Chinese artist Guo Fengyi (1942-2010) created mesmerizing ink drawings, intricate images derived from visions that came to her during qigong practice. Qigong is a subtle body practice from the Chinese tradition, and Reiki–Japanese in origin–is sometimes compared to it. Both practices are meditative and seem to facilitate healing experiences. (You can find an earlier post about qigong, here.)
Guo began practicing qigong for pain relief, after severe arthritis forced her to quit a career at a chemical plant, in her late 40s. Guo understood qigong as a method for understanding, and healing, her body; she made detailed descriptions of how her body, mind, and spirit moved as she practiced. In one journal entry, she encouraged herself:
“You have to have a strong will and endurance. Through sustained practice, you will achieve enlightenment. If you hold on to the [qigong] practice, naturally, everything will be achieved through real practice.” *
As Guo immersed herself in qigong, written descriptions quickly gave way to powerful visual images, which she inked onto paper. The images became more convoluted. Guo strongly believed that these drawings were healing, and she never wavered from that intent. The contemporary art world of China regarded her as a curiosity; even those who admired her work were hesitant to call it “art.” Her images were too raw, too weird. And they were rooted in a quest for personal healing—the work of a middle-aged woman, who had no art education, circling at the fringes of a contemporary art scene dominated by men.
No matter. Guo Fengyi kept practicing. A decade after her death, the first major institutional exhibit of her work in the United States took place at The Drawing Center in NYC. How is wish I could have seen it! Maybe I’ll be able to catch it in Savannah, Georgia, the next stop. For now, I have to settle for the exhibition catalogue, which has well-written, accessible essays and lovely reproductions of Guo’s detailed images.
As I read about the artist’s work, nourished by her qigong practice, I noted how much it reflected my own experience of Reiki. My background is in the arts, but when I first learned Reiki, I had consciously stepped back from art, to focus on a demanding job. However, after a few years of Reiki practice, I noticed that my perception of color seemed to shift; in particular, I perceived a new sense of relationship between colors, a rich conversation that I suddenly felt privy to. The spectrum of color–our old friend ROY G BIV–seemed to stretch and deepen. It was like discovering new flavors that I’d had no idea existed.
When we practice paying attention, we gain new information about ourselves, and the world around us. When we have new information, new options may appear. Often, these options were completely out of our line of sight: out of the blue, we might say. Through focusing on our practice–Reiki, yoga, meditation, qigong–anything that takes us simultaneously out of ourselves and deeper in–we soften our gaze, which allows us to see what is at the edge of our vision.
In many ways, Reiki practice reminds me of walking a path in snowy woods, at night. If I look for the path, it’s difficult to see it in the darkness. But if I move ahead slowly, my eyes roaming gently side to side, the path emerges as a muted brightness, winding ahead of me. It’s the subtle difference between looking at something, as opposed to taking it in.
Practice. Walk the snowy path of whatever practice speaks to you. We commit to walking the path, but we need not stare at it–we simply need to show up, and be receptive.
* Guo Fengyi: To See from a Distance, exhibition catalogue, Footnote 5, p 27