"Wu Jung-szu doesn't say much, but few people can communicate with a piece of wood as eloquently as he does," a friend said of the reticent sculptor.

It was quite a refreshing experience to meet the sculptor himself. Standing in the Howard Salon in Taipei, where his recent sculptures were on display, Wu struck me as a shy man. When he shook hands with me, I could feel his nervousness. "Even though I've lived in Taipei for thirty years, I still feel like a country bumpkin," he told us. He had a special rusticity which made him stand out in a metropolis filled with sophisticated city slickers.

Wu's wood sculptures also give us a feeling of ingenuousness--no fancy stuff or abstruse modernistic images to dazzle the eyes. His sculptures concentrate mainly on themes taken from traditional Chinese stories. The historical heroes and personages come to life under his dexterous, skillful hands. We can tell that the vital, fresh character which distinguishes these sculptures is beyond the capacities of an ordinary craftsman.

It was this distinct touch of creative vitality in his sculpture which attracted the attention of Han Pao-teh, a renowned architect, art critic, and president of Tainan National College of the Arts. Some twenty years ago, he happened to pass by Wu's Tsanshan Buddhist Shop. He was fascinated by the rough-hewn Buddhist statues awaiting completion which Wu had placed at the door of his shop. "Though they were unfinished, I could feel a life and spirit in them." Hoping to meet the creator of these works, Han walked into the shop and into Wu's life.

"I am most grateful to Mr. Han," Wu said. "He took me from the realm of mere craftsmanship to that of artistic creation by encouraging and supporting me along creative lines." Han bought reference books for Wu and suggested directions for him to take. Because of this, Wu began to think more seriously about his woodcarving. It became not just a means to make a living, but the embodiment of his aspiration to be a top-notch sculptor.

Before they met, Wu had already made his reputation in the Buddhist sculpture trade. His works were a common sight in many famous temples around Taiwan, and people who wanted to order Buddhist statues with especially difficult designs were often referred to him. Han recommended that he refine his skills in representing the Buddha and then expand his skills to non-traditional subject matter to create more room for artistic presentation.

"Before I met Mr. Han, my idea of artists was that they were all weirdoes who had long beards and long hair," said Wu. "I was not interested in becoming one of those. But he taught me a lot about art and told me that I could become a better sculptor. With his encouragement, I decided to dedicate more time to creative work. I read the books he bought for me, and I often stayed up all night trying to think up new ideas or plan details for my sculptures."

With his passion and commitment, Wu has proved himself worthy of Han's high regard for him. In addition to local exhibitions, his works have traveled as far as Hong Kong, Singapore, Belgium and France, gaining a great deal of media attention and general acclaim. Art collectors have also begun to include his works in their collections. Before he met the professor, Wu had never imagined there would be such a day.

A late start

Wu had quite a late start for a sculptor.

His early life was no different from that of a typical Taiwanese who grew up in the forties and fifties. Taiwan was still plagued by poverty, and most families struggled to make ends meet. His family could barely eke out a living by selling fruit from their own orchard. Under such circumstances, it was considered important to have a profitable profession in order to keep one's family adequately fed and clothed.

Art was certainly not on the list of profitable professions at that time. Thus, when Wu displayed a gift for drawing as a child, his family simply sniffed and said, "No matter how real the fruit you draw may look, you still can't eat it." His artistic talent, stunted by such disheartening comments, never had a chance to fully develop.

Because of his family's dire financial situation, Wu was only allowed to complete junior high school. After finishing his compulsory service in the army, he faced the inevitable question of choosing a career for himself. He was not interested in helping to grow fruit in the family orchard. His father suggested that he be a blacksmith, a popular occupation at that time. But it was a far cry from what he really wanted to do. Obsessed by the uncertainty of his future, he began to feel restless.

One night he had a dream. He dreamed that he was carving a statue of Kuan Yin, the Great Compassion Bodhisattva. She beamed at him most kindly as he chipped away at the flowing robe adorning the graceful figure. Her benign facial expression, enhanced by the fine texture and smooth flow of the wood, deeply touched him. When the statue was finished, Wu looked at it and could not help but admire his own skill. Suddenly, the crowing of a rooster pierced the stillness of the night and interrupted his dream.

It was a weird dream because Wu had never had any contact with sculpture before, nor had he ever thought of becoming a sculptor. This dream, however abrupt it may have been, helped him make his decision. He decided to become a woodcarver.

He was twenty-three years old at that time and did not even know what a chisel looked like. But somehow he knew that it was the right choice.

He learned from a friend that there was a master sculptor, Pan Teh, who owned a Buddhist shop in Taipei. Wu went there directly, hoping to be received as an apprentice. With his bags in his hands, he walked back and forth in front of the shop trying to muster up enough courage to enter it. His feet, which had begun to ache from standing too long, finally betrayed his hesitancy. He walked into the shop and said aloud, "I am Ah-szu from Nantou. I want to see Pan Teh."

Master Pan raised his head from his work. Taking a long look at the young man, he asked him what he wanted.

Wu told him.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," Wu answered.

"Fifteen or sixteen is the best age to start. At your age, the bones of your hands are already too hard to adapt to woodcarving. You'd better think about it again."

"I will try very hard. Please give me a chance."

Perhaps the determined look on his face softened the master's heart. After a few moments of consideration, Pan said, "Okay, you may start tomorrow."

True to his word, Wu did work very hard. He carefully watched how the master held the chisel, attacked the wood, carved it and gave it the final finish. When the other apprentices left after work to go shopping or to see a movie, he was the only one who stayed behind to cut piece after piece of wood into statues or statuettes of Buddha. He was bent on showing the master his determination.

