In a dimly lit stall sits a man on his eightieth birthday. Most of his days are spent contemplating, drinking tea, and writing poetry which completely covers his walls like a makeshift wallpaper covering. They are pinned there while the ink dries but mostly because they are meaningful to him. Just like his father and grandfather he is the town’s local calligrapher, scholar, and poet. Unlike his forefathers however, he is alone since his son has left for the big city to earn better wages. Eighty years old and there is no one else willing to carry on the traditions of generations. His birthday is celebrated with a commission to brush a sign with his unique aesthetic style. Brushing signs is profitable but work of this sort is few and far in between. Maybe today he can buy some extra rice.
He is alone in the same tiny stall measuring 6 feet by 6 feet, where he spent his youthful days apprenticing with his father and his father before with his. In the center is a low table where stacks of paper are held in place with a paperweight made of a jade remnant that his grandfather found as a youth. On the other end of the table is his workspace where he kneels working by the daylight flickering through the rustling leaves. Behind, sitting against the back wall, is a chest of drawers that keeps his other papers, ink sticks, and cleaning supplies safe and sorted. Finally, displayed on top of the chest are his collection of at least one hundred brushes passed down from the generations.
A traveler walks by and notices the stall. Studying for a moment, he is moved by the diligence of the master calligrapher at work. The pinned calligraphy then catch his eyes and he is touched as though they could have been by Monet. Awestruck, through an interpreter, he asks the calligrapher if he could find time to accept a commission by him. The calligrapher grants the request and within one minute a unique poem was brushed and being pinned into the soft cypress slats that make up the shabby walls. When is was time to pay, the interpreter said an amount equivalent to one hundred dollars in today’s value of currency. The tourist was surprised. He inquired that if it only took him one minute of labor and less than a penny of ink to brush this poem, why would the bill come to one hundred dollars.
The interpreter began to explain. “It did not take just one minute to do this poem, it took two generations, eighty years, and one minute.”
I read this story somewhere or perhaps heard a narrative on television. The fable is said to have taken place generations ago. It does now and as it did then, speaks volume to the hidden wisdom found in excellence. Whether it is in art, sport, a vocation, or even a relationship, its face value is not a representation of its underlying efforts and sacrifice. It is in this same way that a world class sprinter cannot express in 10 seconds, the years of effort it takes get to that level. Endure. (Where have we heard that before?)
I don’t know if the story ends with the traveler purchasing the art but if I were wearing his dirty soles, I would want to buy two scrolls if my budget allowed.
