Out painting with friends, I often hear someone say how miserable it is to have painted badly today, how knotted up inside they feel — and I feel exactly the same. If that is so, then why paint at all? I ask myself this constantly, and try to trace it to its root. Some paintings look acceptable at the time, and then, days or months later, become unbearable to behold; paintings from a year ago I no longer dare to look at. Is it that my eye has outgrown them, or that I am simply never content — or is it that other people's judgments tug at the little confidence I possess? I keep asking myself: where does the meaning of painting lie? Why do I paint? Was it settled in a former life? Or is it only a device for filling idle hours? Can painting still my restless heart — or does it merely make an anxious life more anxious? Perhaps all confidence comes from reverence toward nature, and both loss and gain come down to the workings of virtue from lives past.
On this Xishuangbanna trip, my teacher Wang Hui said my painting is like an octopus, constantly changing its guise through many styles. He told me to keep painting just so — carrying a different feeling each time, never locking myself into a single formula; that once enough has settled and accumulated, I would draw myself together and rise, of my own accord, to a higher plane. I am grateful for my teacher's encouragement. Painting has its shackles too — and like the octopus, I will press on.
Sheng Hui — Xishuangbanna, December 2016
Related: Selected works
