What does it mean to hang a brush on the door?
Brush calligraphy
When I was in the third grade of elementary school, there was a class called "Calligraphy Class". Rural people don't think this is art, they just call it "writing calligraphy". When I wasn't using this half-bamboo stick and half-wool thing, I was very jealous when I watched my sister write. She was in sixth grade at the time and had been writing for several years. When she was away, I secretly took out her pen and drew some random words I recognized according to her posture, with my palm in the air. It is another language, crooked, but with thick strokes and ink deeper than a pencil. If you write it well, you can enjoy it when viewed from a distance, just like Huai Su. Later, my sister complained to my mother because I damaged her brush. My mother probably believed that a pen worth a few cents was more important than my interest, and she absolutely killed my artistic enlightenment. I seemed to have cried secretly at that time. I think all the children at that time had experienced this kind of jealousy, anger and helplessness when they saw their brothers and sisters writing.
But when I officially took this kind of class, I was full of surprise at first, but soon became bored.
The teacher's introduction starts with teaching "Eight Methods of Yongzi". It was stipulated that two large newspapers should be filled up every day and then submitted for inspection. In fact, it is not quite accurate to say that I am practicing calligraphy. It is more appropriate to say that I am doing graffiti. At that time, except for a bald pen, there was not even an inkstone. The so-called inkstone is a rough porcelain bowl that has been chipped and scratched when eating. It was a pity to throw it away, but it was just used to hold ink for me. After the initial novelty, I looked at the large one-liter bottle of ink. Every time I took a breath, it created a potential psychological fear in me. I don’t know how many years and months it will take to finish writing in this large bottle of ink. Before this fear of mine disappeared, even greater fears followed. My mother took advantage of her position to bring me all the old newspapers that the brigade wanted to sell back home. I looked at the newspaper, which was more than a foot thick, and was filled with emotion.
Except for the occasional teacher’s 70% or 80% performance in homework that makes me proud, most of the time, this monotonous and boring way of writing makes it difficult to maintain long-term motivation, and the boredom is getting worse day by day. One day. So practicing calligraphy was regarded as a kind of torture for me, and the font size was quietly enlarged day by day, just to make it easier to fill two newspapers.
It was my uncle who rekindled my desire to write. He works in the county town and can go home once a year or so. He can sing opera, and occasionally writes a few words to express his feelings in his spare time. He was my idol as a child. He went home, picked up the scrap newspaper, read what I wrote, and said it was interesting. When he was excited, he picked up my pen and started writing a continuous line like a turbulent flow. He finished a piece of newspaper in a few minutes, then hung it on the wall with a thumbtack, took a few steps back, and talked about it. Cursive. This is the first time I have seen characters that do not have the rules of closing the front and hiding the front. More importantly, the speed of writing makes me feel excited about a bright future. My uncle said, don't be too disciplined when writing, otherwise the handwriting will be a craftsman's. His words made me feel like I had met a close friend.
Not long ago, my uncle brought me some calligraphy books. They were not the ones with facial expressions and willow bones, but the ones written by Huai Sumi Fu. They were majestic and the lines were like the water of a river, which made people's blood boil. My uncle said that Chairman Mao practiced this kind of calligraphy. Chairman Mao also practiced this kind of calligraphy, which made me even more awe-struck.
From then on, I started the process of leaping from regular script to running script and even cursive calligraphy. To be honest, I didn’t recognize most of those words, but I traced them stroke by stroke, and when I looked at them from a distance, I was moved by their momentum.
Imitating an image is the first time for a child to express the objective world. Before this, the child had too many external images in his mind, and he confided too little. To describe an image of success is to be eager to receive praise from the outside world and to quickly achieve an indescribable sense of success.
I pasted the words I wrote one by one from the wall beside the kang to the window. The walls of our home were covered with my "works" at an alarming rate during that period. Even the tables, magazines, and the wooden boards inside the boxes were all covered with big characters saying "I scared away dragons and snakes." The newspapers my mother brought home could no longer keep up with my writing speed. I remember one day, I was so excited that I couldn't find the paper to write on, so I dug out the book my mother used to keep accounts for the brigade. This kind of book has interlaced red and blue lines and has good water absorption. I filled the blank spaces of this book with words from beginning to end.
At the end of the year, when my mother closed the accounts, she was shocked when she turned over the book. She opened the book to me page by page, howling desperately at me: "What can I do?" She turned another page and asked, "What should I do?" ? "Needless to say, I got another beating.
I was scolded for writing. Gradually, writing in newspapers can no longer satisfy my desire for expression. I long for a larger piece of paper to create a work in one go. But my mother would not buy me a large piece of paper. A large piece of paper costs 15 cents, which is her day's work points. My eyes traced our newly built house. My dad got the white ash from nowhere and painted the walls of our house a white color that was not available in other homes. A white wall, what a fine paper, I was so excited about my discovery. One day, while the whole family was out, I put two stools together and stood on them, which were as high as the roof. With a swipe of my bald pen, I scrawled a newly learned Tang poem on the newly painted wall with dripping ink. After I finished writing, I still hated that the pen was not thick enough and the ink was not dark enough. I was intoxicated with my calligraphy works.
Many years later, I realized that writing poems on the wall was not my exclusive privilege. Qin Guan got to know Su Shi by leaving words on the wall, Lu You and Tang Wan exchanged inscriptions in Shen Garden, and Song Jiang was troubled by his wife for writing anti-poems. Report, I have no good stories to tell, and I am not guilty of beheading. My mother came home, looked at the words on the wall, and sighed helplessly.