The ink painting (or 酒精墨水畫) begins when a brush touches a piece of paper and the moment is always like holding a breath. In ink painting one stroke can speak lowly, or can scream. There’s no undo button. That’s part of the thrill. A single slip and the paper is permanently remembered. A single swaggering line and the picture breathes.
The expression is in the brush control. Grip matters. Gasp the brush too firmly and the line becomes as stiff as a bunch of teeth. Unbend your fingers and the stroke starts to move about. Suppose that the brush is a reed in the wind. It turns, it does not yield, it back-flows. Everything is different when it comes to pressure. When touched lightly it leaves you pale, dry. Go deeper, and the ink goes deep, dark, and makes up his mind.
Emotion is deceitful of speed. Rapid strokes are lively and audacious, such as drawing on the phone. Slow strokes can be considered thoughtful, heavy, tender, sometimes, of course. Try both on the same page. Let them argue. That tension adds flavor. Flat strokes feel calm. Stroke twisting strokes are feckless. Neither is better. They simply speak in different words.
Another silent narrator is the ink dilution. Clotted ink is an authoritative one. Misty water ink is as gossips floating in a room. Load the brush unevenly. Let one side carry more ink. In that manner, one stroke disintegrates into light and dark almost automatically. Uneven loading can usually bring happy accidents. They’re gifts, not mistakes.
Textile, paper is worthy of respect. Uncrezzled paper slides like ice skates. Rough paper fights back. It seizes the bristles, makes jagged ends. Both have their charm. Replacing paper may be like replacing instruments. Same song, different sound.