摘要：素绢展案，云岫腾空，岩阿开席，天王端坐。冠缨垂影，法象庄严;衣褶回环，风生袖底。侍女捧盘，童子扶佩，步若流霞，神情安定。乐伎列序，琴鼓相望;指腕微转，节拍在目。祥云舒卷，下及人居;栏干小径，帘影轻明。母俯而受，襁褓徐前;目含春水，心收静光。
送子天王图 - 唐吴道子(传)
素绢展案，云岫腾空，岩阿开席，天王端坐。冠缨垂影，法象庄严;衣褶回环，风生袖底。侍女捧盘，童子扶佩，步若流霞，神情安定。乐伎列序，琴鼓相望;指腕微转，节拍在目。祥云舒卷，下及人居;栏干小径，帘影轻明。母俯而受，襁褓徐前;目含春水，心收静光。
线法以铁，劲健中和;中锋圆转，提按分明。勾衣不滞，皴石不繁;浓与淡相答，虚与实相守。人物面若晚霞，骨若松文;童稚丰腴，笑带晨露。云脚所至，界面层层;无透视而见远近，无重彩而得华章。
天王不怒而威，慈怀可近;群仙不炫而丽，仪度自成。礼入画中，愿落笔下。送子之意，非市井侈谈;护命之心，乃家国常情。以图代祝，以乐和风;使人间室家，得以安心。
观者徐行，心随卷转。始在天际，忽至庭前;风度不骄，墨韵不躁。线如琴弦，节拍连珠;叠笔处铿锵，收锋处清越。古法有脉，新观有门;一卷在前，千年同听。
印玺累累，如星布野;题记寥寥，似钟余音。几经辗转，仍归静室;手手相传，意意相续。文明不啸呼而自大，传统不斑驳而自新。
夫人间多愿，愿多入画;画有清德，德可安人。吴带当风，非徒衣纹;风在心胸，风在法度。以静制繁，以和统美;使神不离仁，使雅不离真。
我立卷前，闻松涛在远，见灯影在近。念母抱儿，念天赐福;念画为桥，通古与今。愿风继续，从素绢入眉，从眉入骨;愿线不息，自此而往，护我同侪，照我前途。
Plain silk unrolled on the table: clouded peaks soar, a ledge opens like a seat, and the Heavenly King sits upright. The tassels of his crown cast shadows; the sacred image is solemn. The folds of his robe loop and circle; wind seems to rise beneath the sleeves. Attendants lift trays; pages steady his pendants. Their steps are like drifting rosy clouds, their expressions composed. musicians stand in order, zither and drum answering one another; a slight turn of fingers and wrists makes the beat visible. Auspicious clouds billow and curl, descending to the dwellings of men; railings and narrow paths, the shadows of curtains, light and clear. A mother bends to receive; the swaddled infant is borne forward. Her eyes hold spring water; her heart gathers quiet light.
The linework is iron—vigorous yet balanced. The centered tip turns in rounded arcs; lifting and pressing are distinct. Garment outlines flow without clogging; the rock textures are not overworked. Dense answers to light; void keeps company with solid. Faces glow like evening clouds; the bones have the grain of pine. The children are full and plump, their smiles carrying morning dew. Where the cloud-bases reach, planes rise layer on layer: without perspective one still sees near and far; without heavy color one still achieves splendor.
The Heavenly King awes without anger, his kindness approachable; the gathered immortals are lovely without ostentation, their bearing complete in itself. Ritual enters the painting; wishes fall beneath the brush. The intent to bestow a child is no boast of the marketplace; the will to guard life is the common feeling of family and state. Let the image stand in place of a blessing, music in tune with the breeze, so the households of the human world may find peace.
The viewer walks slowly; the heart turns with the scroll. One begins at the horizon, and suddenly arrives at the forecourt; the manner is unassuming, the resonance of ink unhurried. Lines are like zither strings, the rhythm like linked pearls; where strokes are piled there is a sonorous clang, where the tip is gathered there is a pure, soaring note. Ancient methods have a pulse; new ways of seeing have a gate. With one scroll before us, a thousand years listen together.
Seals cluster, strewn like stars across a field; inscriptions are few, like the lingering tone of a bell. After many turnings it returns again to a quiet room; passed from hand to hand, the intent continues from mind to mind. Civilization grows grand without clamor; tradition renews itself without mottling.
In this world there are many wishes, and many enter paintings. When a painting has pure virtue, that virtue can set people at ease. “Wu’s ribbons in the wind” are not mere garment folds; the wind is in the heart, the wind is in the method. With stillness, restrain the manifold; with harmony, gather the beautiful. Let spirit not part from benevolence; let elegance not part from truth.
