Many artists in Chinese history have represented the power of soaring imagination in their paintings, but a contemporary artist in Taiwan has combined both the power of imaginative art and the "celestial horse" itself in his work.
Yeh Tsui-pai, a retired ROC army general, began building his formidable reputation as a painter four decades ago. Today, he enjoys international recognition for art work that focuses on a single subject: horses.
But what horses! Even a glance at one of these bold yet graceful renderings of equine sinew and power lifts the viewer to a transcendent world. Yeh transforms the horse into a heavenly entity, giving it a position of esteem that rivals the beloved dragon.
The horses in his paintings gallop through fields and prairies as one would expect, but they also fly among the clouds or are presented descending to earth from the heavens. Others stand in dignified glory astride mountain peaks. In all the paintings, the horses are depicted in Yeh's broad, spontaneous strokes; the muscles and muzzles of his animals are therefore implied, not detailed, reminding viewers of Chinese artists in centuries past who were deeply influenced by Chan Buddhism and Taoist philosophy.
Contemporary critics hold divergent views of Yeh's imaginative beasts, but they agree that his painting technique is strikingly impressionistic, a spiritual out-pouring from his innermost nature. Yeh pays little attention to the evaluations of critics, however, for he is concerned only with allowing the force of his own inspiration to guide his hand as he creates each work. The results of his efforts are in great demand. Confucius once said virtue among men was like a thoroughbred among horses; Yeh's horses are equally rare and, among collectors, valued as much as the best bred steeds are among horsemen.
As a youth, Yeh did not embark on a path seemed destined for artistic greatness. Born in Chekiang Province on October 1, 1909, he bore personal witness to the savage chaos of an era on the mainland marred by warlord domination. He subsequently saw the mainland occupied by Japanese troops, and finally overrun by the Chinese Communists. Although his grandfather taught him Chinese calligraphy and gave him an appreciation of fine arts, Yeh found few opportunities to pick up his brush during those violent years. The young man answered the call to arms as did millions of others and became a Nationalist soldier.
Yeh gained a reputation for courage and leadership in battle. His successful exploits against the Japanese during the 1930s earned him promotion after promotion. He also attracted the attention of General Chiang Kai-shek, who was impressed by his military tactics and qualities of leadership. Beginning as a regimental commander, Yeh passed through the ranks of division commander, deputy corps commander, acting corps commander, and finally general in 1948. At 42 years old, he was one of the youngest soldiers to achieve that rank in China.
With the surrender of Japan, Yeh found himself campaigning against Communist guerrillas. It was during that conflict that Yeh first began to love horses. After the Sino-Japanese war ended, Nationalist soldiers spent most of their time in pursuit of Communist troops positioned in the countryside. Yeh had to patrol remote areas throughout China in terrain no motor vehicles could negotiate. In these wild and untracked regions, horseback was the only practical means of military movement. Leading his men through the wilderness, Yeh traversed thousands of miles in a period of seven months.
"I rode on horseback day and night," he recalls. "I ate, slept, and worked with the animals, and gradually developed a deep sense of admiration for their grace, power, and courage. I first tried my hand at painting horses during those years."
During the war, material supplies were scarce, with books and entertainment almost unknown luxuries. Yeh spent the long hours awaiting action painting his beloved horses on coarse bamboo-pulp paper. One day in 1947, while his troops were garrisoned at a small village in Shantung Province, Communist forces suddenly attacked from all sides. The onslaught continued for three days with neither side gaining ground. On the fourth day, the action ceased. The attackers seemed to be deliberating on how to rout the stubborn soldiers they had surrounded. Yeh and his men could only wait.
The general picked up his brush and painted. The figures of horses reminded him of the dignity and courage he so admired, and helped subdue his own growing impatience. On the sixth day, two of his regimental commanders solemnly entered his quarters to ask for orders. "They grimly warned that provisions were low, and time was running out," Yeh recalls. "But the Communists were grossly under-equipped, and certainly not foolish enough to waste energy on a battle they were not winning. Moreover, their lack of supplies would force them to withdraw soon. I painted my horses and told the commanders not to worry—the Communists would be gone in three or four days."
Three nights later Yeh was proven correct. A few diversionary bursts of enemy fire broke the silence, then there was silence. By daybreak, not a single Communist soldier was in sight. Like his choice of painting horses, Yeh had made the right decision.
