Testament 5 - 16
Hong Kong Type #27
16.
The preparation for the exhibition had entered its final stage. The printing of promotional materials, the decoration of the exhibition hall, the borrowing and transportation of exhibits, the writing of wall text and venue publication, the creation of digital supplementary materials, and the video segments of interviews with relevant figures and experts were all ready to go.
As for the concurrent exhibition on Hong Kong Print Art Retrospective, all works had already been arranged, except for Teacher Bei’s new work. Miss Yung reserved a spot for him, stating the ultimate deadline could only be extended to early September. To be cautious, a backup plan had been made, in case Teacher Bei could not complete his new work in time, it would be replaced by one of his award-winning old works from the studio’s collection.
My work with Yixisi had largely been completed and the only help I could offer now was with minor chores. I was originally scheduled to return to university in September, but I was still lacking confidence in my own condition. However, Yixisi was looking forward to attending Professor Xin’s final-year thesis class with me. But because there didn’t seem to be any signs of alleviation in the pandemic, it was highly likely that online teaching would continue after school reopened. This would certainly be beneficial for me, as it would relieve the pressure of meeting classmates, and also avoid the fatigue of excessive travel.
Even so, I still visited the university’s Soul Therapy Center to meet with Nami every two weeks. I couldn’t evaluate the effectiveness of the treatment. Nami never treated my condition as a mental illness, nor did she do anything to prevent or suppress my hallucinations. For her, there are no clear boundaries between hallucinations and reality, spirit and consciousness, and they are all harmless. She sees everything as manifestations of the soul. The soul is a wholistic phenomenon, encompassing everything, and excluding nothing. And so-called therapy is to restore the fragments caused by division and exclusion back to their wholistic state. But wholeness is not uniformity, nor singularity, because uniformity and singularity are caused by division, exclusion, suppression, and domination. Wholeness is a state of one-in-many, and many-in-one, just as the character spirits say.
I gradually understand the longing of my soul, but facing a world that has lost its soul, individual souls are extremely fragile, even vulnerable. It can also be said that the reason why a soul exists in individual forms is due to the lack of conditions for merging with other souls. This fragmentation of the soul is essentially the loss of soul in the world. If the soul of the world is not healed, individual souls cannot protect themselves. Even if they manage to protect themselves, they are still fragmented, not complete. I believe that rewriting the myth of Hong Kong Type and recasting them is a step towards recovery. Even though in a larger sense, this is only a partial restoration.
So even if I was exhausted, I had to persist in the role of the medium, and complete Dai Fuk’s story. The problem was that there was still a gap between his story and the story of the Dai family that I could trace. Whether Dai Fuk and Heng Yi could eventually be united was still an unknown. And if Dai Tak is only Dai Fuk’s adopted son, then Dai Fuk does not have a blood relationship with the later Dai family, and Six Records of a Resurrected Life can hardly be considered as the story of our family’s heritage. Unless, the so-called heritage has another meaning.
I still held a sliver of hope that Master Lui would offer me some enlightenment. I had arranged to meet him at a cha chaan teng in Sheung Wan. He said that it was the only remaining old-style cha chaan teng in the entire area; all the other shops had completely changed. Like many experienced elders, Master Lui was a talkative person, taking the lead as soon as the conversation started. He asked me about my family’s situation and growth experience and then started talking about his old days working as an apprentice under my grandfather. All I could do was nod and listen silently, having no room to interject, but I wasn’t in a hurry, waiting patiently for the right opportunity.
Master Lui was very familiar with my mother’s early years. Before my mother came of age, he was working in my grandfather’s shop. Even after becoming independent, he often came back to visit his master. He voluntarily spoke a lot about my mother’s childhood, but a lot of it had already been mentioned by my father, so it wasn’t very novel. The only thing that caught my attention was his emphasis on the closeness between my grandfather and my mother. His explanation was that my mother was the youngest daughter and thus was cherished like a treasure and loved like a princess. I suppose that is the most reasonable interpretation.
After the master had talked tirelessly for two hours, I pulled out a batch of lead type for him to identify. These were selected from the movable type I found in our old house in Sheung Wan, including over thirty small characters and over a dozen big characters. Additionally, I also showed him the photos of movable type and typesetting tools stored in my phone. I asked him whether these characters were commonly used at the time. In fact, I had already checked on the computer before this, the strokes and the shapes of these lead types were very similar to the typefaces recorded in the chart of Hong Kong Type compiled by the Dutch foundry. However, I wanted to get an expert’s opinion.
