How Chinese Calligraphy Kept Finding Me
- Camila Vasconcelos
- 12 hours ago
- 5 min read
Following the Brush: How Chinese Calligraphy Kept Finding Me
When I was choosing where to stay in Beijing, one hotel immediately caught my attention. Its full name was Zhong An Hotel Beijing: Former Residence of Journalist Edgar Snow.
At the time, I didn’t even know much about Edgar Snow. I later discovered he was the American journalist who wrote the influential book "Red Star Over China", introducing much of the Western world to the Chinese Communist movement during the 1930s.
As a researcher, traveler, and someone who constantly fills notebooks with observations, sketches, and field notes, staying in a place connected to such an important chronicler of China somehow felt like the right beginning for my own journey.
The hotel is conveniently located next to the Beijing Railway Station and has a great and relaxing backyard and a delicious restaurant, with the nicest staff I encountered in China!
Then I noticed something else: every evening, the hotel offered free Chinese calligraphy classes. What more could I possibly ask for?
My first attempts with Chinese Calligraphy at the hotel. The instructor showed me, using the translation device, the meaning behind my writing.
So, on my very first nights in Beijing, I sat beside strangers, picked up a Chinese brush for the first time, and carefully made my first hesitant brushstrokes across bright red paper. Every movement demanded patience. Every stroke required intention. Unlike writing with a pen, the brush refused to forgive hesitation. It immediately revealed every uncertainty in my hand.
It was both humbling and fascinating. But that class only awakened my curiosity, and of course I wanted more.
Following the brush
A few days later, while wandering through Panjiayuan Antique Market, calligraphy found me again.
Calligraphy stalls and artists taking care of exhibiting their precious work at the Panjiayuan Antique Market
Among countless stalls selling antiques, jade, porcelain, and handmade objects, I noticed a young calligrapher painting messages on small card papers.
I stopped. He continued painting.
When he finally looked up, he smiled and handed me the finished piece.
“May your wishes come true.”
That was all it took.
My first yuan spent.
For sure I had planned to buy calligraphy, but somehow this one had chosen me.
I continued wandering through the endless rows of the market, now searching for brushes, ink, rice paper, and everything I could learn about this centuries-old art.
Eventually I found the perfect brush.
Its porcelain handle was beautifully painted, and its incredibly soft fibers immediately made me think about my own classroom back in Bahrain. I imagined my students holding it for the first time, discovering that a brush could become something far more expressive than an ordinary pen.
I was ready to buy it.
Except…
The shop owners had decided it was time for a nap.
There they were, peacefully asleep inside their tiny stall.
And somehow, it felt wonderfully Chinese...
Instead of waking them, I simply smiled and continued exploring. There would always be another brush.
Xi’an had another lesson waiting
After leaving Beijing, my journey continued to Xi’an.
One afternoon, while looking for a café along Shuyuanmen Cultural Street, famous for its traditional art shops and calligraphy studios, I accidentally walked into another unforgettable encounter.
A local calligrapher welcomed me inside his shop.
Neither of us spoke the other’s language, but thanks to digital translators, brushes, paper, and lots of laughter, we somehow managed to have an entire conversation.
He patiently explained something I hadn’t understood before. Not every Chinese brush serves the same purpose. Some are designed primarily for painting, others for calligraphy. The balance, flexibility, length, and softness all influence how the ink flows across the paper.
He also showed me sheets of what I assumed was ordinary practice paper. Without thinking much about it, I bought a few. They seemed useful enough.
Coffee was still calling my name, so I finally found a nearby café, spread my new art supplies across the table, and spent a peaceful afternoon sketching ideas and writing field notes.
Little did I know the greatest surprise was still waiting for me.
The artist without hands
Later that afternoon, I met Mr. Jia Weijun, a calligrapher well known along Xi’an’s historic Shuyuanmen Cultural Street. After losing both hands in a childhood accident, he spent years patiently teaching himself to write by securing the brush to his remaining arm. Today, his calligraphy supports his family and inspires countless visitors who stop to watch his remarkable artistry. Yet what stayed with me wasn’t a story of disability; it was the quiet confidence with which he created each character, reminding me that true mastery is measured not by the tools we have, but by the dedication with which we use them. Watching him work was deeply moving.
For my own piece, I asked him to write a passage inspired by the Serenity Prayer, a reminder to accept the things we cannot change while finding courage to change those we can. Around us, language barriers disappeared. His wife kindly helped explain the process.
Four Chinese teenagers enthusiastically joined the conversation, translating back and forth through their phones. Within minutes, complete strangers had become collaborators in helping one traveler communicate with one remarkable artist.
That moment reminded me that sometimes kindness translates more easily than words ever could.
The magical paper
Back at my hotel in Xi’an, I finally settled into what had become one of my favorite evening rituals.
The apartment overlooked a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. A large window framed the fading afternoon light. A low wooden table sat beside comfortable floor cushions. It was the perfect place to paint.
I unpacked my brushes, poured some water into a small container, and picked up the practice paper I had bought earlier that day.
Then something extraordinary happened: the paper didn’t need ink, only water. Every brushstroke appeared in dark gray, just like traditional ink.
Then, little by little… it disappeared.
Within minutes, every character evaporated, leaving the sheet perfectly blank once again. I couldn’t stop smiling!
What I had unknowingly purchased was water-writing cloth, a reusable practice surface inspired by one of China’s most beloved traditions: water calligraphy.
Every morning, in parks across China, people practice calligraphy using nothing more than oversized brushes dipped in water. Their poems, characters and thoughts slowly evaporate beneath the sun, transforming calligraphy into an art that exists only for a few fleeting moments.
There is something profoundly liberating about that.
No wasted paper, no fear of making mistakes, no pressure to create a masterpiece, just the simple joy of practicing, again and again. Until the water disappears and invites you to begin once more.
As an artist, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful metaphor.
Sometimes the value of creating isn’t found in producing something permanent. Sometimes it is found simply in the act of making. And so, although my search for China’s famous park calligraphers wasn’t over yet, I realized something.
Perhaps I had already found exactly what I was looking for. Not a perfect brush or a perfect artwork.
But a new way of understanding that every stroke (like every journey) is temporary, and that its greatest beauty may lie precisely in the fact that it doesn’t last forever.
Camila Vasconcelos
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