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Leng Bing-Chuan spread the black ink evenly over the white card-paper again and again, until he thought the ink reached an ideal thickness. This ink, common in Chinese calligraphy and painting, has a unique blackness that other black pigments do not have.
The language has its limit to describe the color: it is not the darkest blackness. The darkest blackness is contained in Chinese raw lacquer which devours everything. In the dialect of my home town in Hunan province, there is a difference between “lacquer black” and “ink black.” The former refers to the total blackness, while the latter refers to the blackness which seems to show something obscure. It is also very black, yet there is something lively in it with a charm. In my opinion, this kind of ink blackness should be the closest to the word xuan, which is used to describe the “Dao” in Laozi’s philosophy.
Chinese ink is made by the materials collected from the burning lampblack or the pine soot, blended with vegetable gum and valuable spices, before thorough kneading and hammering. When Chinese ink meets the paper fiber, they will have an amazing rapport: the ink permeates as well as adheres to the paper layer by layer, rendering both texture and smoothness, appealing to the eyes with endless allure. It reminds me of Laozi’s saying “he guang tong chen,” meaning “along with the lights and dust.”
