Held in the Lonely Castle Chapter 03

 Cui Bai

At twelve, I was transferred to the Hanlin Painting Academy. My rank remained, but my duties shifted to assisting the academy's painters and following the painting supervisors' orders. Calligraphy Bureau eunuchs pitied me, calling it a demotion—the Painting Academy ranked below the Calligraphy Academy.

I knew painting academy members held lower status. Though fourth- and fifth-rank officials wore red and purple robes like civil officials, they couldn't carry fish pendants. To the world, academy painters were "those advanced by skill," accorded limited respect. Painters ranked below calligraphers, always seated behind them during assemblies, above only musicians, chess players, jade workers, and artisans.

If even official painters were thus ranked, their eunuchs naturally inherited the hierarchy. A ranked eunuch in the Music Academy ranked below one in the Painting Academy, who in turn ranked below one in the Calligraphy Academy.

The Hanlin Painting Academy's chief supervisor was Ren Shouzhong, Deputy Chief of the Inner Bureau. Zhang Chengzhao advised, "Ask Master Zhang to speak to the empress, have her order Ren to keep you in the Calligraphy Academy."

I demurred. He winked. "Go on. Master Zhang is the empress's favorite. One word from him, and you're spared."

I shook my head. I didn't doubt Zhang's favor with the empress but knew exploiting it wasn't his way. His intercession for me had been exceptional—I wouldn't ask him to repeat it. I never expected, nor wished, anyone to plead on my behalf.

The academy's painters were ranked: Painting Masters,待诏, Artists, Apprentices, and供奉. Unranked students painted for imperial use or on assignment to temples. It was a quieter place. Every ten days, we fetched stored paintings for copying, which was tiring, but otherwise, I mostly stood by, observing lectures or painters at work.

Among them, I especially enjoyed watching student Cui Bai paint. From Haoliang, in his twenties, he was talented but unruly, often working alone, drawing officials' ire. Yet his paintings held a rare vitality I admired.

One autumn day, he sketched two crows in a tree. I watched silently until he noticed me during a break. "Do you enjoy painting, esteemed eunuch?"

I stepped back, bowing. "My intrusion disrupted your focus."

"Not at all," he smiled. "I merely wonder why you watch me, not the masters."

I replied, "On my first day, all students copied Huang Jucai's bird-and-flower paintings—except you, gazing out the window, painting birds on branches."

Cui Bai waved dismissively. "The Huang style is meticulously ornate—I'll never master it. I'd rather scribble freely."

I smiled. "Your brushwork is effortless yet precise, adhering to form. I've long admired it."

"Flattery," he said, raising his brush. Before painting, he asked, "Are there others here whose forms defy rules?"

There were. But I only smiled, silent.

Seeming to find his own answer, Cui Bai turned back to his work, a few unruly locks swaying as he painted, ignoring them.

Thus, we grew closer, often discussing art. Noticing my interest, he offered to teach me. Eagerly, I learned from him when time allowed.

Once, as he taught me boneless technique for painting mountain partridges, the academy's head passed by, surprised to see me wielding the brush. He entered, and I immediately stopped, bowing. Ignoring me, he examined my work.

Since the dynasty's founding, the academy had revered the Huang style: detailed outlines, repeated coloring, rich and ornate. My painting was elegantly simple, the partridge's feathers rendered in ink washes, starkly different. The head's face darkened. "You taught him this?"

Cui Bai nodded. "Birds needn't always be outlined. Washes can evoke wild charm."

The head slammed the table. "You mislead him!"

Cui Bai bowed solemnly, unfazed.

Controlling his anger, the head told me, "If you wish to learn, seek the masters. Beginners must choose teachers wisely, lest they be led astray."

I bowed again. After the head left, Cui Bai teased, "Esteemed eunuch, please find a proper teacher. Don't follow this charlatan."

I replied, "If your path is astray, I'd forsake the proper one."

We laughed, growing closer. At his suggestion, we dropped formalities, calling each other by our courtesy names.

The head's disdain for Cui Bai grew, badmouthing him to colleagues. Cui Bai's works were consistently panned, never shown to the emperor.

Undaunted, Cui Bai painted as he pleased, ignoring lectures, often skipping or arriving late, gazing out windows or napping, strolling out under officials' glares.

Once, during a lecture on ink-wash painting, the head demonstrated with an autumn lotus. After admiring it, students began copying.

It was skillful—the lotus elegant, its pods and leaves capturing rain and clouds. The students praised it, but Cui Bai, in the back, slept.

The head called, "Cui Bai!"

No response. After several attempts, I nudged him awake. Rubbing his eyes, he smiled. "Finished, sir?"

"Yes," the head said coldly. "Dull enough to put you to sleep."

Cui Bai smiled. "Not at all. I listened, but the crowd blocked my view, so I napped until your masterpiece was done."

"Then," the head sneered, "what do you think?"

Cui Bai studied the painting, then nodded. "Splendid... save for one missing stroke."

The head stiffened. "Where?"

Cui Bai grinned. "Here." Picking up an inked brush, he flung it at the painting. It struck a lotus leaf, leaving a slash.

The class gasped. The head trembled with rage. "You—"

"Clumsy me," Cui Bai said, bowing. "But the painting's too fine to discard. Let me fix it."

"How?" a student asked.

Cui Bai selected a brush, dipped it, and with swift strokes, transformed the slash into a preening goose, its beak the original mark. The ink shades blended seamlessly, the goose lively, outshining the now-dull lotus.

And he'd painted freehand, without draft, surpassing the head's technique. Someone cheered, then hushed, but admiration lingered.

The head studied the painting, stroking his beard, then said stiffly, "The ink is passable, but the goose crowds the top, leaving the bottom empty—poor composition."

"True," Cui Bai agreed, smirking. "The silly goose is too high—better lowered."

The class stifled laughter. The head, quivering, pointed to the door. "Out!"

With a bow, Cui Bai left, his carefree smile intact.

I watched him go, torn between admiration and sorrow, sensing his time in the academy was ending.

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Note:

Fish pendant: A credential for fifth-rank officials to enter the palace, shaped like a carp, made of gold, silver, or copper, engraved with the official's name and rank, worn at the waist in a pouch.

Eunuch titles: Song Dynasty eunuchs were called neishi (内侍), neichen (内臣), huanzhe (宦者), or zhongguan (中官). "Zhong guiren" (中贵人) was an external honorific.

Supervisor: Department heads, renamed in the Southern Song to avoid Emperor Gaozong's given name.

(To be continued)

CHAPTER 04