Wu grew up in Mingchien Town, central Taiwan, where his family was barely able to scrape out a living from selling the fruit from their small, private orchard. Life was simple, no-frills, and often boring. To fill the void of long days with little to occupy his mind or restless spirit, Wu taught himself to paint the things around him, rendering likenesses of trees and fruits with a primitive yet firm hand.
Painting enhanced his spiritual fire, Wu recalls, but his relatives were unimpressed with his artistic efforts. Strained by their poverty-stricken existence, his father and elders gave him little encouragement. Rather, they frequently asked, "What is painting useful for? Even if fruits are painted to look real, they can't be eaten." Wu refused to be discouraged, but never viewed his hobby as anything more than that.
Later, after finishing his military service, Wu faced the inevitable question of employment. He could opt to stay at home and manage the still unprofitable orchard, following in the footsteps of earlier generations, or try something different. His father was not optimistic about the family business either, and recommended that he learn to be a black smith, a steady and profitable occupation in central Taiwan.
Wu delayed his decision, uncertain of what he should do. Then, one night, he dreamed that he was carving a statue of a wooden Buddha which gazed at him with a kindly, amiable face as he chipped away at the robes gracing this revered figure. "How uncanny the dream was," Wu recalls. "I had no contact with wood sculpture before the dream, nor had any townfolk in my village engaged in this occupation. However, from the moment I woke at dawn, I was convinced that I should dedicate myself to this trade."
Through the help of a friend, Wu was accepted as an apprentice at the Chiuchen Buddhist Shop in Taipei, a place long noted for its high quality statuary. Pan Teh, the shop's master craftsman and eventually Wu's first benefactor, asked his age. "Twenty-three," Wu said. Master Pan shook his head, and said, "In the field of wood carving, 15 years of age ill the best time to start learning. At 23 the bones of your hands are already too hard to adapt to woodcarving. "
Wu remembers being nervous, but determined. With enough enthusiasm to convince the undecided master crafts man, he replied "Trust me, I'll do my best." Master Pan pondered a while then said, "Let's try. You start tomorrow."
Wu's initial confidence was matched with ability. After but three months he wall already making startling progress, regularly impressing his teacher. Beyond a natural girt for carving, Wu was extraordinarily diligent. When the senior fellow apprentices left the shop in the evening to see a movie or go shopping, he remained behind totally engrossed in his work. Wu's industrious personality and special talent soon began to coalesce into dexterous capabilities as he mastered the process of carving statues of the Buddha.
There are generally six steps in transforming a raw block of wood into a piece worthy of being placed in a temple: rough-culling, polishing, sanding, coloring, applying the gold leaf, and finally "opening the Buddha face," meaning painting in the pupils of the eyes.
The first step is also the most critical, and in ways is the most formidable. Where and how one begins determines the quality of the end result. The crafts man has to make complex decisions about the form of the statue based upon the grain of the wood before him. Wu demonstrated an uncanny ability to intuit the "flow of the grain" that would, under the expert hands or the sculptor, give spirit and fire to the final visage of the Buddha.
After determining the shape of the statue from careful study of the uncarved block, the craftsman makes his first commitment by rough-cutting. The tools cut first superficially, then deeply into the wood. Wu, unlike his fellow apprentices, attacked the wood in remarkable ways. Instead of approaching each piece from the front, he would first establish a clear conceptual picture of the final product in his mind, then began carving from the direction most appropriate to the grain, even if upside down.
Wu attributes his unique ability to the six years of experience during his youth when he was employed to hack huge stones into squared chunks for breakwaters. His training in observing the grain of stones served him equally well when he had to assess the qualities of wood.
The day soon came when Wu faced a crucial test. He imitated one of Master Pan's carvings of the Buddha. The master craftsman could not distinguish the difference between his own work and that of his new apprentice. Wu had passed the test after only six months, two and a half years sooner than most apprentices. He could now work on commissions for temples around the island. Before long, his statues of the Buddha could be round in many ramous temples, including the Big Buddha Temple in Taipei, the so-called Lovers' Temple in Pei-tou, the Tzuyu Temple in Hsinying, and the Kaitien Temple in Tainan.
