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Dai Wu-kuang and His Art
By Wu Hsiao-ting
Photographs courtesy of Dai Wu-kuang
Born in 1943, Dai Wu-kuang (戴武光) has engaged in artistic creation for nearly four decades. Unlike some painters who attain their artistic heights when they are still young and have difficulties making creative breakthroughs later in their careers, Dai has shown through one exhibition after another that he is constantly reaching new pinnacles and never ceases to improve his art. Because he has never sought the spotlight, he may not be a widely known painter, but he is well respected in artistic circles, among his peers, and by many art lovers. His natural talent coupled with a solid grounding in the technical, aesthetic, and theoretical aspects of both Chinese and Western painting has enabled him to become an established painter in his own right, one whose name can never be easily passed over in the discussion of contemporary Taiwanese ink painting.

Dai says he has always derived great happiness from artistic creation. Although he comes from a poor farming family, his parents, especially his father, never discouraged him from pursuing his talent. At a time when Taiwan was still a relatively poor society and most families on the island had difficulties making ends meet, his parents did their best to scrape together money to buy art supplies for him. Considering the strained financial circumstances they were in, Dai is especially grateful to his parents for their unconditional support. Moreover, they never failed to show their pride in him. He remembers that when he held his fourth solo exhibition at the National Taiwan Museum in 1981, he was interviewed on television. After seeing the interview, his parents immediately phoned him to say, "Dad and mom are so proud of you." He was so deeply touched that tears filled his eyes and he felt that all his sweat and hard work was well worth it.

There are many people who devote themselves to art to gain fame or riches, but Dai is not one of them. He knows how important it is to paint with an unencumbered heart, free of any intentions of attaining celebrity or wealth, to produce really good work. In this regard, he has some personal experiences to share. In the 1980s, Taiwan's economy took off and many people began to enjoy lives of prosperity. Encouraged by the new affluence flooding to the island, private art galleries sprang up one after another. Appreciating Dai's talent, a gallery signed a three-year contract with him. He only needed to produce two paintings every month and the gallery would pay him NT$60,000 (US$1,500). It was a seductive offer. Dai was teaching art in school at the time, and his monthly salary only came to NT$40,000 (US$1,000). Little did he know that after he signed the contract, painting would become such a painful thing for him. Whenever he picked up a brush to paint, his mind would be cluttered with thoughts such as: What kind of paintings should I create that will help the gallery make money? What subject matter will be most popular with the collectors? "My mind was a complete blank and I couldn't produce a single thing. Only then did I realize what a sad thing it is to sell one's soul for money." Unsurprisingly, his contract was terminated prematurely.

Some time later, he was invited by other galleries to showcase his artwork. One gallery proprietor lavished praise on his paintings, saying that his works had a distinctive, charming, bucolic flavor. (At that time, Dai often drew inspiration from country life). "Looking at them," the owner said, "I seem to be able to smell the fragrance of earth. Such wonderful creations will definitely be popular with both the critics and the public." Although Dai was greatly flattered by these comments, things did not turn out as the enthusiastic gallery owner had predicted. After participating in a few exhibitions that sold poorly, Dai was disheartened and frustrated. "Fortunately, my teachers gave me a lot of encouragement. They told me to paint only for myself and for no one else. Their moral support enabled me to keep going."

After these unfavorable experiences, Dai tried to keep his distance from commercial galleries. He knew that he needed a free creative space, unfettered by any concern for material rewards, applause, or things like that, to come up with fine works of art. Only when one's spirit is free and serene is it possible to move the brush freely on paper without any restraint. "To paint for art's sake rather than for anything else, to eliminate any motives that have no relevance to art itself, is of vital importance to an artist," observed Dai.

