Walking Back into Autumn Again — May 23, 2026
"Autumn Sings" Oil on canvas with frame 31x31" 2026
Lately, I have been immersed in a different state of painting.
I have been constantly experimenting with blending calligraphy, abstraction, and painting anew—no longer merely "depicting scenery," but focusing instead on the movement of the brushstrokes themselves, the collision of colors, and that certain "spirit" hovering between control and chaos.
As I painted, I even gradually forgot "how one is supposed to paint a tree."
Instead, I began to concern myself with other things: Would the colors suddenly come alive after a single scrape of the palette knife?
Would a sweeping stroke imbue the canvas with a fluidity akin to the *qi*—the vital flow—of calligraphy?
Would those layers of overlapping marks prove even more real than the scenery itself?
Today, I suddenly felt the urge to revisit and repaint an autumn forest I had depicted years ago.
It is autumn once again, yet my state of mind is entirely different.
The artist I once was focused primarily on the "colors of autumn"—
The shifting hues of the leaves, the interplay of light and shadow, the spatial depth of the woods; I even hoped the viewer would sense that tranquil, warm atmosphere unique to an autumn day.
This time, however, I am no longer content with a mere literal depiction of the landscape.
What I truly wish to capture is: The ceaseless, flowing energy as the wind sweeps through the trees;
The vibrant resonance of colors vibrating against one another as sunlight filters through the layers of leaves;
And that fleeting, visceral emotion of a human being standing before nature, momentarily engulfed by the light.
And so, I began to wield my palette knife much as one might splash ink—scraping, smudging, sweeping, and dotting across the canvas.
At times, I even deliberately refrained from "tidying things up."
For I have come to feel, increasingly, that things which are too neat and orderly often lose their very spark of life.
The truly moving elements in art often carry a touch of roughness, a hint of chaos, and a dash of serendipity.
Some of the branches I painted no longer truly resemble branches;
Some of the colors have long since strayed from the reality of an actual autumn day.
Yet, strangely enough, as these strokes and colors continued to overlap and intertwine, the resulting image felt—to me—even closer to the autumn preserved in my memory than any of my past works.
It is no longer the autumn perceived by the eye.
Rather, it is the autumn that exists within the passage of time.
I am slowly realizing that what truly captivates me now may no longer be "landscape painting" itself.
The landscape is merely a doorway. What I truly wish to explore is how color breathes upon the canvas, how brushstrokes move with the rhythm of calligraphy, and how, amidst the layering of paint, traces of the passage of time are left behind.
At times—reaching a certain stage in the work—I find myself unsure whether I am actually painting a forest, or rather "writing" a painting.
It is a wondrous state to be in.
It feels akin to walking through a forest and suddenly losing one’s way;
Yet, it is precisely because I have lost my way that I catch—for the very first time—a glimpse of a light I had never noticed before.