Eventually, Wu became not only Master Pan's indispensable right-hand man, but also his son-in-law. And with Pan's help, Wu opened his own business, called the Tsanshan Buddhist Shop. He quickly built a reputation among local Buddhists and temple patrons. Whenever customers ordered statues of the Buddha with especially difficult designs, the orders would be referred to his shop. "These cases with distinctive requirements also afforded me more opportunities to practice," Wu says.
Seven years ago, a second benefactor suddenly entered Wu's fire. One day Professor Han Pao-teh, a leading local architect and art critic (See FCR, June 1987), happened to pass by the Tsanshan Buddhist Shop where Wu was hard at work. Han remembers being "awed and stunned" by the power of the rough-hewn statues awaiting completion in the shop.
"Architecture enjoys an indispensable relationship with the three-dimensional art of sculpture, and therefore I am especially interested in the development of sculpture in Taiwan," Han says. "When I first saw Wu's works—although they were all statues of the Buddha—I felt something different, a touch of vitality and a sense of creativity."
Han did more than admire; he took positive action. "At that time, Wu's dexterity had already become well-recognized in the Buddhist sculpture trade," Han says. "As a result, he was enjoying a brisk business. So I just told him my feelings and encouraged him to engage in more artistic creations. The process of transformation proceeded slowly. From time to time, I bought reference books to him and suggested creative directions that he might take. Two years ago, because some art collectors praised his work, he began to think more seriously about dedicating more time to creative work.
"I kept supporting his process of change by encouraging him to find inspiration from materials in Chinese history, then suggesting he try to infuse new permutations on traditional subjects. During that period, Wu told me he sometimes stayed up all night to plan the details of sculptures. To me, his behavior indicated very clearly that he had strong creative impulses and great enthusiasm for sculpture. Eventually, I encouraged him to hold an exhibition to display his recent works and to welcome comments and suggestions for his self-improvement."
Professor Han was actually doing more than encourage a single craftsman. Consistent with his teaching and writing on architecture and related topics, he is trying to build a rejuvenated view of the importance of sculpture to everyday existence in an attempt to promote more aesthetic qualities of life. Han is sensitive to the aesthetic poverty of contemporary Taiwan, and through the forms of his own work is trying to build new local views of the importance of art to society.
Han explains that in traditional China sculpture was seldom treated as an "intellectual" art. Rather, sculpture was seen as a craft that was essentially time consuming, labor-intensive, and "dirty." Han says: "The Sui and Tang Dynasties (581-907) constituted the nourishing age of sculpture. During this time, which was also the period when Buddhism reached its greatest official and public popularity, elites enthusiastically commissioned and collected works of sculpture."
"After the beginning of the Yuan Dynasty (1277-1367)," Han continues, "the art of sculpture declined along with the popularity of Buddhism, and it gradually approached the brink of total obscurity. It also became separated from the world of intellectuals. Since then, sculptors have been engaged primarily with carving souvenirs or decorations on buildings. No originality or creativity was involved. As a result, today in our country, sculpture must be learned from the West, which is completely different from Chinese tradition. Consequently, wood sculpture in Taiwan is restricted to three categories—statues of the Buddha, souvenirs, and temple decorations—all of which are commercially oriented."
Last year, Wu held an exhibition of historical Chinese heroes rendered in wood, and won general acclaim from the public. Since then, he has tried to make further breakthroughs in his creative work. In October of this year, Wu held a second exhibition, this time in Hongkong's Free China Exhibition Hall. These sculptures also portrayed Chinese historical personages, and demonstrated even more creative vitality.
The exhibit was called The Seven Chivalries and Five Righteous Men, after the title of a famous Chinese historical novel of the Sung Dynasty (960-1279). Wu's skilled hands powerfully convey the chivalrous spirits and lofty sentiments of these legendary Chinese heroes, translating the words of the moralistic, heuristic novel into memorable forms in wood.