Armed with a dexterity and aesthetic sense acquired after years under the stern eyes of his grandfather and subsequent painting during his military years, Yeh experimented with various techniques. But it was not until 1957 that he found the inspirational catalyst he needed to focus his talents-a work by the Sung Dynasty artist Liang Kai entitled "The Fairy in Splash-Ink Style." He was immediately jolted by the picture when he first came upon it in a new art book he was examining. Yeh says he pounded his fist on the table in excitement and exclaimed, "Here is my teacher!"
The freedom of expression conveyed by Liang Kai's style conveyed exactly the attitude Yeh himself sought for his own art. The traditional model was shortly thereafter supplemented with a contemporary source of inspiration. "Soon after I saw Liang Kai's work, I witnessed a rhythmic ice-skating performance," Yeh says. "I watched the slender, graceful legs of the performers gliding smoothly over the ice, and realized I could make my horses bound and fly with equal elegance."
In fact, Yeh never copies actual horses. "I have a poor memory for natural detail," he says. "But as my imagination soars I paint horses never seen in nature, horses of inspiration and fantasy. They transcend time and space, and glow with inner energy. I try to convey the essence of Chinese culture in my work, but I also try to manifest my individuality by breaking the mold of tradition. "
Critics say his military sense imbues the paintings with special mobility and action. Some praise his work as an ultimate achievement springing directly from the spirit, others call it an attempt to incorporate impressionist techniques into Chinese art. And there are those who say they have the feeling that his horses seem to be "born" on the paper.
Yeh says he draws upon the Taoist concept of "creation out of nothingness" as he wields the brush. "I don't do the painting myself," he adds. "I simply follow my inspiration and the movement of the brush, and I never know where they will lead me. The power that guides my hand is never the same twice, so I cannot duplicate a single picture."
In 1958, he held his first public exhibition at the request of the U.S. Information Service in Taipei. A photographer from a New York news agency took pictures and introduced Yeh's work to American art lovers. Later, in 1960, a West German news agency sent two photographers to film a special documentary on his work. Although Yeh had achieved the rank of general and an honored position in society, he decided to resign his post that year in order to concentrate on his painting as well as promoting Chinese culture abroad.
Since then, Yeh has enjoyed growing recognition among art lovers worldwide. He also makes personal appeals for world peace at his overseas art shows. As might be expected, he considers the horse, rather than the dove, as his personal symbol of peace. "People generally look upon the dove as the symbol because it is gentle," he explains. "But I like the horse for its strength, beauty, and nobility. It's a symbol of luck in China, and virtues such as kindness and serenity are associated with the animal."
In May 1988, Yeh toured West Germany, the Netherlands, and Spain, sponsored by the ROC Government Information Office. He received wide attention in all three countries, but the Spanish reaction was unusually positive. El Pais, the largest newspaper in Spain, and the official organ of the left-wing Spanish Social Labor Party, ran a spacious article on his exhibition entitled "Yo soy el caballo" ("I am the horse"), a direct quote from the artist. El Pais has never reported any other story on the ROC.
During his tour of Spain, Yeh took time to demonstrate his painting technique. Pausing only for a moment before Spanish TV cameras, Yeh suddenly leaped into action, his brush dashing across the paper. A fascinated audience watched as a head appeared, then a body, four legs, and hooves. Switching quickly to a larger brush, he rolled, tilted, and pressed it on the paper, adding a flying mane and tail. Within minutes, the work was done.
The supervisor of the largest TV station in Madrid, Julio Cesarnandez, himself a renowned painter, watched in amazement. The demonstration led quickly to a close friendship between the two artists, resulting in numerous spots for the Chinese artist on Spanish programs. Yeh's goal of promoting Chinese culture abroad was becoming a popular reality.
But Yeh has accomplished much more than a continuation of ancient tradition. He is breathing new life into Chinese culture. By successfully adapting old models to his own genius he has won a respected place among China's great artists. Perhaps the most fitting epigraph to the former horseback general was written on an album of artwork Cesarnandez presented to him just before he returned home from Spain: "For Maestro Yeh Tsui-pai, strategist, philosopher, and painter of the celestial horse." A fitting tribute to the power of Yeh's "soaring imagination."