I stand before the scroll, hearing the surf of pines afar and seeing lamplight close at hand. I think of a mother cradling a child; I think of blessings bestowed by heaven; I think of painting as a bridge joining past and present. May the wind continue—entering from plain silk to the brows, from the brows into the bone. May the lines not cease—from this moment onward—shielding my companions and lighting my road ahead.
心太平本黄庭经 - 晋代王羲之
款识题跋：
题跋: 卷尾有方从义、张宇初、莫云卿、俞安期、扬明时、刘然、陈继儒、董其昌、周叔宗、和嘉燧诸人跋，不录。
钤印：
收藏印：赵氏子昂、翁方纲、张埙之印等。
晨灯如水，案几如砚。长卷初开，素绢微香，朱印星罗，若夜汉垂天。黑地白文，若雪书青冥;一行一列，若梯登云岫。起处含锋，走处中挺，收处回抱，如潮有晦明;横若修桥，竖如垂索;撇若风柳，捺似归鸿。点露寒星，钩出春禽;挑成初月，折若峭峰。结体多内敛，方中寓圆;行间布白，谷风有度。远望若细雨濯石，近看如游丝绕指;气清骨劲，神定意完。
右军昔书《黄庭》，词旨谈养，句句敦和。今观此拓，风神不减。纸上无声，而鼻端自清;字里无香，而襟怀自远。观者环案，神色俱敛;或凭几而俯，或负手而遥;或循印而索年，或随行而识法。有人默数呼吸，与笔势相应;有人对临两字，求转折之妙。守卷人不语，唯以目送，若松看云，若泉看石。
赵文敏昔日珍护，此卷得其明鉴;龙虎山上，方从义留藏;正一张门，世守于家。数语而已，山河已过。传递非一人之力，护持非一时之念。或以学术，或以香火，或以至爱，手手相接，年年相授。今至斯案，众目所共，皆此因缘所聚。于是知：书不独属一身，书与群心同在;卷不独居一室，卷与岁月同行。
法度在笔。中锋为主，提按有节;转折须回，收束宜安。外形不张，内力自充;一字得势，一行相生;上下相望，左右相待。布白宁疏，莫使拥塞;浓淡相倚，勿令板滞。学人若求捷径，多失正路;欲速取功，反伤精神。宜静坐片时，令心气平;再举毫端，令行步稳。笔入纸中，如履青磴;一息一字，如钟如鼓。久之，自见胸次开朗，肩背松和;一行既成，回看纸面，如林间新径，曲折得宜。
经旨在和。养息以缓，调神以清;目要远，耳要静;口少言，心常明。字势本清，心气随之;心气既和，字势益正。观者读至中段，忽觉世声渐远，如帘外风雨，虽在耳畔，不入胸臆。此时但见列列小楷，如沙洲白鹭，起落有行;又如秋水连天，波光不躁。静久不倦，淡久不枯。此所谓清劲。
卷旁多印，多跋。印若星，跋若云。星随云行，云因星明。或一联短句，称其精纯;或数语淡语，叙其来处。皆不烦饰，皆不喧哗。读毕，忽生感念：若无前人守护，安有今日清观。由是思及书道，贵在长守。手可疾书，心不可躁;技可日进，德不可亏。若能持此一念，于人于己，皆为佳音。
夕阳西下，卷复归匣。室内无语，光影仍温。众人或徐行出户，或再回首一望。有人心存太平二字，愿以一日清心，换得长夜安眠。有人折回书斋，试写数行，始知艰难;然不惧艰难，只以恒心对之。窗外竹影婆娑，风过有声;案上新墨初干，光泽如秋水。复忆晨观，心头微凉，胸次微明。
书道如行旅，路长而景胜。前有古贤，后有来者;一卷在手，一脉相承。愿学人守中不偏，持正不倚;愿观者以静观物，以澄观心。若能如此，虽身处喧城，亦得山林一角;虽耳满车马，亦得风泉一曲。经在箱中，意在身上;灯熄之后，清气不散。夜深对窗，明月如钩;想起卷中白字，宛若星河。抚案而笑，心归太平。
Morning lamplight like water; the desk like an inkstone. A long scroll first unrolled: plain silk faintly fragrant; vermilion seals strewn like stars, as if the Milky Way hung from the night. White characters on a dark ground, like snow inscribed upon the deep blue void; row after row, like ladders climbing to clouded peaks. Where a stroke begins it holds the blade; where it moves it stays upright at the center; where it ends it turns back and gathers in—like the tide with phases of dark and light. Horizontals like long bridges; verticals like hanging cables. Left-falling strokes like willows in the wind; right-falling strokes like geese returning home. Dots reveal cold stars; hooks draw out spring birds. Rising ticks form a new moon; angular breaks are like sheer peaks. Structures tend to inward restraint—square yet harboring roundness. The spacing of blanks between lines has the measure of a valley wind. From afar it is like fine rain rinsing stone; up close it is like drifting silk winding round a finger. The breath is clear, the bones are strong; the spirit composed, the intent complete.