Master Lui put on his presbyopia glasses and examined each movable type meticulously with his sharp eyes before resolutely saying, “No! These are not the characters commonly used in our era. These characters should be much older, I believe no one has been using or casting them since the 60s and 70s.”
“Do you know what kind of type are these?’ I asked.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples hard, thinking intensely, then said, “I don’t know what it is called, but I know my master had a collection of old family type pieces. I only saw them once with my own eyes. It was probably my second or third year of apprenticeship. One night after work, the master sat down for a drink, perhaps suddenly in the mood, he pulled out an old leather suitcase, took out a bunch of type pieces from inside, and said they were left to him by his father. I naively thought, they must be family treasures! But the master contradicted, ‘Treasure? They are just a pile of scrap metal! Worth no money at all!’ Although he said so, I think he still cherished them in his heart, or he wouldn’t have kept them all along. I never saw them again after that, but according to my judgment, they must be what you have now.”
“So, have you seen anything my grandfather printed with these types, like a genealogy book or some articles?”
This time Master Lui said without hesitation, “I never saw any articles, but I’ve seen the genealogy book. It should be printed with these big characters, which we call number one characters. The family tree is compiled by master himself, so it contains the names of all his sons and daughters, as well as his ancestors. In my memory, there are three or four generations before him. Above him is Dai Tak, and further up is –”
“Dai Fuk.”
“Yes, it’s Dai Fuk! Master also told us that Dai Tak is the adopted son of Dai Fuk, so there is no blood relation between him and his grandfather.”
Although I had anticipated it, I still couldn’t help but feel shaken when I heard Master Lui say it himself. I held my trembling body with my shaking hands, trying to stay calm to continue questioning:
“Did grandfather ever mention whether he knew who his own grandmother was? I mean Dai Tak’s biological mother.”
“Yes, he did mention a name, but I can't remember it right now.”
The ever-confident Master Lui was caught in confusion for the first time. I pulled out another envelope, emptied the six large number one characters from it and arranged them into two names in front of him, saying:
“If Dai Fuk Seng is Dai Fuk, then is Dai Tak’s biological mother Lai Heng Yi?”
As if a timeless riddle had been solved, Master Lui exclaimed loudly, “It’s Heng Yi! What the master said is Heng Yi!”
I immediately felt relieved, yet also extremely drained at the same time. The burden of these revelations pushed my nerves to the limit. I struggled to ask another question:
“Did my grandfather say anything about Heng Yi?”
“No. He said he had never met his grandmother, and his father never spoke about her, so all he knew was a name.”
It seemed the clues had come to an end here. I didn’t have the strength to ask any further. Just as I was thinking about ending the conversation politely, Master Lui suddenly said with concern:
“Sun Fei, you don’t look very well.”
“I'm sorry, Master Lui, I’ve been a bit sick.”
“Really? It’s not anything serious, is it?”
I felt there was no need to hide, so I said, “I tried to take my life last year.”
He was shocked and asked with sympathy, “Why would you do that at your age? For love?”
“No, not that. But I can’t explain clearly. Maybe it’s my mother’s genetic inheritance.”
Upon hearing what I said, Master Lui’s expression changed drastically, falling into silence as if contemplating over a matter of great significance. I knew it wasn’t the right place to cut off the conversation, so I waited quietly for his response. After a long pause, he spoke in a slow, deep voice, completely different from before:
“Listen to me, Sun Fei, I swore never to speak of this matter. However, after hearing about your situation and your mother’s inheritance, I believe you have the right to know. It might help you. But it’s hard to say, it might also harm you. I really don’t know. I’ve carried this secret for decades, believing there would never be a reason or chance to reveal it, so I won’t have to betray my master. However, fate has arranged for me to meet you, and talk about your mother. If I don’t seize this rare opportunity to tell the truth, I would be letting down your mother, and my own conscience.”
