Weir Village House of Painting Artist Colony near Lishiu, China

Ancient Weir Artist Colony

     by Marianne Peel Forman


You could not know.

You did not see the fog settled

In the bamboo grove

Merging with my breath, my breathing,

Cold and determined clouds,

Air fusing with air.

My hands this morning

In two shivering pockets.

I have no fur to zipper into this coat

And the pockets are fold on fold of nylon acetate.

I want gloves with warm tunnels for my fingers.

You could not know.

You did not smell the sizzle of dumplings

The plate of pickled vegetables

Red peppers and chilis she offered me on a wooded spoon

Fire adhered to my lips, a sunrise burning into the grey morning.

You could not know.

You did not hear the lady of the lake

Humming a morning song as she soothed and rubbed her face, shoulders,

Even the bob of her breasts

With hair released from clasps, free from braids.

You could not know.

You did not see the potter down by the river

Hands shaping clay

Seducing curves and indentations with thumb and forefinger.

He is alone by the river, breathing mist onto the vessel in his hands. 

You could not know.

You did not see the jagged edge

Where the stone poet raised his arm,

Silently urging me to huddle in the cove of his chest,

There, down by the waters.

“Listen to the rhythm here,

Buried deep beneath skin and muscle and sinew.

Listen down to the marrow place.”

He tells me, “I cannot sleep, ever.  This pulsing

Keeps me awake.” 

And then he takes my hand,

Eases it gently behind his gown,

into the warm liquid surrounding the beating.

“Take my heart in your hands.  Massage it softly,

But with steady rhythm.  So that I may sleep.”

And so in the fog of the bamboo grove,

I hold this poet’s beating heart. 

I once held a frightened sparrow in my hands.

This heart is that winged creature, fluttering in my palms.

And I watch the poet’s eyes close, tranquil in the fog.

 Gentle  Reader,

We visited the Ancient Weir House of Painting, an artists' colony/retreat, on a very cold and foggy morning.  A beautiful place filled with bamboo groves and waters and paths easy on the stepping and exploring.

We were told by Professor Mung that artists came here to paint, all with the idea of selling their work to Europeans and Americans.  As I read more about this place, especially in an article in The New Yorker, I discovered that the artists, at one time, churned out paintings that would sell.  Scenes of Venice, apparently, were very popular.  Buyers wouldn't necessarily come to the colony; rather, their paintings would be taken to auction sites for buyers.

Another fascinating connection I discovered was that a man from Guizhou Province, where Scott and I have taught, was one of the main paint mixers at this colony.

There is some indication that this place is now used more as a genuine artists' retreat.  I felt very at home here, in this tranquil yet working space.  I could write here, work here, among the bamboo groves and the statues of revered Chinese poets.  A peaceful, tranquil place...

I did not want to leave...

Namaste,
Marianne

P.S.  If you'd like to read the fascinating article about Weir Painting House in The New Yorker, go to the following link:  http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2009/10/26/chinese-barbizon.