In addition to his diligence, Wu seemed to have an intuitive grasp of form, balance and composition. He possessed a special talent in intuiting the flow of the grain in a piece of wood. This talent was of great service to him, because as a woodcarver he had to judge from the grain what form he should give to an uncarved block. Looking at an untouched piece of wood, he could quickly form a conceptual picture of the final product in his mind and then proceed to carve it from the direction most appropriate to the flow of the grain. With his hard work and this special talent he made startling progress, which constantly amazed Master Pan.

Six months passed. One night, when the master had finished a statue and retired to bed, Wu looked at the statue and thought, "Maybe I can carve a copy of this statue and compare the master's skills to mine."

The clock ticked away as he concentrated on his work. When he finally finished it, he placed it beside the statue made by the master and went to bed fully satisfied. In the morning when the master stepped into the studio, he was stunned: he could not tell which of the two statues was his. Wu knew then that he had fulfilled that dream which had inspired him to become a sculptor.

Busy days

Wu was the fastest learner among the many apprentices in Master Pan's shop, and before long he was assigned many important tasks. As the shop's business prospered, he often had to work day and night to handle the stream of commissions. "Those busy days afforded me a good many chances to practice," he recalled. "My skill was greatly enhanced during that time."

In Wu's mind, Buddhist statues should possess a particular power to comfort the suffering souls of those who turned to the divinities for consolation. Therefore he wanted his statues to look lively, compassionate and dignified so that people would feel soothed when they looked at and prayed before them. It was not an easy job, but it was a challenge every conscientious Buddhist sculptor had to take on.

But the sculptor was not without his lonely moments. "No matter what kind of artistic work you create, you can put your name on it," Wu said. "The only exception is religious statues. Once they are completed, they belong to the people who worship them, not the sculptor."

The son-in-law

Eventually, Wu became not only Master Pan's best student, but also his son-in-law. Admiring his great carving skills as well as his simple, honest personality, the master gave him his favorite daughter, Miao-yin, in marriage. "My father-in-law gave me the two things which he treasured the most in his life: the skill of woodcarving and his daughter, Miao-yin." After they got married, the couple opened a shop of their own and started their business. Miao-yin played an important part in Wu's business as well as in his family life. Born the daughter of a woodcarver, she knew the job quite well and could help color and apply gold leaf to unfinished statues. Sometimes she also helped in getting commissions. The couple could have lived quite comfortably, since Wu's skills served him well and they enjoyed a brisk business. But things did not go as smoothly as expected.

With increasing fame in the local Buddhist sculpture trade, Wu was elected director of the Buddhist Sculpture Association of Taipei County. The title cost him a lot. Many social appointments were crammed into the schedule of his daily life and he was left with little time to create. Because of these demands, he began to frequent night clubs, indulge in alcohol, and live a dissolute life. As a result, the shop's business slackened and he began to run up debts. The economic situation of the family became even worse after their three children were brought into the world.

It was when Wu's life and career were at their lowest ebb that Han passed by his shop and entered his life. Seeing Wu's artistic potential, Han frequently visited him to talk about his woodcarving. His cordial encouragement and sincere appreciation brought Wu out of his slump. He reflected on his current life and decided to change the careless way he was living it. When he picked up his chisel again, it was with the determination to open up a new artistic realm for himself. His performance to this day proves that he really did have the ability to match the high expectations many people had of him.

As if the Buddha were always keeping an eye on Wu, people always showed up at the turning points of his life and became guiding stars along the way. Of course, he himself made good use of every opportunity he could get. Otherwise, instead of becoming an accomplished sculptor, he would have ended up an obscure, small-town blacksmith as his father had wanted.

The road ahead

Wu is now in his fifties. Since he did not have the chance to receive a complete formal education when he was young, he often felt inferior to well-educated people. In order to make up for this regret, he attended night school along with kids who were younger than his youngest son. "You can imagine how awkward I felt among those youngsters. At midterm and final exams, I was so nervous that I even filled in the wrong blanks. However, I'm still happy I chose to go back to school, because reading and studying really help. It makes me look at things differently." This spring, much to his joy, he passed the entrance exam for the Chinese department of Tamkang University in Taipei, and he will become a university student in September. "People are just like trees: the deeper the roots reach into the earth, the better the trees will grow," said Wu. Learning makes him grow and makes his roots reach deeper and stronger. Therefore, he has never let go of any opportunity to learn and improve himself.

When I visited Wu's studio in Nankang, a suburb of Taipei, I found several realistic wooden heads and busts that he had made. He said that he intends to concentrate on portrait sculpture with an emphasis on realistic characterization. Han feels that this is the right direction for Wu to take. "Traditional face-carving just mimics standard faces, requiring no unique character for each one. When traditional, standard presentation is imbued with a Western emphasis on characterization, the art of portrait carving will be both creative and native--a new art form."

"Wood sculpture in Taiwan has generally been restricted to three categories--statues of the Buddha, souvenirs, and temple decorations--all of which are commercially oriented," observed Han. "Wu's sculptures of Chinese historical personages have demonstrated a great deal of creative vitality. No doubt he has imbued local wood sculpture with new life, but after this point he must explore new horizons through his sensibility, intuition and devotion."

Woodcarving was considered a skill which was essentially time-consuming, painstaking and "dirty," and it was exclusively the province of craftsmen. But as Han said, Wu's artistic sensibility has opened up a new road for traditional craftsmanship. We believe that with his genius and hard work, he will carve out a bright future for himself as well as for the local sculpture community.