南宋_李安忠_鹑图 收藏印：杂华室印
一禽伏地，顾盼生情。圆身凝羽，斑纹映日。其状憨而不钝，其神警而不躁。羽际淡墨积染，光影隐隐生辉。非写形也，写性也;非工笔也，写神也。左掩红果之丛，右绕萋萋之草。草无主干，而脉络生动;石无纹理，而阴阳有致。设色不繁，然红绿对映，一点热意，于淡墨中自出。微风未至，秋意已浓。
图为小幅，尺方扇形。团扇之制，圆以藏神。画境不广，意趣尤深。笔随心转，墨就情流。草木无多，禽亦独处，然一勾一染，一勒一染，皆能自成天地。此境幽而不寂，静而不僵，神游其中，若游秋林暮野之隅。
鹑者，虽禽而敦厚，虽微而自足。其行徐，其听敏，其居野而性恬。古人多借以寓意耕读、恬退、守静。图中之鹑，不跃不飞，不惊不逃，半伏半蹲，目光侧注，似在凝神聆秋风，似在窥人怀内景。画者非写禽，而写心，非画形，而画境也。
观者凝视，不觉身入画中，仿佛疏林深处，一草一叶皆有温度，一禽一石皆含情意。草丛斜逸，写自然之姿;果实微红，写四时之序。草虽乱，无蔓延之失;果虽艳，无张扬之态。布局之妙，不在繁缛，而在有度。空处非虚，实中藏气，画面如诗，韵随笔流。
彼时南宋，世道飘摇，画者多避乱就静，弃宫廷繁华，趋自然淡逸。李氏此作，正得其要，笔意中无雕饰之俗，墨气里有山林之真。静观此图，如闻秋水潺潺，如见落霞斜照。非观禽，乃观人心中所系也。
古人云：花鸟写意，贵乎神采。此鹑非华贵之禽，非瑞兽之属，然其神态却摄人魂魄。自古名画，不在题材高下，而在笔墨真率。李氏之笔，简中藏繁，实中蕴虚，实非凡手可拟。
又观纸上墨迹，设色淡而不薄，线条柔中带骨，设景简中藏机。石不大，却可承禽;草不盛，足掩一身。设红果以破墨色沉静，添动感于寂寥之中。红非艳色，而点睛所在。似秋日残阳，照临深野一隅，令人思绪万千。
更可叹者，此图与东瀛旧藏一幅，同构同尺，气韵相连。或原为双卷，后分南北。故而一画观之，虽独立而自足，实仍有回声余韵未曾尽释。所谓并蒂之作，虽离而神通，此亦画史中一段佳话。
李安忠，画迹虽稀，然遗作有识者珍之。其艺风质朴，画风清简。画中多有“静中藏动”之趣，禽若将动未动，草似风起未起，画者意在笔先，神随墨转。此种笔墨精神，源自修身养性之境，非一日临池所得，实为心手相契之至。
今人观之，不应止步于形貌之巧、设色之丽，更当悟其情志之远、笔道之清。如是，方可通画者之心，与古人同游野地秋林，共听风落草鸣。
图在故纸，神韵长存。虽隔数百年，而情意不减;虽纸墨已旧，而意象犹新。若能展卷沉思，于一鸟一草之间见天地，于一画一意之间悟人生，斯为真赏矣。
Southern Song Dynasty – Li Anzhong’sQuail Painting
A single bird crouches low to the ground, its gaze lively and full of expression. Its round body is tightly feathered, with speckled patterns catching the light. Though its form is charmingly clumsy, it is not dull; though its spirit is alert, it is not agitated. Ink is gently layered around the feathers, creating a soft interplay of light and shadow. This is not a mere depiction of form, but of temperament; not a meticulous rendering, but an evocation of spirit. On the left, it leans against a cluster of red berries; on the right, it is surrounded by lush grasses. The grass lacks a defined trunk, yet its veins are vivid; the rock has no clear grain, yet it possesses a natural balance of light and shade. The colors are not excessive, yet the contrast of red and green brings a subtle warmth out of the soft ink tones. Even without wind, the atmosphere is already steeped in autumn.