He paused to calm his agitated emotions, took a sip of tea and continued: “Your mother attempted suicide when she was around sixteen or seventeen. She somehow got hold of a large quantity of sleeping pills and swallowed them all at once. However, she was discovered quickly, rushed to the hospital and her life was saved. Although the master’s family wanted to keep it a secret, the workers in the shop all heard about it. But what I want to tell you is not about this incident, but another that led to Ah Ching’s suicide. That was a night a little earlier when, after closing the shop, I was walking to Des Voeux Road as usual to catch a tram. It was only when I was about to get on the tram that I realized I had left my wallet in the shop, so I had to go back and get it. It was already about eleven o'clock at night. I took out my key, opened the small door in the iron gate, saw my wallet on the counter near the door, and went in to retrieve it. At this point, I heard strange noises coming from the small storage room inside the shop. I listened carefully and realized it was a man and a girl. The man was obviously the master, the girl, I later recognized, was Ah Ching. The shop was dark, and I was curious about what they were doing. But I immediately understood. Ah Ching was sobbing softly, and the sound of the master’s rough breathing - that kind of sound, any man could understand what was happening. I dropped my wallet in fright with a thud. I hastily picked it up in the dark, ran through the small door without looking back, and closed the door quickly but carefully. I walked alone on the street, wanting to vomit but failing, wanting to shout but not able to, and in the end, only by running, I barely suppressed the fear in my heart. I didn’t take the tram, but ran all the way back to my home in Sai Wan. Two days later, Ah Ching took the sleeping pills to commit suicide. Only then did I regret. If I had not been so cowardly at the time, perhaps I could have prevented things from happening. But then I told myself that doing so would have done no good, not only would the master not let me off, but Ah Ching might also have suffered even greater humiliation. Back then, we didn’t have the awareness that people who did such acts should be punished, especially when it was a mentor, an elder or a boss. We only knew how to maintain everyone’s dignity. Looking back now, I know I was wrong. So, I would like to sincerely apologize to you!”
Master Lui stood up, his expression solemn, and bowed deeply to me. I slouched in my chair, clutching my chest, feeling like I was about to suffocate. I felt dizzy and in my confused vision the roof of the restaurant was shaking, the tables and chairs were about to tip over, and the cups and plates were clattering. The whole world seemed as if it was about to collapse.
According to Master Lui, my mother’s first suicide was triggered by a specific event. So, were there also some particular reasons or events behind her subsequent suicide? I can’t help but associate it with my grandfather, thinking back to my mother’s first suicide. If there was such an incident, it certainly wouldn’t have happened in the few years before my mother died, as she was mentally ill and rarely went out. The most likely scenario was that it happened before I was born. Allegedly, my mother and my grandfather were still very close back then, and she often took her eldest son back to visit her father. I dared not speculate further, as it would lead to a terrifying conclusion. Although it couldn’t be confirmed, once this possibility arose, it couldn’t be erased. It haunted me like a ghost, making me restless day and night. No matter how many sedatives or sleeping pills I took, it didn’t help. It was like a brand seared into my body, indelible for life and unbearably painful.
Then I received a call from Teacher Bei. He said he wanted to see me and invited me over to his place to discuss some matters. Although I was not feeling well, I agreed without hesitation. I took the chance to bring back the woodcut album to him.
This time, I bought him strawberries from Japan. Teacher Bei wore a vest, revealing his strong arms, but his complexion looked languid, as if he was hanging by a thread. There was a large wooden plank on the work desk, about the length of a person, but covered with canvas. I washed the strawberries and put them in a large plate for him. He ate one at a time, but did not express any feelings. Perhaps he had lost his sense of taste for food. In no time, he finished all the strawberries. I didn’t dare to ask him how long it had been since he last ate.
After the refreshment, he invited me to see his work. Lifting the canvas, what was revealed was a black and white print. For the convenience of carving, artists usually paint the plate black first. The parts that are carved out reveal the lighter wood grains, making it easy to distinguish between what will be printed in solid color and what will be left blank after printing. The only difference is that the image is reversed left to right.
Teacher Bei did not elaborate, leaving me to observe it carefully by myself. He became quieter than before, as if any words would be excessive. What a picture can express, can be conveyed without words. If you need to use words to explain, it means the image itself is insufficient. Therefore, the painting is silent, and speaks for itself. It is the silent speech. I fully understood Teacher Bei’s point. Hence, I couldn’t use words to describe what I saw. If you had to talk about the concept, everything was contained in its title and the author’s name. The ideas he previously formulated using sketches were generally achieved. Only the center of the painting was left blank, or rather, it was left with a piece of black not yet carved. At that moment, Teacher Bei began to speak.
