My Calligraphy Classmate

While Walasse Ting’s life was full of brilliant colour, Master Fung Kong Hou’s world was only black and white.

When I was forty years old, I saw my life drifting away and I knew I must do something about it.

The obvious solution was to pick up art as a hobby. When I was a kid my father would use a brush and do all kinds of calligraphy to amuse me. I had always wanted to be like him, but my work in movies kept me busy and I had forgotten all about it. But my father had planted a seed and it was time to let it flower.

So I went to the best calligrapher in Hong Kong, Master Fung, and asked him to teach me.

On the day of my first lesson his beloved son had died of pneumonia. I was wondering if I should wait for another day, but decided to knock on his door.

“Come in, come in,” he said, “it’s useless to mourn. I’d rather use my strength to teach you.”

He took out a piece of paper and told me to write something, anything.

“But I don’t know how to begin,” I protested.

“Whatever comes to your mind.”

I finally wrote, “Thank you for accepting me as your student.”

“From your writing I know which old master’s style is closest to yours. This master left many manuscripts. You can learn from him. I also learned from him when I was young. When we both learn from the same teacher, we are classmates.”

With tears in my eyes I held his hand. From then on, I practised calligraphy day and night with a frenzy.