The painting is modest in size, fan-shaped and confined to a square format. The design of the round fan serves to concentrate its spirit. Though the painted realm is limited in scale, its mood runs deep. The brush moves with the heart, and ink flows with emotion. There are few plants, and the bird stands alone, yet every stroke and wash creates its own world. The scene is tranquil but not desolate, quiet yet not stagnant—one feels as if wandering through an autumn forest at twilight.
The quail, though merely a bird, is modest and sincere; though small, it is content. It walks slowly, listens keenly, and lives simply with a serene nature. In antiquity, it often symbolized a life of farming and study, of peace and retreat. The quail in the painting neither leaps nor flies, neither startles nor flees. It crouches half-sitting, its gaze turned sideways, as if intently listening to the autumn wind, or peering into a hidden landscape within the viewer's heart. The artist is not painting a bird, but expressing a feeling; not illustrating a form, but crafting a realm.
As the viewer gazes intently, they unwittingly enter the painting—as if in a quiet grove, where every blade of grass and fallen leaf radiates warmth, where each bird and rock holds emotion. The grass leans at an angle, embodying natural grace; the berries glow faintly red, marking the rhythm of the seasons. Though the grass is wild, it does not sprawl chaotically; though the berries are bright, they are not gaudy. The composition’s brilliance lies not in elaboration, but in restraint. The empty spaces are not void, and within fullness is hidden a flowing breath. The picture is like a poem, its rhythm flowing from the brush.
In the turbulent times of the Southern Song, many artists sought refuge in solitude, forsaking courtly luxury for nature’s quiet elegance. Li Anzhong’s work embodies this ideal—his brushwork free from ornamental excess, his ink imbued with the authenticity of mountains and forests. To contemplate this painting is to hear the murmur of autumn streams and witness the slanting light of setting sun. One does not merely see a bird, but glimpses what the heart cherishes most.
As the ancients said: in expressive painting of flowers and birds, spirit is more valuable than likeness. The quail is neither noble nor auspicious, yet its demeanor captivates the soul. Great paintings are not determined by the loftiness of their subject, but by the sincerity of the brush and ink. Li’s strokes hold complexity within simplicity, and subtlety within substance—truly the work of a master.
Furthermore, this painting echoes another once held in Japan: same composition, same dimensions, and a shared spirit. They may have originally been a pair, later divided north and south. Thus, though complete on its own, this painting still carries the lingering resonance of its twin. Like twin blossoms once joined, now separated but spiritually united—a poetic chapter in art history.
Though Li Anzhong’s works are rare, those that remain are deeply treasured by connoisseurs. His art is unadorned, his style pure. He often captures the moment before movement—the bird about to stir, the grass just touched by an unseen breeze. His intention precedes his brush; his spirit flows with his ink. Such artistic expression arises from cultivated character and deep reflection—not from mere practice, but from harmony of heart and hand.
Modern viewers should not stop at admiring the craftsmanship or the beauty of the colors, but should also grasp the depth of sentiment and the clarity of artistic vision. In doing so, one may enter the painter’s mind, and walk with the ancients among autumn fields, listening to the wind rustle the grass.
Though drawn on old paper, the spirit remains eternal. Though separated by centuries, the emotion is undiminished. Though the ink has aged, the imagery remains fresh. If one can open the scroll and ponder—seeing the universe in a bird and a blade of grass, and contemplating life through a single painting—then this is true appreciation indeed.
