Notes on Meng Yuan1

Entrance

One day, as night descended, my uncle went out for a stroll. What differed from the usual was that after he left for the park, he never returned. 

From that day on, my father sealed the exit to the park. The sole entrance to the park was also locked. We were warned to never wander outdoors as we wished.

However, I knew that someone would enter from the other side of the entrance. I even saw some strangers lingering around the entrance, and they certainly did not obtain my father's permission to do so. 

I seem to have the ability to see such disappearing silhouettes since my childhood.

Screen Door

There is a drawing of a rabbit dashing off in the centre of the screen door. Its pair of ears are erect, its bobtail raised high as it gallops away; its left paw was turned slightly in the drawing, as if it was thinking about something in the midst of its run. In the dim background, one could see vague images of pine trees, bamboo and plum trees (termed the "three friends") and little flowers that resembled stars. 

Many years later, I discovered that the image of the rabbit was taken from religious paintings from the West. The rabbit is the embodiment of a saint, and the act of running represented the omen of change. This particular sort of change would only make sense to the person experiencing it, but would be deemed absurd by anyone else. 

Waves Overlapping on the Cliff

Explorations of these rocky terrains are often coupled with memories of the stench of lichens in dark caves and oddly enticing shapes from Taihu Lake. Even though I am familiar with the little paths on the limestone formations, each foray into the hills brings forth a different experience, depending on when the trip is made. This is especially so when I enter the hills with different people; the whole mountain would seem to emanate unique atmospheres each time. For instance, I would distinctly detect the scent of orchids on Second Aunt's body. My grandmother would always stop midway into the journey to rest on a rock stool, and whilst she is doing that, I would have traversed the entire cliff. 

I have never imagined that there would be a more thrilling and constantly evolving scenic spot than this cliff. Sometimes, after climbing up to the peak, my entire body would be heated up, and I would be gasping for breath due to the exertion. As I gaze at the faraway lake and pavilion, I would experience dizzy spells temporarily. For a moment, I would vaguely sense a mysterious line of sight - one that almost seems to be borrowed from someone else's viewpoint. Could that be a line of sight that my father had meticulously planned out?

My father often told me that one could travel through all of China's famed mountains and rivers, but they could hardly be as fascinating as the rocks and waters in our own garden. I never really understood what he meant, until I saw a landscape painting for the first time, and felt as if I was suddenly enlightened. 

What I had seen was from my father's collection of Li Cheng's famous works "Paintings of the Distant Mao Forest". The light ink made the scenery resemble dreamscapes enveloped in melancholy; the wispy faraway woods appeared somber and profound. His landscape paintings made me feel somewhat lost and dislocated. 

Route

The meandering paths seem to lead towards an endless forest. Yet I have never felt exhausted when I wander along these roads.

What is amusing is that each time I start running, I can sense two distinct atmospheres brushing across my body: sunshine on the left, silhouettes on the right; chill right in front, warmth at the back. As I speed up, these atmospheres would slow down. They were constantly altering, harmonizing with my skin's sensitivities, creating a symbiosis with my being. The stars and insect calls of the night, the dew and watermarks of the morning, the branches that reach deep into the walls to transmit news from beyond the garden - my entire world seems to be the here and now.


Strokes

Through the cracked ice on the garden's ground, I can make out strokes of Chinese characters. The beginnings of fissures are evident on the green slates. If you scrutinize them, you should be able to foretell the future.

I am often confounded by the symmetry of leaf patterns when I pick them from beneath the ginkgo tree. The markings on the leaf's top half would mimic those on the bottom half of the same leaf. Moreover, the leaves of the same tree would be astonishingly similar. Would this be as Lao Tzu said, "The Tao produces the one. The one produces the two. The two produces the three. The three produces all beings."

When the ginkgo fruit ripens, it gives off a special acrid scent, one that my mother particularly loathed.

During my classes, I would secretly wish to see the illustrations in Shan Hai Jing2: mermaids, Changyou Mountain, the celestial hound, the Emperor's three daughters, mystical god of Dongting Lake. My understanding of Shuo Wen Jie Zi3made the old teacher I detested develop the hope that I would become a "Confucius scholar" he could hone. I could decipher the meaning of words with great accuracy, simply by looking at their characters. Chinese characters were - in my eyes - pictures formed by horizontal and vertical lengths and breadths. Each word depicted a story. I loved words but I did not like reading, to the great dismay of my teacher.

Cracks in the Brick Wall

I often peer at the scenery outdoors through cracks in the brick wall. The cracks seem to filter out the noise in the landscape, to present a kind of simple beauty to my eyes.

This is a moment for the object of my hopes. I need only shift my line of vision ever so slightly, and the landscape before my eyes would immediately reciprocate by presenting a fresh perspective to me, as if to encourage me to unravel the relationships between each layer so that I might bridge their differences. I hold my breath as I watch in silence. If a small bird enters the scene with its twittering at this moment, it will draw me back through this rich diversity of my reality. I will then return to this side of the brick wall. I am on this side, and the landscape is on the other side. The disparate patterns on the brick wall - resembling water chestnut flowers, braids, bamboo, herringbone - these become the medium through which I enter the landscape.

Centre

My father's unflappability stems from his confidence in the world that surrounds him: no matter how the world changes, we will always be the centre of the world, and this garden will be the centre of the centre. 

Even if we are bombarded by news about the barbarians' invasion from the south, the entire city will not collapse into a frenzy. Rather, the numerous creatures here remain as they are, the cerulean waves continue their ebb and tide, and everything would appear as harmonious as before. To me, the barbarians on horseback are just figments of my imagination. I have never seen a prairie, and can only imagine it through lines in poetry:

The murderous air pushes up in a haze
A jade curtain parts the East and the Yellow River
A prompt dispatch is sent to the city walls of Leh
Night sheds its robes to comfort the fallen generals

...

Unfortunately, this is merely a dream of Lu Fang Weng4.

Because Beijing City's population continues to increase, buildings are forced to develop upwards as skyscrapers, such that there is hardly any space left to view the sky. People are most concerned about how they can live comfortably in the limited space available to them. The "Emperor" has encouraged folks to add extensions and renovate existing buildings, such that these structures would look more palatial, in order to induce deep shame in the hearts of the invading barbarians on horseback. With respect to this, my father had even "received caution" from the powers that be, leaving him with little option but to renovate the front of our homes extensively. 

I only need to step onto the small alley in the garden, stroll between the green hills and blue waters, and in an instant, I would feel as if the cacophony outside is of no concern to me. I vanish within the middle of the garden, just as the world disappears into the garden. 

Time

Sometimes I feel as if I am traveling through the gardens of my memory. Or I am walking through the garden that I have committed to my memory. Everything in the garden radiates a fragrance that is disconnected from the world. Temporal joy seems to have congealed in the atmosphere. I feel as if I had never grown up, or should I say, I had grown up since the beginning. There is no essential difference amongst everything in this meticulously cultivated landscape. My father had constructed his ideal garden, and this garden has become the one in my memory. I will see your past, his future; it is only that I do not have the means to describe it at this point in time. 

Exit

After my father's death, I had a solitary stroll through the alley. The fallen leaves brushed softly against the soles of my feet. I could smell the decay of the woods in the air. I thought: if the plants in the garden were free to grow wildly, and the fallen leaves were left to accumulate, what would become of the garden?

My father did not turn into a rabbit. And I can no longer walk out of this garden. 

Published by Making Worlds, the catalogue of the 53th Venice Biennial, 2009, pp.238-23