Shexian summer 2019
I spent several days attempting to count the trees in the mountain forest across the valley. My final estimate was no fewer than one hundred thousand. In She County, southern China, June and July drench every living creature with rain. It seems only the trees and myself take delight in it. Metasequoia and camphor trees thrive in downpours. Young saplings atop the mountain sit perpetually shrouded in mist, shifting from pale grey to faint blue. Grey stands for matter; blue embodies nothingness‑‑the air itself.
Watercolour excels at rendering imagery. Within the bounds of paper, trees caught in rain expand the expressive power of the medium. It effortlessly captures every posture of trees amid rainfall, yielding astonishing effects. Beneath this lies natural order. The mountain woodland before me is no man‑made dense thicket. Natural rhythm governs its organic arrangement, a beauty of curve without coercion. Likewise, watercolour allows water and pigment to intermingle freely across space. Their fusion generates curves echoing nature, manifesting the grace of interacting natural forces. Trees interlock and overlap, bringing forth these organic undulating forms.
Before hanging up, Old Chang remarked: “The plum‑rain season is so oppressive.”
It is far too dry now. I long to stand in the pouring rain. Like the metasequoia and camphor across the valley, rain nourishes their growth and washes dust away. Being out in the rain holds many rare beauties. Faced with showers great or small, most people hurry for shelter, opening umbrellas or donning raincoats, looking thoroughly flustered. Few remain unrushed, tilting their faces upward or bowing their heads‑‑those are the true adepts. Rain acts as a kind of dismissal. In an instant, it can bestow the vast expanse of West Lake entirely upon you. What sort of decree could accomplish such a thing? Moreover, the world today grievously lacks water.
Gazing upward, crystal raindrops streak down from high above in luminous trails. This is beauty, and the beauty of a watercolour worldview. These streaks and scattered droplets follow no fixed pattern; they manifest raw natural law. Look closer, and every luminous streak, every single raindrop reflects the figure of one who yearns for rain‑‑neck craned, head held high. Rare is such pervasive clarity, rare such utter stillness. One can almost hear the thunderous sound of rain slicing through pale‑blue space. Sometimes I hold a budding peach‑blossom bud between two fingers, lost in thought, wishing this rain would go on forever, without end.
Water cleanses the world, concealing filth for a time, shifting stench elsewhere. Rain knows how heavy the leaves of metasequoia and camphor grow, weighed down by dust laden with human desires. Ordinary dust becomes heavy, burdened by these cravings. It is biological desire that poisons our world. Humanity creates unprecedented pollutants, and spins beguiling myths to justify their production. Viewed through these myths, everything appears natural, everything seems to follow reason‑‑yet all is illusion. Truth lies buried out of sight. Do not doubt that truth once existed; sadly it has long since dissipated. Even those who buried it no longer know where truth resides, or whether it survives at all. In reality, new lies merely cover old ones, much like the grime falling from our skies, layer upon layer. Without rain, I dare not imagine how thick accumulated filth might grow. People can endure, creatures are innately tolerant, willing to bow or kneel beneath mounting muck. Yet one day, living things will be crushed beneath its weight.
If falling rain‑streaks are not enough, behold the clear mountain spring flowing far away. It is the combined substance and collective force of a hundred thousand raindrops. Choose your footing wisely, for the current runs fierce. One misstep could sweep you hundreds of metres away into deeper, broader waters. Let rocks anchor you against the current, yet yield to its rush. Do not try to count individual droplets, just as I once tried to count metasequoia and camphor trees‑‑you will arrive at nothing more than a rough guess; there are simply too many.
Upstream the water lies broad and smooth, its urgency barely perceptible. Only when constrained within narrow bends, wedged among rocks, does the current reveal its ferocity. Surging like ten thousand galloping horses, it narrows through turns then surges relentlessly past your body‑‑a persistent, gentle force, nature’s own massage. Lie balanced in the flow and surrender to it. Gaze upward toward the rain‑filled sky; those falling streaks possess such quiet grace. Pigment particles bleed within water molecules, carried by natural force in every direction: blues, greens, browns. The boundaries between metasequoia and camphor blur within mist‑‑they are species that interpenetrate by nature. Young tender shoots rise toward the horizon amid varied heights. These interwoven branches demand touches of yellow; only here, amid plum rains, do outlines sharpen, pale‑yellow proclaiming life’s vigour.
Yet all things have limits. Let the rain quicken, let streaks multiply, and the whole mountain forest recedes, every detail erased. Blues, greens, browns, even that vivid yellow vanish, replaced by the universal blue‑grey of total downpour.
Once I truly possessed West Lake‑‑the famous West Lake in Hangzhou‑‑all to myself. No umbrella, no raincoat, no shelter. In this world, to make others step aside and grant you a whole lake, grant you peace and quiet, demands immense power, perhaps even the impossible. Still, it happened for me. I wandered slowly through familiar scenery. Every well‑known sight dissolved into a watercolour world. Gaudy blossoms softened beneath layers of grey, losing their vulgar brilliance. Graceful boughs fragmented, blending into sky‑blue haze. In the distance, Broken Bridge seemed magically fused with the green shore opposite. Torrential rain swept across West Lake from east to west, claiming this fleeting moment in time. When dark clouds parted, an “eye” tore open the grey western sky; thin bright streaks were its eyelashes. Warm light streamed down from the firmament. Just before it touched my cheeks, I caught sight of dark figures swarming from all directions, faint eerie smiles flickering across their faces. People were coming to reclaim West Lake.
The rain ended. Sunset spilled sideways across the horizon. The mountain forest lost its mystery. Metasequoia stood rigid before me; camphor trees loomed dull and impassive. Crisp air brought everything into sharp focus. I was convinced counting metasequoia and camphor would now be trivial‑‑yet I had completely lost the urge. Without rain, vitality fades from all things. What purpose remain for my watercolour paints and paper? Even the mountain woods, metasequoia and camphor alike, begin their decline beneath scorching sunlight. One wonders whether these living things can hold out until the next rainfall.
I resolve to set my watercolour‑world aside for now, to wait out this rainless spell. I am convinced the next plum‑rain season will not be long coming, just as I trust I shall once again stand alone with West Lake.
“Hello, Brother Chang.” I set down my work.
“Old friend, shall I come out to get soaked in the rain with you these days?” Something seemed to have shifted in him.
I replied lightly: “Any time. Come soon‑‑the plum rains will pass.”