北宋_苏轼_黄州寒食帖
款识题跋：
款识：释文：自我来黄州。已过三寒食。年年欲惜春。春去不容惜。今年又苦雨。两月秋萧瑟。卧闻海棠花。泥污燕支雪。暗中偷负去。夜半真有力。何殊病少年。子(点去)。病起头已白。春江欲入户。雨势来不已。雨(点去)。小屋如渔舟。蒙蒙水云里。空庖煮寒菜。破灶烧湿苇。那知是寒食。但见乌衔帋。君门深九重。坟墓在万里。也拟哭涂穷。死灰吹不起。右黄州寒食二首。
钤印：
收藏印：清内府诸鉴藏玺。
著录书籍：
石渠宝笈续编(宁寿宫)，第五册，页2676-2677。
寒食将至，烟雨濛濛，风物凄其色，草木有余哀。子瞻谪居江畔，困顿黄州，时节更替，情怀自苦。念其昔年承恩京邑，谈笑之间，风雅满座;而今萧瑟一隅，门庭冷落，寸炊断烟。是以抚事伤时，起而赋诗。
其文曰：“自我来黄州，已过三寒食。”首句即起沉痛之调，言余之羁旅岁久，春去春还，人情不与。每值暮春，柳丝垂堤，桃李既谢，而我居此，困苦交加，欲惜无从惜，欲语不能语。复言：“年年欲惜春，春去不容惜。”春去者时也，不容惜者命也，惜春如惜年，惜年如惜身，而命之流转，岂人所御哉?斯句转情为思，移笔生波。
再叙云雨之苦，曰：“今年又苦雨，两月秋萧瑟。”春而似秋，令不应节，雨脚连绵，断我柴薪，败我墙垣。闻海棠开落，独卧寒榻，感其“泥污燕支雪”，花之红艳，污于尘泥，如人之志，困于卑位，亦兴感焉。暗雨之夜，风卷花落，言其“暗中偷负去，夜半真有力。”春花虽艳，不敌夜风，恰如才士虽妙，亦为谗口所逐。此联最能传其寓意，尤为深沉。
继而书：“何殊病少年，病起头已白。”少壮多病，鬓发早霜，十年宦游，未获青云，今复飘泊，忧多于乐。春江欲入户，雨势来不已，江水泛滥，几至及门，小屋如舟，浮于烟波。居处如寄，四壁皆湿，庖中无炊，灶下无火，唯煮寒菜，烧湿苇而已。此情此景，饥寒交并，流离之状，跃然纸上。
其后转入幽思，言：“那知是寒食，但见乌衔纸。”寒食禁火，本为人间孝节，而子瞻独不知节至，唯见纸钱漫空，飞鸟衔之。思归无路，心恋丘墓，亲在九泉，子在万里，亦欲哭途穷，奈何死灰不兴。至此，情至极点，悲不可遏。死灰者，比己之志，虽有悲愤，然无复燃之望。是则诗成于情，书溢于意。
若夫观其书法，行草相间，短长肥瘠，各有态势。如“年”“中”“苇”“纸”等字，或撇长如戟，或捺斜似刀，一字之间，生动千态。其笔力虽不求工整，而气势纵横跌宕，字里行间，如听悲风浩叹，若见风帆远扬。东坡之书，非徒写字，乃抒其胸臆，寄其天涯之魂。
然则寒食一诗，岂徒为时节而作?实以托志抒怀，寄思远道。苏子身陷逆旅，志怀九重，虽蹇滞于朝廷，而文心未老，笔力不衰。其所书者，不独文字，实写胸中万千感慨，忧世之志，悲民之心，哀我之身，兼济天下之意，俱寓其间。
传之千载，卷未尘封，世人再读，犹觉笔墨间风雨悲鸣，春水东流，情思不已。斯帖者，不独东坡一人之诗书，乃中华千载文心之实录也。
Su Shi of the Northern Song Dynasty –Cold Food Festival Manuscriptfrom Huangzhou
As the Cold Food Festival approached, misty rains fell endlessly. The wind and scenery bore a sorrowful hue, and the grass and trees seemed steeped in grief. Su Shi, exiled to live by the river, endured hardship in Huangzhou. Seasons changed, but his feelings remained bitter. He recalled the days when he was favored in the capital, surrounded by elegance and laughter. Now, in a desolate corner, his home was deserted and silent, and even the cooking smoke had ceased. Thus, he lamented the times and composed this poem.
