摘要：雨脚初歇，林气新浓。高梢滴水，细叶鸣风。纸面微润，心灯微明。坐案凝神，毫端若燕，掠影成行。远山不语，溪声自来;群芳低回，藤丝暗牵。欲写雨林，先听其息;欲定形色，先按其律。
雨脚初歇，林气新浓。高梢滴水，细叶鸣风。纸面微润，心灯微明。坐案凝神，毫端若燕，掠影成行。远山不语，溪声自来;群芳低回，藤丝暗牵。欲写雨林，先听其息;欲定形色，先按其律。
郭巍入林多次，行履熟处。穿藤过苔，步声不扬;举目处，叶团层叠，花序半藏。或白光从隙投肩，或青影在身旁游走。取景不拘，或近或远;立意不躁，或密或疏。归室展纸，先铺淡灰以定气象;继以细线织网，分枝列叶;再叠浅色，使湿润逐层渗入。线有三等：外廓为骨，次层为舱，筋脉为向。骨定其大，舱调其位，向定其势;势既成，群叶如潮。
用工笔，不为繁饰。线贵稳，稳中带活;色贵柔，柔中藏刚。大幅纵写，或上重下轻，或下重上轻;空白对冲，如帆如舵。圆幅以环结体，花团居心，深浅环围。扇面取斜，主枝横引，辅枝随转;风生其间，声止于外。看其设色，多用灰绿与赭，闲以淡紫、粉白。深处压住，不令突跳;亮处收敛，不使刺目。远观若雾在抱，近看如泉在走。
雨林多语，不可一词尽之。光自缝入，水沿根行;苔与藤相倚，花与叶相护。画中因之，空白不置边上，常藏体间。体间忽开一缝，似人语歇处，气遂可通。粗细互换，不令一律;顿提相间，不使板滞。边锋偶留毛痕，如虫蚀木，如霜压叶。凡此细节，皆为时光遗迹。
观其圆幅，粉团若霞，四围深绿渐浅。花瓣不以重彩取胜，惟凭纸白透气;微紫轻铺，如琴上余音。观其扇面，枝叶多斜行，开合有度;有一帧红白相映，花在端部出界，意象相续于画外。观其纵卷，线密色淡，树团若束发，枝丝若缆索;花影半隐，湿香可想。此等布局，皆由写生所得;写生非记名物，实记气候。晴暖则色温而明，阴湿则色冷而柔;朝夕不同，纸上自辨。
心术在先，技法随后。郭巍常言：画花不用花名，人心有感即可。故不急于起稿，先闭目想闻林味，既而落笔。线要能走，走而不乱;色要能覆，覆而不浊。阴处有光，阳处有影;冷中生暖，暖里留冷。此其所守。
昔人皆重散点，游目四方;今人多取焦点，逼视一隅。郭巍两法兼行：散点以容广，焦点以立主。故同一画内，高低明暗，主次疏密，相生相制;观者先被凝处所摄，复为漫游所引。此道与其论合：以大胆用色与空间编排，使散点与焦点同居，令主次与纵横得所，形象因之更彰。
材性亦关成败。其纸多先润，使纤维松;其笔多硬毫，以压其松。色层层加，薄似晨雾;干笔轻擦，纹起如鳞。叶柄交点，常置指痕小记，以示转折;枯叶斑驳，或以淡墨点醒。真与幻并行，硬与软并立。
观画有法：先远后近。远处取气，知其大势;中处取骨，识其体量;近处取皮与肉，看线如何与色相缝。三步既成，胸间自得温度。是温度非棚灯可造，实由水汽泥土日久渗成。
语及取舍，郭巍喜缓不喜急。锋不求骇眼，彩不求夺目;宁让对比潜行，于柔和中见深浅。自然不高呼，画面亦轻语。观者若能久留，方识其妙。其志在耐心，耐心在时间，时间在一根线里。线起时，风已至;线行时，雨在随;线收时，林息渐安。坐案良久，心同潮定。
工笔以线为纲，以气为魂;雨林为师，写生为据;散点与焦点并行，传统与当代并容。郭巍以此立身：入林受教，出室造境;以勤替巧，以淡驭华。林外人行马声渐远，纸上枝叶仍在微动;灯下回望，心中雨声未歇。
Guo Wei: Flower Clusters Hide Misty Shadows, Leaf Veins Lead the Gaze
The rain has just ceased; the forest air grows newly rich. Drops fall from high boughs; fine leaves sing in the wind. The paper grows faintly moist; the lamp of the heart grows faintly bright. Seated at the desk, he gathers his mind—the brush tip like a swallow, skimming to make its ranks of strokes. Distant hills do not speak; the stream’s voice comes of itself. Blossoms bow low; tendrils tug in secret. If you would paint the rain-wet woods, first listen to their breath; if you would fix their form and color, first take their measure and rhythm.