“You see, the painting is just a bit away from completion. However, this small bit is actually its entirety. If the central part fails, it equates to the failure of the entire work. If the central part succeeds, it represents the success of the whole. Therefore, we are entering a crucial moment now. At this moment, I need your help. Have you ever read ‘Hell Screen’?”
He walked up to the bookshelf and pulled out a thin, vintage book. It was the Chinese translation of Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s works, the same edition I had found in our old house in Sheung Wan. I took the book and said, “I’ve read it before. My mom also has this book.”
He faintly smiled and said, “What a coincidence! That’s good! In the short story, the painter Yoshihide is commissioned by the prince to paint a folding screen depicting hell. Towards the end, the only scene left is a flaming carriage he can’t draw, so he askes the prince to burn a carriage in front of him, allowing him to capture the spectacle. Yoshihide adds that inside the burning carriage, he plans to depict a court lady being tortured by the flames. The prince has long coveted Yoshihide’s daughter, but she has repeatedly rejected him. Thus, the prince decides to put her in the cart and burn her alive too. Such a ruthless prince! But what about Yoshihide? Doesn’t he realize that this is the exact scenario that he wants? As he watches his daughter burn to death in the carriage, his initial fear and pain gradually gives way to calmness, even with an appreciative perspective as he relishes the horrific scene he has wished for in his dreams. It is the scene he has always yearned to paint! Akutagawa is truly a terrifying author!”
He stopped, couldn’t help but shudder, his body twisting unnaturally, as if shaking off something. After a pause, he spoke in a low voice, “The first time I read this novel was during college. At the time, I just felt that it is about an extreme perfectionism - to create a perfect piece of work, one would not hesitate to pay even with their most cherished things. Without doing so, it’s impossible to achieve perfection. To be honest, I admired Akutagawa’s skill, but was also somewhat repulsed. My studies were around woodblock printing, the primitive spirit of which empathizes with the oppressed and rebels against authority. In the story, those who hold power are not only the prince but also Yoshihide. It is merely a struggle between different kinds of power. On the surface, the prince beat Yoshihide. However, Yoshihide challenges the prince through his extreme art, turning defeat into victory in terms of perfection and eternity. But what about the innocent daughter who is burned to death? Her death is a result of the conspiracy between the prince and Yoshihide. It isn’t that Yoshihide doesn’t love his daughter, but the more he loves her, the more she becomes the victim of his art. That’s why there are two father figures in the story, one representing worldly power and merciless brutality, that is the prince, and the other representing transcendental spiritual power, which is the painter father. These two seem to be opposed, but they’re actually two sides of the same coin. Unfortunately, this dual image appears in my own father, who is also the great sculptor Bei Dai Tung. I have been resisting these two kinds of paternal forces that he represents since I was young. After I met my wife and married her, I thought I had found the matriarchal force to counterbalance my father. But then our newborn child died prematurely, and even my wife passed away. I felt as if I bore some sort of original sin. Being my father’s son, I inevitably inherit his sin, which is the original sin of patriarchy. I see this original sin continuously passed on and spread throughout the world, relentlessly committing atrocities in the name of perfection on innocent girls, and I too is an accomplice. I feel extreme guilt and pain! I realize that I am not a resistor, but an oppressor! As a man, husband, teacher, artist, and potential father, all these make me feel disgusting and hateful. However, I can’t avoid continuing to play these roles, inevitably being caught in the conflict and conspiracy of Yoshihide and the prince. I finally understand that being an artist is destined to become a person possessed. I cannot play the warrior of justice and fight against external demons. I can only fight the demons within me and perish together with them.”
He paused to calm his agitated feelings, then pulled out a sketch from a pile, spread it in front of me, and said, “This is the central image of my painting. This massive figure, half-angel and half-vajra-protector, is the Antichrist or anti-Bodhisattva. In his many arms, he holds all kinds of torture instruments. And the emaciated human figure crouching before him is the Leech God. The Leech God is bearing all the suffering of the world, emitting cries that lament over mankind’s miseries.”
He took a deep breath and said, “Sun Fei, I hope you can be the model for the Leech God. But you know, I need to draw some nude sketches. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to set a fire. But it’s not a simple thing either. I beg you to think it over carefully.”
I looked alternately at the sketch, the book in my hand, and the determined printmaker, and said, “Let me think about it.”