Silent fisherman in an autumn wood

“Where’s the fisherman?” “Bottom right. Under the trees. You’re looking too high.” “That’s him? He’s tiny.” “He’s sitting on a mat. See the round mat? And the rod, that thin line running out sideways past the trunk.” “I thought that was a branch.” “So did I, the first time.”

“He isn’t even facing the water.” “He’s facing the bank. The water must be just past it, out of the picture, or it’s the pale part. Shen Zhou didn’t bother to paint it in.” “Then how do you know he’s fishing?” “The title. And the rod. And the way he sits, with that bent back, like somebody who’s been there since lunch and plans to stay for supper.”

“The trees are doing all the work.” “They’re wonderful, aren’t they. Look how many kinds. That one’s nearly bare, all twigs, little crabby branches poking up like antlers. That one has big dark leaves in clumps. The one over him has leaves hanging down in strings, and some of them are tinged red. It’s autumn. He put a touch of colour in, on paper, in 1475.” “Paper, not silk?” “Paper. Ink and colour on paper. You can see the ink sink into it at the edges of the rocks, soft, almost furry.”

“What’s the writing at the top?” “An inscription. I can’t read it.” “So we’re missing half.” “We’re missing some. We still have the trees.”

“Who was he?” “The painter? Shen Zhou. Lived near Suzhou, most of the fifteenth century. He could have gone after an official career and chose not to. He stayed home, painted, wrote poems, kept company with friends who did the same. Later generations counted him the founder of the Wu school, named for the old name of his region.” “And he’s in the picture?” “Nobody says he is.”

“I keep wanting to see his face.” “It’s a profile. A beard, a topknot, a nose. That’s all you get.” “It’s enough, actually.” “I know.” “How long have we been standing here?” “No idea.” “Neither does he.”