Guo Wei has entered the woods many times and knows the paths by tread. He threads through vines and over moss, his steps unboisterous. When he lifts his eyes, leaf-clusters overlap, flower spikes half-conceal themselves. Sometimes a white beam slips through a gap and falls on his shoulder; sometimes green shadows roam at his side. He is unbound in framing—now near, now far; unhurried in intent—now dense, now sparse. Back in the studio he opens the paper: first a wash of pale gray to set the weather; next a net of fine lines to divide branches and array leaves; then layers of light color, letting dampness seep in tier by tier. Lines have three ranks: the outer contour is the bone; the next layer, the compartments; the veins set the bearing. Bone fixes the scale; compartments adjust the placement; bearing determines the thrust. Once the thrust is set, the massed leaves surge like a tide.
He uses the gongbi fine-line manner, not for ornate embellishment. Lines prize steadiness—alive within the steady; colors prize softness—steel concealed within the soft. On large vertical scrolls the weight may sit above with lightness below, or below with lightness above; blank space counterbalances like sail and rudder. In circular formats he adopts a ringed composition: flower clusters at the heart, encircled by bands of depth and light. On fan leaves he takes a slant: the main branch draws across; lesser branches turn with it. Wind rises within; sound stops without. In his palette, gray-greens and ochres prevail, accented with light violet and powder white. Depths are pressed down, not allowed to jump; highlights are restrained, not allowed to glare. From afar it is as if mist is in embrace; up close, as if springs are on the move.
The rain-soaked woods have many tongues; no single word exhausts them. Light threads in through seams; water travels along roots. Moss leans on vine; blossom shelters leaf. Accordingly, in the painting blankness is not parked at the margins but often tucked among the forms. A sudden slit opens between bodies, like the place where speech stops; then breath can pass through. Thick and thin exchange, so nothing lapses into uniformity; presses and lifts alternate, so stiffness does not set in. The brush’s side edge at times leaves feathery hairs, like insects gnawing wood, like frost weighing leaves. All such minutiae are traces time has left.
Consider his round paintings: pink clusters like rosy cloud; the deep greens around them lighten by degrees. Petals do not win by heavy pigment but by the paper’s white exhaling; a faint violet is lightly laid, like aftersound upon a zither. Consider his fans: branches and leaves mostly slanting, opens and closes measured. In one piece red and white reflect each other; a bloom crosses the border at the edge, and the image continues beyond the frame. Consider his hanging scrolls: dense in line, light in color; tree masses like gathered hair, twig filaments like cables; flower shadows half concealed, a moist fragrance imaginable. Such layouts all come of working from life; sketching from life is not a register of named things but a record of climate. In mild sun the colors warm and brighten; in damp overcast they cool and soften. Morning and evening differ; the paper knows the difference.
Intention comes first; technique follows. Guo Wei often says: to paint flowers there is no need to know their names—let the heart be moved and it suffices. Thus he does not rush to draft; he first closes his eyes to imagine the smell of the woods, and only then sets down the brush. Lines must be able to travel—travel without confusion; colors must be able to cover—cover without turning muddy. There is light in the shade and shadow in the sun; warmth arises within coolness, and coolness is kept within warmth. This is what he holds to.
The elders prized “scattered points,” letting the gaze roam in all directions; today many prefer a single focus, pressing the eye into one corner. Guo Wei practices both: scattered points to admit breadth, a focus to establish the main. Thus within one painting, high and low, light and dark, primary and secondary, sparse and dense, give birth to and restrain one another. The viewer is first seized by the place of condensation, then led off to wander. This accords with his theory: by bold color and the laying out of space, let scattered points and focus cohabit, let principal and subordinate, vertical and horizontal find their stations—so that the image stands out the more.
Material nature also bears on success. He often pre-moistens the paper to loosen its fibers; he often uses stiff-haired brushes to press that looseness back. Color is added layer upon layer, thin as morning mist; with a dry brush he lightly rubs so that textures rise like scales. Where petioles cross he often leaves a fingertip’s small mark to signal a turn; for the mottling of withered leaves he may wake them with pale ink dots. The real and the illusory run in parallel; the hard and the soft stand side by side.
There is a way to look: first far, then near. From afar, take the breath, and understand the grand momentum; at middle distance, take the bones, and grasp the mass; up close, take the skin and flesh, and see how line sutures with color. When these three steps are done, a temperature gathers in the chest. This temperature is not something studio lamps can manufacture; it is what water vapor and earth have long seeped into being.
On choosing and discarding, Guo Wei favors the slow over the hasty. The edge does not seek to startle the eye; the colors do not seek to seize it. Better let contrast move covertly, and let depth show within gentleness. Nature does not cry out; the picture, too, speaks softly. If the viewer can linger, only then will its subtleties be known. His aim is patience; patience lies in time; time lies within a single line. When the line begins, the wind has arrived; when the line travels, the rain follows; when the line gathers, the forest’s breath comes to rest. Long seated at the desk, the heart settles like the tide.
Gongbi takes line as its framework and breath as its soul; the rain-wet woods as teacher, sketching from life as ground; scattered points and focus proceeding together, tradition and the contemporary dwelling as one. With this Guo Wei takes his stand: into the woods to be taught; out of the studio to make a realm. He substitutes diligence for cleverness; he reins in splendor with restraint. Outside the grove the footsteps and hoofbeats recede; upon the paper the branches and leaves still tremble faintly; looking back under the lamp, the rain within the heart has not yet ceased.
责任编辑：苗君
来源：愙斋书法
