My canvas was nine-tenths processed Xuan paper, its subtle warmth providing an ideal foundation. The initial wash seemed deceptively simple—broad strokes of diluted ink establishing form and mass. Yet Chinese painting, particularly in the meticulous gongbi tradition, reveals its secrets slowly. Each luminous surface conceals countless layers, each shadow the result of patient buildup. Moreover, the actual test arrived with the yunran technique—the art of seamless blending that breathes life into painted stone. Armed with two brushes, I began the delicate dance between pigment and water. Medium-dark ink defined the depths, especially those mysterious caverns that give Taihu stones their unique character. However, the paper pushed back against my blending attempts, refusing to yield the smooth transitions needed to capture the stone's essence. In a sudden burst of inspiration, I increased the ink load, thinking moisture would help. Instead, I watched in horror as excess water pooled and spread, creating an undeniable ring—a mark of failure on what should have been a piece of art.

A Taihu stone in Chinese-style garden 2