of refined beauty—much like a handsome young man. Through his paintings, one can distinctly perceive the artist's individual personality and aesthetic sensibilities—a testament to the profound mystique of Chinese art. His creations successfully blend the aesthetic sensibilities of Western painting with the distinctive charm and spirit of Chinese art, offering a vibrant tapestry of color that provides a truly beautiful visual feast.

Note: This article draws upon the exposition of the *meigu* painting technique presented in *A Detailed Interpretation of Chinese Meigu Painting*.