The Right General once wrote the Huangting, its purport speaking of cultivation, every sentence urging harmony. Beholding this rubbing today, its style and spirit are undiminished. The paper makes no sound, yet the tip of the nose feels clear; there is no fragrance in the characters, yet the bosom naturally grows remote. Viewers circle the table, their expressions all gathered in; some lean over the desk, some stand with hands behind at a distance; some trace the seals to seek the date, some follow the lines to recognize the method. One silently counts the breath to accord with the brush’s momentum; another copies two characters, seeking the marvel of turns and breaks. The keeper of the scroll says nothing, only follows with his eyes—like a pine watching clouds, like a spring watching stones.
Zhao Wenmin once cherished and protected it; this scroll gained his lucid appraisal. On Mount Longhu, Fang Congyi kept it in store; in the Zhengyi Zhang clan, it was guarded for generations. A few words suffice, and mountains and rivers have already passed. Its transmission was not the work of one person; its safeguarding was not a momentary thought. For learning, for incense and devotion, or for deepest love—hand to hand, year by year. Now it has come to this very desk, shared by many eyes, all gathered by these causes and conditions. Thus we know: calligraphy does not belong to one body alone—it abides with many hearts; a scroll does not reside in a single room—it travels with the years.
The rule resides in the brush. Take the centered tip as master; lift and press with measure. In turning and breaking, one must return; in closing, one should be at ease. Let the outer form not flaunt itself, and the inner force will be full. When one character gains momentum, a whole line gives birth to itself. Above and below look to each other; left and right wait upon each other. Prefer spacious blanks—do not let them be clogged. Let dense and light lean on each other—do not allow stiffness. Learners who seek shortcuts often lose the proper road; those who crave quick success harm their spirit instead. Better to sit quietly for a while and level the heart’s qi; then lift the brush-tip again and steady the pace. As the brush enters the paper, it is like treading green stone steps; one breath, one character—like bell, like drum. In time, one finds the bosom opening bright, the shoulders loose and harmonious; when a line is done and one looks back at the page, it is like a new path in the woods, its bends and turns just right.
The Classic’s aim is harmony. Nurture breath by slowness; tune the spirit by clarity. Let the eyes be far; let the ears be still. Speak little; keep the heart ever bright. When the stance of the characters is pure, the heart’s qi follows; when the heart’s qi is in harmony, the stance grows more upright. As the viewer reads to the middle, the world’s din seems to recede—like wind and rain beyond a curtain: though at the ear, it enters not the breast. At that moment one sees only ranks of small regular script, like white egrets on a sandbar, rising and settling in order; or like autumn waters joining the sky, their ripples unagitated. Long quiet without weariness; long plainness without withering. This is what is called clarity with sinew.
Beside the scroll are many seals and many colophons. Seals like stars, colophons like clouds. Stars move with the clouds; the clouds are bright for the stars. A couplet or two praises its purity; a few plain words recount its path of passing. None are fussily adorned, none are loud. When the reading ends, a feeling stirs: without the guardians of the past, how would we have today’s clear view? Thus we think on the Way of writing: its worth lies in long keeping. The hand may write swiftly; the heart must not be impetuous. Skill may advance by the day; virtue must not be diminished. If one can hold to this single thought, for others and for oneself alike, it is a happy sound.
As the sun sets in the west, the scroll returns to its box. The room is without speech; the light and shadow still warm. Some walk out slowly; some turn back for one more gaze. One keeps the two words “Great Peace” in the heart, wishing to trade a day of a clear mind for a long night’s rest. Another turns back to the study to try a few lines and learns at last the difficulty—yet does not fear it, meeting it only with perseverance. Outside, bamboo shadows sway; the wind passes with a sound. On the desk, fresh ink has just dried, its luster like autumn water. Remembering the morning’s viewing, the heart is a little cool; within the breast, a little bright.
The Way of writing is like a journey: the road is long, and the vistas fine. Before us are the sages of old; after us, those yet to come. One scroll in the hand—one lineage unbroken. May learners keep to the center and not go astray; may viewers regard things in stillness and clarify the heart. If this can be done, then even in a clamorous city one gains a corner of mountain and forest; though the ears be full of carts and horses, one hears a tune of wind and spring. The Classic may rest in the box, but its meaning rests upon the body; after the lamps are out, the pure breath does not disperse. Late at night by the window, the bright moon like a hook; recalling the white characters in the scroll, just like the Milky Way. One touches the desk and smiles—the heart returns to Great Peace.
来源：愙斋书法