Four Treasures of the Sky

by Jenny Tinghui Zhang

When I finally slipped out, my mother told me, she imagined drinking salt water, the liquid sliding all the way down her body and pooling in my own mouth, so that I would always know how to find my way to the sea.

In that garden, I learned to care for living things. I thought it perplexing that a thing could be called living, yet be so slow to show its capacity for life. I wanted immediacy, for a bud to turn into a ripe fruit in the span of a day.

Instead, let us speak to each other when it rains. What if it does not rain where I go? I asked her. We will only be able to speak once in a while. That is how it should be, she said. My heart would break over and over again, otherwise.

In calligraphy, you must have respect for what you are writing and who you are writing for. But above all, you must have respect for yourself. It is the monumental task of creating unity between the person you are and the person you could be.

When he lectured, he did not look at me, but instead at something above me, as if he were talking to the self I would one day become.

They set out to create art. But this intentionality is what makes the art become work rather than art. What you must practice is creating art without a destination or plan in mind, relying only on your discipline and training and good spirit.

Art is evidence of the mind that created it, Master Wang once told me.

The lamps in here are shaded with red and black, so that everything looks like a secret. Ta men do it to hide the imperfections in our faces, Swan would say. Even bruised apples look good in the dark.