2010年 水松石山房主人 （生於1943年）

ink on three pieces of Arches paper, with calligraphy and five seals of the artist, framed

The overall condition is very good.
"In response to your inquiry, we are pleased to provide you with a general report of the condition of the property described above. Since we are not professional conservators or restorers, we urge you to consult with a restorer or conservator of your choice who will be better able to provide a detailed, professional report. Prospective buyers should inspect each lot to satisfy themselves as to condition and must understand that any statement made by Sotheby's is merely a subjective, qualified opinion. Prospective buyers should also refer to any Important Notices regarding this sale, which are printed in the Sale Catalogue.
NOTWITHSTANDING THIS REPORT OR ANY DISCUSSIONS CONCERNING A LOT, ALL LOTS ARE OFFERED AND SOLD AS IS" IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE CONDITIONS OF BUSINESS PRINTED IN THE SALE CATALOGUE."

Inscription:

The Empty-Headed Hermit once owned a stone that seemed infinitely long.  It was so long that to set it vertically would have been pointless, one could only have seen a small area of detail at eye level and the detail proved crucial.  So he laid it down on a grassy bank outside his mountain retreat - not an easy task and one that had to await the arrival of many friends invited for the occasion – it took two years before enough of the invitees had turned up.  Fortunately one of them had been an engineer in his former life in the Dusty World, so he knew how to use a pulley, and leverage manpower.  It still took the best part of the summer to move it along several miles of mountain paths from its dark resting place over the aeons and manoeuvre into position in front of his home.  We were all a good deal stronger, with many more bruises and scratches by the time we had finished, but greatly elated by the successful effort.    Once it was settled on the ground it stood as high as a youth on the cusp of maturity and many times as long.

He had found the stone not too far from his home in an underground river that chilled the cave in which he stored his plum wine and other comestibles he needed to keep chilled in summer, or un-frozen in winter.  The stone was originally even longer, as it was part of the river-bed, carved and perforated by the endlessly patient rush of water carrying it's tools of tumbling pebbles.  He had to cut it, and cut it free, with his chisels, choosing the section he could see, gain access to without too much trouble, and, with the help of his friends, move.

He would often disappear into it entirely, seeking, he claimed, perfection, in search of the magic of the stone, it's essence.  I stayed with him many decades after he began entering the stone.  At first he encountered strange creatures, returning to describe them to me, but before long I was enticed to join him and meet them for myself.  They were plentiful, hidden only from those who are unable to see the content of strange stones.  There were real and mythical beast, bats and bears; chi dragons and qilin, and otherworldly mystics silently awaiting the arrival of a true Stone Fool to join them in their playground of infinite delights. 

Who knows how long we spent in the world of the stone, for to enter it was to step beyond the stage of time, measure was meaningless.  We could only guess at the passage of time once we had returned to what is laughably referred to as the 'real world'.

One day my old friend returned from a long sojourn in the stone on his own.  I had been busy making the year's fresh batch of plum wine.  He announced that he had found the true spirit of the stone. 'It is a woman.'  He said evenly.

He had, in his youth, dallied with women.  He had even known love - deep and rewarding love, once; but it had passed and he had cut himself off from it as too painful to lose again.  But in the stone, there was no danger of that.  It would take ten thousand, and then ten thousand more, and then again, ten thousand times those years to wear away the spirit of the stone, or his in his union with it.  He found in those final years before he departed the world of phenomena true happiness in his final love.

Without him the abode was not the same, and when I eventually left, the stone was far too large to carry with me, too large for ten men to carry.  It remains there still, deep in the sepulchre of Shu, awaiting my return.  Who knows, perhaps when I do, the endlessly desirable Spirit of the Stone will find room alongside my friend's love and allow mine too.  Perhaps she never allowed his, for who knows how the essence of a Strange Stone deals with so ephemeral an emotion as love?

But I have not forgotten the stone, although I have not seen it for many centuries, it is still etched in my mind's-eye.  I recall with clarity the section where he said he had first encountered the spirit of the stone, standing by a limpid pool in the mountains, her face shining so brightly with enlightened love he could make out not a single detail.  Respectfully, I paint it now.  As my brush moves on the paper, and the scent of ink drifts into the incense smoke, I see her for the first time and give my heart freely.

At the Garden at the Edge of the Universe, Hong Kong, December 2010.