A graduate of the Department of Fine Arts at the prestigious National Taiwan Normal University, Dai was solidly trained in all technical aspects of painting. Although his specialty is Chinese ink painting, he also excels in watercolors and pencil sketching. However, as technically proficient as he is, he regards the mastery of skills as only the first step toward becoming a professional artist. Without the formation of a unique individual style, one cannot call oneself a true creative artist. He himself has worked hard to pursue an expression that is distinctively his. He recalls that in the 1970s, someone came to see his work at an exhibition. After looking at the paintings on display, the visitor said to him, "You paint very well. You've captured the full spirit of the painting style of your teacher, Yu Zhong-lin." Although the man who made the comment might have meant it as a compliment, Dai felt as if he had been slapped in the face. He knew that no matter how beautiful and well-executed his paintings were, he was still not a painter in his own right--he had yet to emerge from his master's shadow. "I want my work to be one-of-a-kind, not merely a replica of someone else's style." He knew very well that he must forge a path of his own to establish a foothold in the competitive art world. So he delved deeply into Eastern and Western painting theory and Chinese Taoist philosophical thinking to seek enlightenment. He also wanted to have a thorough understanding of all the ancient and modern masters, not to imitate or copy them, but to avoid painting like them. He kept trying and experimenting as much as he could and was thus able to achieve his later breakthroughs and attain his outstanding level of accomplishment today.

"Four parts reading, three parts calligraphy, and only three parts for painting" has always been Dai's motto. He cannot agree more with Zhang Da-qian (張大千, 1899-1983), one of the most celebrated modern ink-wash painters, who said: "To cast off vulgarities, cleanse away superficialities, and eliminate an artisan's aura in painting, first you must read books; second you must read more books; and third you must systematically and selectively continue reading." Contrary to popular belief, painting is not the objective representation of visual reality, but rather the expression of one's feelings and a revelation of the self. If an artist is empty and vacuous inside, how can he be expected to create anything of profundity and significance that can move people's hearts? "Art is not skill, but wisdom," remarks the painter. "Reading enables you to enrich your mind and develop and foster your inner spirituality. The importance of reading can never be overemphasized." In addition to reading, Dai believes that if one wants to attain a certain level of virtuosity in ink-wash painting, one must master the art of calligraphy. Chinese painting is actually a form of calligraphic art, except it has more pictorial images. Whether one's brushwork is skillful or not determines to a large degree if one can successfully imbue life to objects presented in a painting. Thus, Dai often diligently practices calligraphy in his free time--be it standard, seal, official, running, or cursive styles--to produce brushwork that is vibrant, lively, and full of rhythm.

Among the many elements that mark a good ink painting--the mastery of mood and ambience, the application of color, the capturing of the essence of a subject, the deft use of space--Dai especially values the last. He says that before he begins to work on a picture, he often has to spend a lot of time thinking about how to compose it--how to produce an overall dynamic arrangement of the principal and the subordinate elements, the solid and the void, the light and the heavy, and the animated and the subdued. "The interplay and interaction of substance and emptiness, of solid and void, is of paramount significance in Chinese ink painting. If a work of art cannot allow a viewer's imagination to play actively in it, it is a dead, lifeless work of art. The 'void' or 'empty' part of a painting is the space that allows a viewer's imagination to travel freely in it, to interact with the 'solid' part. That's why it's important for a painter to deftly arrange the space of a painting so that it allows ample room for imagination." Besides, the composition of a painting greatly determines whether a work can have a dynamic visual effect, whether it can be marked with an intensity and force that arrests the attention of a viewer. Therefore it is most vital for a painter to be able to come up with distinctive compositions and show a neat, creative use of space.

Today Dai's skill has become such that it seems that he can simply follow his instincts and produce superb works. People who look at his art can never fail to be amazed at the ease and effortless fluency that mark his work. As accomplished as he is, however, he still paints continuously to reach an even higher level of brilliance. He was never one to rest easily on his laurels, and the last thing he wants is to become complacent and stop making progress. "Never stop posing new challenges for yourself" is his cherished credo. "You must keep negating yourself and throw away established rules to create new horizons for your art." With this in mind, he is sure to continue instilling new life into his works and creating many more fine pieces of art to enchant and charm those who love his paintings.