The seven chivalries are each personified by a character in the novel: Chan Chao represents the elegance and grace identified with Southern Chivalry; Ouyang Chun the composed and dependable Northern Chivalry; Ai Hu the clever and ingenious Youthful Chivalry; Chih Hua the smart and resourceful Intuitive Chivalry; Shen Chung-yuan, the far-sighted Reclusive Chivalry; and finally the unwavering mutual support of Ting Chao-lan and Ting Chao-hui, the Twin Chivalries.
The Five Righteous Men are Robin Hood-like characters in Chinese history, and are nicknamed "mice" because of their quickness and, sometimes, deviousness. They all have picturesque names derived from significant feats performed during the course of the novel. Lu Fang is the Climbing Pole Mouse, Hsu Ching is the Penetrating Mountain Mouse, Han Chang is the Drilling Earth Mouse, Chiang Ping is the Swimming Mouse, and Pai Yu-tang is the Handsome Mouse.
Wu skillfully shaped these personages to reveal their dominant traits. Wu elaborates: "Take the Twin Chivalries as an example. When conceiving the posture of these twin brothers, I tried to fully manifest their strong tacit agreement to be mutually supporting. The result is that these twin brothers, holding their swords, are alertly squatting back against back. With their tight security system, not even a tiny fly could escape their notice. And in the case of Chiang Ping, who was adept in swimming, I specially selected a piece of wood resembling roaring waves. Then I carved the wood into a smiling Chiang Ping swimming through the surging waters."
Wu has also carved a sculpture of Wu Sung of the Sung Dynasty, famous for killing a tiger with his bare hands. Although this story has always been represented by Wu Sung and a tiger wrestling together, Wu freed himself from the stereotyped traditional image. Instead, he has Wu Sung and a tiger glaring at each other immediately prior to the battle.
Wu explains his idea: "In a battle, the most apprehensive moment occurs at the confrontation stage. It's like viewing an execution. If a convict is sentenced to death, the tension is released after he is shot. But the moment just before the execution is the time of greatest tension."
The historical Chinese figures that emerge under Wu's skilled hand have a strong folkloric hue. As one looks at his statues of Chi Kung, a legendary mad monk, Pao Cheng, an early 11th Century judge who reversed unjust verdicts in several celebrated cases, or his Four Faces Buddha, which shows the moods of happiness, anger, sadness, and joy, there is an feeling of directness unmediated by excessive adornment. The personality of each figure is unveiled and pure. There are reasons for this.
Wu's familiarity with historical figures comes not from textbook study, but through the legacy of noisy and exuberant outdoor Taiwanese operas, and from listening to the stories told by grandparents on quiet summer nights. His lack of formal academic training has tended to make his works bolder and less restrained. Wu says that he has also derived inspiration from Peking operas, in which a military officer, after a series of acrobatic fights, always holds his sword or spear in an exaggerated pose with long beard and robes fluttering in the air behind him. In Wu's statue of Kuan Yu, the God of War, he adapted this image of frozen movement by carving the blur caused by the sword's movement.
Among the various species of wood possible for statuary, Wu prefers to use camphorwood. "Camphorwood is easily carved. When you want to form it into a round shape, it will not chip off into square or irregular pieces. However, there are treacherous crevices and deformities within the structure of wood, invisible from the outside, that often can bring failure right on the verge of completion. Luckily, with 17 years of experience of sculpting in wood, I can figure out where the defective parts of the wood are by observing its surface textures," Wu explains. He also prefers the original color and grain of the wood and avoids adding colors to his statues.
It is perhaps this final discipline that sets Wu apart from so many sculptors. He knows when to stop adorning his figures, when to put down his tools. The power of each unpainted wood figure is augmented by the flowing grain of the wood; to apply brush and pigment would detract rather than enhance. Moreover, the raw wood reveals Wu's own emphasis on style and characterization, as each figure is unique in facial expression and posture. It is this specific character formation that makes Wu's works stand apart from those of the mere artisan.
While gazing into the face of a meditating Buddha or at the posture of a powerful warrior rendered in camphor wood, one is very much inclined to believe that the art of sculpture so treasured in the Sui and Tang Dynasties has been at least in part revived by sculptor Wu Jung-szu.