He began:“Since I came to Huangzhou, I have passed three Cold Food Festivals.”The opening strikes a mournful tone, lamenting his long exile—spring comes and goes, but human warmth does not return. Each late spring, when willow branches drape over riverbanks and the peach and plum blossoms fade, he remains here, trapped in hardship, unable even to cherish the spring or express his sorrow. He writes:“Each year I long to treasure spring, but spring departs before it can be cherished.”Spring’s departure represents time; the inability to cherish it reflects fate. To cherish spring is like cherishing time, and to cherish time is like cherishing oneself—but the turning of fate is beyond human control. This line shifts from emotion to reflection, stirring deeper currents of thought.
He then recounts the misery of the weather:“This year again the rain is bitter, two months of autumn bleakness.”Though it's spring, the season feels like autumn—unnatural and dismal. Continuous rainfall cuts off his firewood, damages his walls. He hears the begonia blossoms have bloomed and fallen, yet he lies alone on a cold bed. He laments:“Their rosy snow stained with mud,”as the flower’s vibrant red is sullied by dirt, much like a person’s ambition trapped in lowly circumstances. This moves him deeply. On rainy nights, the wind scatters petals; he writes:“Stolen away in darkness, the midnight wind so fierce.”Spring flowers, though beautiful, cannot withstand the night wind—just as a talented man, though gifted, may be driven away by slanderous tongues. These lines convey his meaning most profoundly.
He continues:“How different am I from a sickly youth, already gray-haired upon rising from illness.”Once young and full of promise, now prematurely aged, his decade of official life brought no success. Now drifting again, worries outweigh joy. The spring river threatens to flood his home, the rain pours without end. The water rises to his doorstep, his small house floats like a boat in the mist and waves. His dwelling is soaked, the kitchen cold and lifeless—no fire, only damp reed stalks to burn and cold greens to boil. In this scene, hunger and chill intertwine, and the state of his exile comes vividly to life.
Then his thoughts turn inward:“How could I have known it was the Cold Food Festival? I only saw crows carrying paper.”The festival traditionally honors filial piety, yet he, unaware of the holiday, sees only flying crows carrying paper money in their beaks. Yearning to return home, he pines for his ancestral tombs. His loved ones lie in the underworld while he is exiled far away. He wishes to cry, yet feels hopeless:“How can dead ashes flare up again?”His ambition, likened to ashes, though filled with grief and rage, has no hope of rekindling. Here, emotion reaches its peak—grief uncontrollable. The poem is born of deep emotion, and the calligraphy overflows with sentiment.
As for the calligraphy itself—it alternates between running and cursive script, with characters of varying size and thickness, each with distinct expression. Characters like “year,” “in,” “reed,” and “paper” have long sweeping strokes like halberds, or slanting presses like blades. Each stroke contains a world of movement. Though not aiming for symmetry, the brushwork flows with dramatic energy. Between the lines, one can hear a mournful wind, see distant sails—Su Shi’s writing is not merely the act of writing, but a heartfelt expression, a soul wandering the edges of the world.
Thus, can we say thisCold Food Festivalpoem was merely composed for the season? Certainly not. It is a vessel for his ideals, an expression of longing. Though trapped in adversity, Su Shi’s heart remained loyal to the throne. Though stalled in the court, his literary spirit was undiminished, and his brush, undeterred. What he wrote was not mere text, but the outpouring of myriad emotions—his concern for the world, sorrow for the people, lament for his fate, and aspiration to benefit all under heaven—all embedded within.
Passed down through a thousand years, the scroll remains unforgotten. Modern readers still sense the sorrowful wind and rain between the ink strokes, the eastward flow of spring waters, and the unending tide of emotion. This manuscript is not merely a personal piece by Su Shi—it is a living testament to a millennium of Chinese literary spirit.